THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ENGLISH    PROSE 
AND   POETRY 

(1137-1892) 


SELECTED  AND  ANNOTATED 

BY 

JOHN  MATTHEWS  MANLY 

PROFESSOR  AND   HEAD   OF  THE   DEPARTMENT   OF   ENGLISH 
IN   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   CHICAGO 


GINN  AND  COMPANY 

BOSTON    .    NEW  YORK    •     CHICAGO    •     LONDON 
ATLANTA     •     DALLAS    ■     COLUMBUS     •     SAN  FRANCISCO 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  1909,  1916,  BY 
JOHN  MATTHEWS  MANLY 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVEU 

718.5 


GINN  AND  COMPANY  •  PRO- 
PRIETORS •  BOSTON  •  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

This  book  has  been  made  in  response  to  the  wishes  of  teachers  who  need  a  col- 
lection of  English  prose  and  poetry  in  a  single  volume  and  who  desire  to  have  the 
selections  provided  with  notes.  It  contains  no  selection  not  included  in  its  prede- 
cessors, English  Poetry  {iijo-i8g2)  and  English  Prose  {irjy-iSgo).  The  condensation 
of  the  two  volumes  has  been  made  with  care,  and  it  is  believed  that  no  selection  has 
been  omitted  which  is  necessary  in  a  rapid  survey  course. 

For  the  texts  previous  to  Chaucer  translations  have  been  made  and  printed  side  by 
side  with  the  texts.  These  translations  of  course  have  not  all  the  qualities  of  the 
originals,  but  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  preserve  not  only  the  metrical  form  but 
also  the  tone  and  general  manner.  Where  the  original  had  poor  rhymes,  or  loose 
syntax,  or  undignified  diction,  such  features  have  been  permitted  in  the  translation, 
though  it  was  not  always  possible  to  reproduce  each  at  the  exact  point  of  its  appearance. 
The  effort  to  preserve  the  tone  of  the  original  has  often  rendered  the  task  of  trans- 
lation or  paraphrase  difficult  because  of  the  necessity  of  excluding  ideas  and  senti- 
ments foreign  to  the  original  as  well  as  diction  out  of  harmony  with  it. 

The  briefer  and  simpler  notes  are  placed  on  the  same  page  with  the  text,  because 
the  editor  .feels  that  turning  frequently  to  the  back  of  a  book  to  consult  notes  or  a 
glossary  disturbs  the  reader's  enjoyment  and  thereby  interferes  with,  if  it  does  not 
destroy,  the  effect  of  a  piece  of  literature.  The  more  elaborate  notes,  containing  gen- 
eral information  about  the  texts  -or  authors,  or  discussing  difficulties,  or  quoting  inter- 
esting parallels,  are  placed  at  the  end  of  the  volume  for  the  same  reason  —  that  is,  to  avoid 
interference  with  the  enjoyment  of  the  reader  while  he  is  engaged  in  reading.  They 
may  be  consulted  beforehand,  in  preparation  for  reading,  or  later,  in  explanation  of 
difficulties  that  have  not  been  solved  by  the  reader  himself.  In  the  case  of  a  few 
poems,  the  notes  are  purposely  elaborate,  because  the  poems  themselves  are  either 
especially  difficult,  or  especially  suggestive  in  diction,  or  especially  loaded  with  allu- 
sions ;  but  in  general  the  editor  has  striven  to  keep  the  annotations  down  to  a  practical 
minimum.  That  he  has  not  always  succeeded  in  this  effort,  he  is  only  too  well  aware. 
There  are  many  of  the  notes  which  he  himself  would  disregard  in  reading  and  in 
teaching.  But  no  one  has  yet  discovered  exactly  what  number  of  grains  of  sand  makes 
a  heap,  and  the  present  editor  has  not  even  been  able  to  maintain  strict  consistenc}-  in 
regard  to  what  knowledge  may  safely  be  assumed  as  possessed  by  students  or  easily 
accessible  to  them. 

Every  student  of  English  should  possess  a  copy  of  Webster's  Secondary  School  Dic- 
tionary or  the  Standard  Desk  Dictionary.     Either  one  of  these  excellent  dictionaries 


IV 


ENGLISH   PROSE    AND   POETRY 


will  be  found  to  contain  every  word  in  these  texts  not  explained  in  the  notes.  It  was 
originally  intended  to  omit  from  the  notes  every  word  explained  in  these  dictionaries, 
but  in  practice  it  was  found  desirable  to  include  many  words  found  in  them,  chiefly 
because  they  were  words  which  the  student  was  likely  to  misunderstand  and  think  it 
unnecessary  to  look  up. 

The  general  notes  at  the  end  of  the  book  are  not  intended  to  take  the  place  of  a 
history  of  English  Literature,  but  merely  to  supplement  such  a  volume  or  give  emphasis 
to  features  of  immediate  interest.  Some  of  them  perhaps  will  seem  to  the  student 
unnecessary,  but  it  is  hoped  that  he  will  remember  that  there  are  other  students  whose 
equipment  and  mental  power  differ  widely  from  his. 

For  assistance  with  the  notes  and  the  translations,  the  editor  wishes  to  thank  his 
friends  Professor  James  Weber  Linn  and  Miss  Edith  Rickert.  For  help  in  reading  the 
proofs  and  for  making  the  Table  of  Contents  and  the  Index,  he  is  indebted  to  his 
father,  Dr.  Charles  Manly,  and  his  sister,  Mrs.  H.  M.  Patrick. 

In  conclusion,  the  editor  wishes  to  express  the  hope  that  he  has  done  nothing  that 
will  make  more  difficult  for  the  student  the  enjoyment  of  English  Literature  and  the 
cultivation  of  a  taste  for  reading.     His  aim  has  been  to  help,  not  to  hinder. 

JOHN   M.   MANLY 


CONTENTS 


EARLY  MIDDLE   ENGLISH 

A  Monk  of  Peterborough  (c.  1154) 

The  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle  (extract  from 

An.  1 137) I 

The  Poema  Morale,  or  Morale  Ode  (c.  11 70) 

(Author    unknown) 2 

ORifM  (fl.  1200) 

The  Orrmulum 4 

Layamon  (c.  1205) 

The  Brut 5 

The  Ancren  Riwle  (Speech ;  Nuns  May  Keep 
No  Beast  but  a  Cat)  (c.  1225) 

(Author    unknown) 8 

King  Horn  (c.  1250)  (Author  unknown) 9 

Nicholas  de  Gtjildford?  (fl.  1250) 

The  Owl  and  the  Nightingale 14 

Cursor     Mundi     (The    Flight    into     Egypt) 

(c.  1300)  (Author  imknown)  . ...    17 
Thomas  de  Hales  (bef.  1300) 

A  Luve  Ron 19 

Middle  English  Lyrics  (Authors  unknown) 

Alysoun  (c.  1300) 21 

Springtime  (c.  1300) 22 

Ubi  sunt  qui  ante  nos  fuerunt?  (c.  1350)     23 

THE  AGE  OF   CHAUCER 

William  Laxgland?  (1332?-!  400?) 
Piers  the  Plowman 

The  Prologue,  A-Text 24 

The  Prologue,  B-Text :     The    Fable 

of  Belling  the  Cat    28 

Sir  John  MANDE\^LLE?  (d.  13  71) 

The  Voiage  and  Travaile   of   Sir  John 

Maunde\dle,  Kt 30 

John  Wiclif  (d.  1384) 

The  Gospel  of  Mathew 34 

Syr  Gawayn  and  the  Grene  Knyght  (c.  1370) 

(Author  unknown) 37 

Pearl  (c.  1370)  (Author  unknown) 46 

John  Gower  (i325?-i4o8) 

Conf essio  Amantis  :  Medea  and  Eson ....    51 
Geoffrey  Chaucer  (1340?-!  400) 

Troilus  and  Criseyde 56 

The  Canterbury  Tale?,  The  Prologue ....    59 
A    Roundel     (from    The    Pariement    of 

Foules) 69 

Balade  de  Bon  Conseyl 69 

The  Compleint  of  Chaucer  to  His. Empty 

Purse 69 

A  Treatise  on  the  Astrolabe,  Prologus 70 


John  de  Trevisa  (1326-1412) 

Higden's  Polychronicon 71 

THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 

Thomas  Hoccle\^  (i37o?-i45o?) 

De  Regimine  Principum  (On  Chaucer) ...    72 
John  Lytjgate  (i37o?-i45i?) 

The  Story  of  Thebes 73 

Ballads  (Authors  unknown) 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne 74 

The  Battle  of  Otterburn 77 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 80 

Captain  Car,  or  Edom  0  Gordon 81 

Lord  Randal 83 

Hind  Horn 83 

St.  Stephen  and  Herod 84 

Sir  Thomas  Malory  (i4oo?-i47o) 

Le  Morte  Darthur,  Bk.  XXI,  Cap.  V 84 

William  C.\xton   (1422 ?-i 491) 

Preface  to  the  Book  of  Eneydos 8fi 

Stephen  Hawes  (d.  1523) 
The  Pastime  of  Pleasure 

The     Mariage     betwene     Graunde 

Amour  and  Labell  PuceU 86 

John  Skelton  (1460?-! 5 29) 

A  Dirge  for  PhyUip  Sparowe 87 

Colyn  Cloute 88 

The    Nutbrowne    Maide    (c.    1500)    (Author 

unknown) 88 

Early  Tudor  Lyrics  (c.  1500) 
Rehgious  Lyric 

Wlio  shall  have  my  fayr  lady? 92 

Christmas  Carols 

Thys  ender  nyght ' .  .  .   92 

Quid  petis,  O  fily  ? 93 

Make    we    mery,   bothe    more    and 

lasse 93 

WTiat  cher  ?     Gud  cher ! 94 

Con\'ivial  Songs 

Fyll  the  cuppe,  Phylyppe 94 

Make  rome,  syrs,  and  let  us  be  mery    94 
Love  Songs 

LuUy,  lulley,  lulley,  luUey 94 

The  lytyll,  prety  nyghtyngale 94 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 

Sir  THOiL\s  More  (1478-1535) 

A  Dialogue  of  Syr  Thomas  More,  Kt 95 

William  Tyndale  (d.  1536) 

The  Gospell  of  S.  Mathew,  Cap.  V 96 


Vl 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  (1503-1542) 

The  Deserted  Lover  Consoleth  Himself       97 
The  Lover  Complaineth  the  Unkindness 

of  His  Love 98 

A  Description  of  Such  a  One  as  He  Would 

Love 98 

Of  the  Mean  and  Sure  Estate 98 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey  (1517?- 

.1547'' 

Description  of  Spring 100 

Complaint  of  a  l^over  Rebuked 100 

Description    and    Praise    of    His    Love 

Geraldine 100 

The  Means  to  Attain  a  Happy  Life 100 

Virgil's  yEneid,  Bk.  II 100 

Roger  Ascham  (1515-1568) 

The  Scholemaster  :   The  First  Booke  for 

the  Youth loi 

John  Foxe  (1516-1587) 

Acts  and  Monuments  :  The  Behaviour  of 

Ridlej'  and  Latimer 103 

Thomas     SACK\^LLE,     Lord     Buckhurst 
(i 536-1608) 
A  Mirror  for  Magistrates :    The  Induc- 
tion    105 

THE   RENAISSANCE 

Edmund  Spenser  (i552?-i599) 

The  Shepheards  Calender  :  Februarie.  . .  108 

The  Faerie  Queene in 

Epithalamion 115 

Amoretti 117 

Prothalamion 118 

An  Hymn  in  Honour  of  Beauty 120 

An  Hymn  of  Heavenly  Beauty 121 

Sir  Pihlip  Sidney  (1554-1586) 

Astrophel  and  Stella 122 

The  Nightingale 123 

Hymn  to  Apollo 123 

Arcadia,  from  Bk.  1 124 

John  Lyly  (i 554-1606) 

Euphues  and  His  England 127 

Apelles'  Song 128 

Spring's  Welcome 1 38 

Fairy  Revels 128 

Thomas  Lodge  (i558?-i625) 

Rosalynde  :  Euphues' Golden  Legacy .. .  129 

Robert  Greene  (i56o?-i592) 

Sweet  are  th^  thoughts  that  savour  of 

content 131 

Philomela's  Ode 131 

Sephestia's  Song  to  Her  Child 132 

The  Shepherd's  Wife's  Song 132 

A  Groat's  Worth  of  Wit,  Bought  with  a 

Million  of  Repentance 133 

Christopher  Marlowe  (1564-1593) 

Hero   and   Leander,   The   First   Sestiad  135 

William  Shakespeare  (1564-1616) 

Venus  and  Adonis 137 

Sonnets 139 

Songs  from  the  Plays 143 


George  Chapman  (i559?-i634) 

The  Twelfth  Book  of  Homer's  Odysseys    145 
Samuel  Daniel  (1562-1619) 

Sonnets  to  Delia  (XIX,  LIV,  LV) 146 

Epistle  to  the  Lady  Margaret,  Countess 

of  Cumberland 147 

Michael  Drayton  (1563-1631) 

Idea  (IV,  XX,  XXXVII,  LXI) 148 

Ode  XII,  To  the  Cambro-Britans  :  Agin- 

court 149 

Nymphidia,  The  Court  of  Fairy 150 

Francis  Bacon  (1561-1626) 
Essays 

Of  Truth 150 

Of  Marriage  and  Single  Life 151 

Of  Great  Place 152 

Of  Atheism 154 

Of  Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self 155 

Of  Friendship 156 

Of  Youth  and  Age 159 

Minor  Poetry 

My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  Is  —  Sir 

Edward  Dyer 160 

The  Silent  Lover —  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  .  160 
The  Conclusion  —  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  .  .  160 
Song    of    Paris     and    CEnone  —  George 

Peele 161 

Harvestmen  a-Singing  —  George  Peele. .   161 

Farewell  to  Arms —  George  Peele 161 

The  Burning  Babe  —  Robert  Southwell     161 

Cherry  Ripe  —  Thomas  Campion 162 

England's  Helicon 

Phyllida  and  Corydon  —  N.  Breton.  .  .  .    162 

As  It  Fell  Upon  a  Day  —  Ignoto 162 

Phyllida's  Love-call  to  Her  Corydon  — 

Ignoto 162 

The  Shepherd's  Description  of  Love  — 

Ignoto 163 

Damelus'    .Song    to    his     Diaphenia  — 

H.  C 164 

A  Nymph's  Disdain  of  Love  —  Ignoto .  .  164 
Rosalind's  Madrigal  —  Thom.  Lodge.  .  .  164 
The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love  — 

Chr.  Marlowe 165 

The  NjTnph's  Reply  to  the  Shepherd  — 

Ignoto 165 

THE  END   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 

Thomas  Dekker  (i57o?-i64i) 

Song  from  The  Shoemaker's  Holiday. . . .  166 

Song  from  Old  Fortunatus 166 

Content  (from  Patient  Grissill) 166 

The  GuU's  Hornbook,  Cap.  VI 166 

Ben  Jonson  (i573?-i637) 

Song  to  Celia 169 

The  Triumph  of  Charis 169 

To  the  Memory  of  my  Beloved,  Master 

William  Shakespeare 169 

A  Pindaric  Ode 170 

An  Epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy 171 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth,  L.  H 171 


CONTENTS 


vu 


John  Donne  (15  73-1631) 

The  Indifferent 171 

Love's  Deity 171 

The  Funeral 172 

Forget 172 

Death 172 

John  Fletcher  (1579-1625) 

Sweetest  Melancholy 173 

Invocation  to  Sleep 173 

Song  to  Bacchus 173 

Bfeauty  Clear  and  Fair 173 

Weep  No  More 173 

Dirge i73 

Francis  Beaumont  (1584-1616) 

Master   Francis   Beaumont's   Letter   to 

Ben  Jonson 174 

William  Deummond  (1585-1649) 

Sonnet 174 

Madrigal  1 174 

John  Ford  (fl.  1639) 

Song  from  The  Broken  Heart 175 

Dirge  from  The  Broken  Heart 175 

George  Wither  (i 588-1667) 

Sonnet  IV  (from  Fair  Virtue) 175 

Thomas  Heywood  (d.  1650?) 

Go,  Pretty  Birds ! 176 

William  Browne  (i 591-1643) 

Britannia's    Pastorals,    Bk.  II,  Song  V  176 

Epitaph 176 

On  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke.    177 

Robert  Herrick  (1591-1674) 

Cherry-Ripe 177 

Corinna's  Going  a-Maying 177 

To    the    Virgins,    to   Make    Much    of 

Time 178 

Upon  Julia's  Clothes 178 

To  Daffodils 178 

To  Keep  a  True  Lent 178 

George  Herbert  (i 593-1633) 

Virtue 178 

The  Collar 179 

Love 179 

IzAAK  Walton  (1593-1683) 

The  Complete  Angler  (extract) 179 

Thomas  Carew  (i598?-i639?) 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows. ...    181 
Would  you  know  what's  soft? 181 

Sir  Thomas  Browne  (1605-1682) 

Hydriotaphia  :  Urn-Burial,  Chap.  V. . . .   181 

Edmund  Waller  (1606-1687) 

The    Story    of    Phoebus    and    Daphne, 

Applied 184 

On  a  Girdle 184 

Go,  Lovely  Rose  ! 185 

Thomas  Fuller  (1608-1661) 

The  Holy  State  :  The  Life  of  Sir  Francis 

Drake 185 

John  Milton  (1608-1674) 

On  the  Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity 189 

L'Allegro 192 

II  Penseroso 193 

Lycidas 195 


John  Milton  (i 608-1674)  (Continued) 
Sonnets 

At  the  Age  of  Twenty-three 198 

When  the  Assault  was  intended  to 

the  City 198 

To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell 198 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont  198 

On  his  Blindness 199 

To  Cyriack  Skinner 199 

Paradise  Lost,  Bk.  1 199 

Of  Education 208 

Areopagitica 210 

Sir  John  Suckling  (i 609-1642) 

The  Constant  Lover 214 

Why  so  Pale  and  Wan 214 

Richard  Crashaw  (i6i3?-i649) 

In  the  Holy  Nativity  of  Our  Lord  God      214 
Jeremy  Taylor  (1613-1667J 

The  Rule  and  Exercises  of  Holy  Dying, 

Chap.  I,  Sec.  II 216 

Sir  John  Denham  (161 5-1669) 

Cooper's  Hill 218 

Richard  Lox'elace  (1618-1658) 

To  Lucasta,  Going  to  the  Wars 218 

The  Grasshopper 218 

To  Althea,  from  Prison 218 

Abraham  Cowley  (1618-1667) 

The  Wish 219 

Andrew  M.arvell  (1621-1678) 

The  Garden 219 

To  his  Coy  Mistress 220 

Henry  Vaughan  (1622-1695) 

The  Retreat 221 

The  World 221 

The  Timber 221 

THE  RESTORATION 

John  Dryden  (1631-1700) 

Stanzas  on  Oliver  Cromwell 222 

Absalom  and  Achitophel 222 

The  Hind  and  the  Panther 223 

Alexander's  Feast;  or,  The  Power  of  Music  224 

I>ines  under  the  Portrait  of  Milton 226 

An  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy 226 

Samuel  Pepys  (i  633-1 703) 

His  Diary  (extract) 234 

Samuel  Butler  (161 2-1680) 

Hudibras,  Part  I,  Canto  1 237 

John  Oldham  (1653-1683) 

A  Satire  Dissuading  from  Poetry 238 

John  Locke  (1632-1704) 

Of  the  Conduct  of  the  Understanding 

(extract) 238 

John  Bxinyan  (1628-1688) 

The    Fight    with    ApoUyon,    from    The 

Pilgrim's  Progress 239 

Vanity  Fair,  from  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  241 

Minor  Lyrists 

Song  :    Love  stiU  has  something  of  the 

sea  —  Sir  Charles  Sedley 243 

To  Celia  —  Sir  Charles  Sedley 243 


Vlll 


ENGLISH   PROSE   AND    POETRY 


Minor  Lyrists  (Continued) 

Love  and  Life  —  John  Wilmot,  Earl  of 

Rochester 244 

Epitaph  on  Charles  II  —  John  Wilmot, 

Earl  of  Rochester 244 

The  Enchantment  —  Thomas  Otway .  .  .    244 
To  his  Mistress  —  John  Wilmot,  Earl  of 

Rochester 244 

THE   CLASSICAL  AGE 

Daniel  Defoe  (i66i?-i73i) 

An  Academy  for  Women,  from  An  Essay 

upon  Projects 245 

Jonathan  Swift  (1667-1745) 

A  Tale  of  a  Tub,  Section  II 248 

A  Modest  Proposal 253 

Sir  Richard  Steele  (167 2-1 729) 

The  Tatler  (Nos.  95,  167,  264) 254 

The  Spectator  (No.  11) 260 

Joseph  Addison  (1672-1719) 

The  Campaign 262 

Hymn 262 

The  Spectator 

Aims  of  the  Spectator 262 

Thoughts  in  Westminster  Abbey .  .  .    264 

The  Head-Dress 265 

The  Vision  of  Mirza 267 

Hilpa  and  Shalum 269 

The  Sequel  of  the  Story  of  Hilpa  and 

Shalum 271 

Matthew  Prior  (1664-1721) 

To  a  Child  of  Quality  Five  Years  Old. . .    272 
The  Remedy  Worse  than  the  Disease.  .  .    272 

To  his  Soul 272 

Alexander  Pope  (i  688-1 744) 

An  Essay  on  Criticism,  Parts  I,  II  273 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock 275 

Eloisa  to  Abelard 285 

An  Essay  on  Man,  Bk.  1 286 

Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot 288 

The  Dunciad,  Bk.  IV 290 

The  Iliad,  Bk.  VI 290 

John  Gay  (1685-1732) 

The  Hare  with  Many  Friends 291 

Black-Eyed  Susan 292 

Edward  Young  (1683-1765) 

The  Complaint,  or  Night  Thoughts 

Man 292 

Procrastination 203 

THE  TRANSITION 

Lady  Winchilsea  (i  661- 17  20) 

A  Nocturnal  Reverie 294 

Robert  Blair  (i 699-1 746) 

The  Grave 294 

James  Thomson  (i 700-1 748) 

Winter  :   A  Snow  Scene 296 

Summer  :  The  Sheep-Washing 296 

Spring  :  The  Coming  of  the  Rain 297 

Autumn  :   Storm  in  Harvest 297 


James  Thomson  (i  700-1 748)  (Continued) 

The  Castle  of  Indolence 298 

Rule,  Britannia 300 

John  Dyer  (1700?-!  758) 

Grongar  Hill 300 

David  Mallet  (i  705-1 765) 

William  and  Margaret 301 

Samuel  Johnson  (i  709-1784) 

Congreve 302 

The  Rambler  (No.  69) 308 

London '.  .   309 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes 310 

William  Shenstone  (i 714-1763) 

Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley 311 

The  School-Mistress 312 

Thomas  Gray  (1716-1771) 

Ode   on    a    Distant    Prospect    of    Eton 

College 313 

Elegy  Written   in   a    Country    Church- 
yard     314 

The  Progress  of  Poesy  :  A  Pindaric  Ode    316 
The   Fatal   Sisters :    An  Ode  from  the 

Norse  Tongue 318 

William  Collins  (17 21-1759) 

A  Song  from  Shakespeare's  Cymbelyne  .   319 
Ode  (Written  in  the  beginning  of  the  year 

1746) 319 

Ode  to  Evening 319 

The  Passions :  An  Ode  to  Music 320 

Thomas  Warton  (1728-1790) 

Sonnet  IV.     Written  at  Stonehenge 322 

Oliver  Goldsmith  (i 728-1 774) 

The  Chinese  Goes  to  See  a  Play  (from 
Letters  from  a  Citizen  of  the 

World) 322 

The  Deserted  Village 324 

Retaliation 329 

Edmund  Burke  (1729-1797) 

Speech  on  the  Nabob  of  Arcot's  Debts.  .   331 
Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France    335 

William  Cowper  (1731-1800) 

The  Task,  from  Bks.  I,  II,  V 336 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 338 

On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture     338 

James  Macpherson  (?)  (i 736-1 796) 

The    Poems    of     Ossian :      Cath-Loda, 

Duan  III 340 

James  Boswell  (i  740-1 795) 

The   Life  of   Samuel   Johnson,   LL.D., 

Chap.  XIII 341 

Junius 

Letter  XV,  to  the  Duke  of  Grafton 351 

Thomas  Chatterton  (i 752-1 770) 

Bristowe  Tragedie ;  or,  The  Dethe  of  Syr 

Charles  Bawdin 353 

The  Account  of  W.  Canynges  Feast.  .  .  .   358 

George  Crabbe  (1754-1832) 

Tales:    The   Lover's   Journey,   Tale  X  358 

William  Blake  (i 757-1827) 

Songs  of  Innocence  :  Introduction 359 

Songs  of  Experience 

The  Clod  and  the  Pebble 359 


CONTENTS 


IX 


Willi A.M  Blake  (i 757-1827)  (Continued) 

The  Sick  Rose 360 

The  Tiger 360 

A  Poison  Tree 360 

Ideas  of  Good  and  Evil 

Auguries  of  Innocence 360 

Two  Kinds  of  Riches 360 

Love's  Secret 360 

Minor  Scottish  Poets 

William  Julius  Mickle  (173  5-1 788) 

There's  Nae  Luck  About  the  House. ...   361 
Jane  Elliot  (1727-1805) 

The  Elowers  of  the  Forest 361 

Robert  Fergusson  (1750-1774) 

Caller  Water 362 

Robert  Burns  (1759-1796) 

Song  :   Green  grow  the  rashes 362 

Address  to  the  Deil 363 

Lines  to  John  Lapraik 364 

To  a  Mouse 364 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 365 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid 368 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy 369 

A  Bard's  Epitaph 369 

Tam  O'Shanter 370 

Bonie  Doon 372 

Ae  Fond  Kiss 373 

Bonie  Lesley 373 

Highland  Mary 373 

Duncan  Gray 374 

Scots  Wha  Hae 374 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That 374 

THE  ROMANTIC   REVIVAL 

William  Wordsworth  (1770-1850) 

Preface  to  "Lyrical  Ballads" 376 

We  are  Seven 382 

Expostulation  and  Reply 383 

The  Tables  Turned 384 

Lines     Composed     a    few    miles    above 

Tintem   Abbey 384 

Lucy 386 

Three  years  she  grew 386 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal 386 

Lucy  Gray ;   or,  Solitude 386 

The  Recluse 387 

To  the  Cuckoo 388 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 389 

The  Solitary  Reaper 389 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 389 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 390 

Ode  to  Duty : 390 

Personal  Talk 391 

Ode  :  Intimations  of  Immortality 391 

To  a  Sky-Lark 394 

Sonnets 

On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian 

Republic 394 

September,  1802,  Near  Dover 394 

Thought  of  a  Briton 394 

London,  1802 395 


William  Wordsworth  (1770-1850)  (Continued) 
Composed        upon        Westminster 

Bridge,  Sept.  3,  1802 395 

On  the  Sea-Shore  Near  Calais 395 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us 395 

To  Sleep 395 

The  River  Duddon   396 

Most  sweet  it  is 396 

Scorn  not  the  sonnet 396 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  (177 2-1834) 

Biographia  Literaria,  Chap.  XIV 396 

Kubla  Khan ;   or,  A  Vision  in  a  Dream  399 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 400 

Christabel 415 

Robert  Southey  (17  74-1843) 

The  Well  of  St.  Keyne 416 

Francis  Jeffrey  (1773-1850) 

"The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone" 416 

Sir  Walter  Scott  (177 i- 183 2) 

The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel :  The  Lay 

of  Rosabelle 417 

Marmion  :   Christmas  in  the  Olden  Time  418 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake  :  Soldier,  Rest !  thy 

Warfare  O'er 419 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake  :   Fitz- James  and 

Roderick  Dhu 419 

Charles  Lamb  (17 75-1 834) 

The  Two  Races  of  Men 422 

Mrs.  Battle's  Opinion  on  Whist 425 

A  Chapter  on  Ears 428 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 431 

^Thomas  Campbell  (177 7-1844) 

Ye  Mariners  of  England  (A  Naval  Ode)    431 

Battle  of  the  Baltic 432 

Thomas  Moore  (1779-185 2) 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing 433 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 433 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer 433 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  hall     433 
Leigh  Hunt  (1784-1859) 

Rondeau 434 

Fairies'  Song 434 

Thomas  de  Quincey  (i  785-1859) 

The  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium- 

Eater 434 

George     Noel     Gordon,     Lord     Byron 
(1788-1824) 
English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers .  .  .   443 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage 445 

Sonnet  on  ChiUon 451 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon 451 

Ode  :  Oh  Venice  !  Venice  ! 455 

Know  ye  the  land 457 

She  walks  in  beauty 457 

So,  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 457 

Charles  Wolfe  (1791-1823) 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  at  Corunna  458 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  (1792-1822) 

Alastor ;  or.  The  Spirit  of  Solitude 458 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 459 

Sonnet :   Ozymandias 460 

Lines  Written  among  the  Euganean  HiUs  460 


ENGLISH   PROSE  AND   POETRY 


Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  (i  792-1822)  (Continued) 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 462 

The  Indian  Serenade 463 

The  Cloud 464 

To  a  Skj'lark 465 

To  —  (Music  when  soft  voices  die) 466 

Adonais 466 

Final  Chorus  from  Hellas 473 

To  Night 474 

To  —  (One  word  is  too  often  profaned)      474 
John  Keats  (1795-1821) 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 474 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 475 

To  Autumn 476 

Ode  :  Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth         477 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern 477 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 477 

Sonnets 

The  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket       478 
On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's 

Homer 478 

To  Sleep 478 

On  the  Sea 478 

When  I  have  fears 479 

Bright  Star  ! 479 

Endymion 479 

Hyperion 481 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 482 

Walter  Savage  Landor  (i 775-1864) 

^sop  and  Rhodope 487 

Rose  Aylmer 492 

A  Fiesolan  Idyl 492* 

To  Robert  Browiiing 492 

Why 493 

On  his  Seventy-fifth  Birthday 493 

On  Death 493 

Thomas  Hood  (i  798-1845) 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt 493 

Ruth 494 

WiNTHROP   MaCKWORTH   PrAED    (1802-1B39) 

The  Belle  of  the  Ball-Room 494 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes  (1803-1849) 

Dream  Pedlary 495 

Death's  Jest-Book  (Song) 496 

THE  VICTORIAN   AGE 

Thomas  Carlyle  (i  795-1881) 

Sartor   Resartus,   Bk.   II,    Chaps.   VII, 

VIII,  IX 497 

Thomas     Babington,     Lord     Macaulay 
(1800-1859) 
The  History  of  England,  Vol.  I,  Chap. 

Ill  (extract) 510 

John   Henry,   Cardinal   Newman    (i8oi- 
1890) 
The  Idea  of  a  University  :  Discourse  VI 

(extract) 518 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  (1809-1892) 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 523 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women 524 

Morte  D'Arthur 528 


Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  (1809-1892)  {Continued) 

Ulysses 532 

Locksley  Hall 532 

St.  Agnes  Eve 537 

Sir  Galahad 537 

Break,  break,  break 538 

Wages 538 

The  Higher  Pantheism 538 

Maud  (XXII) 539 

In  Memoriam 

Proem,  I,  XXVII,  XXXI,  XXXII, 
LIV,      LVII,      XCVI,      CVI, 

CXXX,    Epilogue 540 

Sir  John  Franklin 543 

To  Dante 543 

The  Silent  Voices 543 

Merlin  and  the  Gleam 543 

Crossing  the  Bar 545 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  (1806-1861) 

Sonnets  from   the   Portuguese   (I,   VII, 

XIV,  XVII,  XX,  XXI,  XXII, 

XXVIII,  XLIII) 545 

The  Cry  of  the  Children 547 

A  Musical  Instrument 549 

Robert  Browning  (181 2-1889) 
Cavalier  Tunes 

Marching  Along 549 

Give  a  Rouse 550 

"How  They  Brought  the  Good  News 

from  Ghent  to  Aix" 550 

Song:  Nay  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her  551 

Evelyn  Hope 551 

Home-Thoughts,  from  Abroad 552 

Saul 552 

Song  :  My  Star 554 

My  Last  Duchess 554 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral 555 

"Childe    Roland    to    the    Dark    Tower 

Came" 556 

Era  Lippo  Lippi 559 

One  Word  More 564 

Abt  Vogler 567 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 569 

Apparitions 572 

Wanting  is  —  What? 572 

Never  the  time  and  the  place 572 

The  Epilogue  to  Asolando 572 

William    Makepeace    Thackeray    (181  i- 
1863) 
The  English  Humorists  :   Sterne 573 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough  (1819-1861) 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 578 

"With  Whom  is  no  Variableness" 579 

Easter  Day 579 

"Perche  Pensa?" 581 

Say   not   the   struggle  nought  availeth  581 

John  Ruskin  (1819-1900) 

The  Stones  of  Venice,  Vol.  II,  Chap.  IV    582 
The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive  :  Preface 584 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson(i82  1-1895) 

To  My  Grandmother 590 

The  Unrealized  Ideal 590 


CONTENTS 


XI 


Sidney  Dobell  (1824-1874) 

i\merica 59^ 

Matthew  Arnold  (1822-1888) 

Culture  and   Anarchy :    Sweetness  and 

Light 591 

Shakespeare 602 

The  Forsaken  Merman 602 

To  Marguerite 603  _ 

Morality 604 

The  Future 604 

Sohrab  and  Rustum 605 

Philomela 616 

The  Scholar  Gipsy 617 

The  Last  Word 620 

Edward  Fitzgerald  (1809-1883) 

The  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam 621 

Coventry  Patmore  (1823-1896) 

The  Angel  in  the  House  :   Preludes 

Bk.  I,  Canto  III :  I.  The  Lover  ...   623 
Bk.  I,  Canto  VHI :  I.  Life   of  Life  623 

II.   The  Revelation 624 

III.   The  Spirit's  Epochs 624 

The  Unknown  Eros  :  The  Toys 624 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  (1828-1882) 

The  Blessed  Damozel 624 

Sister  Helen 626 

The    Ballad    of    Dead     Ladies,     from 

Frangois    Villon 629 

Francesca  da  Rimini,  from  Dante 629 

On  Refusal  of  Aid  between  Nations 630 

The  Sonnet 630 

Love-Sight 630 

Love-Sweetness 630 

Mid-Rapture 631 

Soul-Light 631 

Known  in  Vain 631 

The  Landmark 631 

The  Choice 632 

Vain  Virtues 632 

Lost  Days 633 

A  Superscription 633 

The  One  Hope 633 


William  Morris  (1834-1896) 
The  Earthly  Paradise 

Proem 633 

Prologue 634 

The  Lady  of  the  Land 634 

Algernon     Charles     Swinburne     (1837- 
1909) 

Chorus  from  Atalanta  in  Calydon 640 

The  Garden  of  Proserpine 641 

Itylus 642 

Etude  R6aliste  (I,  II,  III) 643 

The  Salt  of  the  Earth , 643 

Sonnets 

On  Lamb's  Specimens  of  Dramatic 

Poets 644 

'  Hope  and  Fear 644 

After  Sunset 644 

George  Meredith  (1828-1909) 

Love  in  the  \'alley 644 

Juggling  Jerry 648 

Bellerophon 649 

Lucifer  in  Starlight 650 

Ask,  is  love  divine 650 

Song  of  the  Songless 650 

Dirge  in  Woods 650 

Christina  Rossetti  (1830-1894) 

The  Prince's  Progress  :  The   Bride-Song  650 

A  Birthday 651 

Song  :  WTien  I  am  dead 651 

The  First  Day 651 

Remember 652 

Rest , 652 

The  Lowest  Place 652 

James  Thomson  (i 834-1 882) 

The  City  of  Dreadful  Night 652 

Sunday  up  the  River 653 

Art 654 

Walter  Pater  (i  839-1 894) 

Style 654 

The  Child  in  the  House 657 

Robert  Loms  Ste\'enson  (1850-1894) 

Franfois  Villon 662 


NOTES 

INDEX  OF   AUTHORS 

INDEX  OF  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES. 


677 

781 
783 


ENGLISH   PROSE  AND   POETRY 


EARLY    MIDDLE    ENGLISH 


THE   ANGLO-SAXON   CHRONICLE    (c.   1154) 

A   MONK   OF   PETERBOROUGH 

From   THE   RECORD   FOR    1137 


This  gaere  ^  for  ^  the  king  Stephne  ofer  sae  ^ 
to  Normandi,  and  ther  wes  *  underfangen,^ 
for-thi-that  ^  hi  ^  uuenden  *  that  he  sculde  * 
ben  1°  alsuic  "  alse  ^^  the  eom  '^  wes,  and  for  ^ 
he  hadde  get  "  his  tresor  ;  ac  ^^  he  to-deld  ^^  it 
and  scatered  sotHce.^^  Micel  ^^  hadde  Henri 
king  gadered  gold  and  sylver,  and  na  ^^  god  -° 
ne  dide  me  -^^  for  his  saule  '-  tharof .^ 

Tha  ^  the  king  Stephne  to  Englalande 
com, 2^  tha  ^^  macod  ^^  he  his  gadering  ^*  ast 
Oxeneford ;  and  thar  he  nam  ^^  the  biscop 
Roger  of  Sereberi,^"  and  Alexander  biscop  of 
Lincol  and  te  ^\  Canceler  Roger  his  neves,^^ 
and  dide  ^^  aslle  in  prisun  til  hi  '  iafen  ^  up 
here  ^^  castles.  Tha  ^  the  suikes  ^^  under- 
gaeton  ^''  that  he  milde  man  was  and  softe  and 
god  2"  and  na  ^*  justise  ^*  ne  dide,  tha  '^^  diden 
hi "  alle  wunder.^^  Hi  '  hadden  him  *°  man- 
red  *  maked  -^  and  athes  ''^  suoren  ^  ac  ^^ 
hi  nan "  treuthe  ne  heolden.'*^  Alle  he  ^ 
wasron  *^  forsworen,  and  here  ^^  treothes  for- 
loren ;  *^  for  aevric  *''  rice  ^*  man  his  castles 
makede,*^  and  agaenes  ^  him  heolden,^^  and 
fylden  ^^  the  land  f ul  of  castles.  Hi  suencten  ^ 
suythe  ^  the  uurecce  *^  men  of  the  land  mid  ^^ 
castel  weorces.^^ 

Tha  ^  the  castles  uuaren  *^  maked,  tha  ^ 
fylden  hi  mid  deovles  and  yvele  ^'  men. 
Tha  ^*  namen  ^°  hi  tha  ^'  men  the  ^^  hi  wenden  ^ 
that  ani  god  "  hefden,^^  bathe  ^^  be  ^^  nihtes 

'  j'ear  ^  went  ^  sea  ■*  was  ^  received  ®  because 
^  the^  *  weened,  thought  ^  should  ^"^  be  ^^  just  such 
'-  as  ^^  uncle  ^^  yet  ^'^  but  ^^  dispersed  ^^  foolishly 
'*  much  '^  no  ^  good  ^^  anyone  ^^  soul  ^^  on  account 
of  it  ^  when  ^*  came  ^^  then  ^^  made  ^  assembly 
^  seized  ^^  Salisbury  ^'  the  ^^  nephews  (i.e.  the  son 
and  nephew  of  Roger  of  Salisbury)  ^'put  ^^gave 


This  year  went  King  Stephen  over  the  sea 
to  Normandy  and  was  received  there,  be- 
cause they  thought  that  he  was  going  to 
be  just  such  as  his  uncle  was,  and  because 
he  still  had  his  uncle's  treasure;  but  he  dis- 
persed it  and  scattered  it  foolishly.  Much 
had  Henry  the  king  gathered  of  gold  and 
silver,  and  no  good  did  anyone  for  his  soul  by 
means  of  it. 

When  King  Stephen  came  to  England,  then 
he  made  his  assembly  at  Oxford ;  and  there 
he  seized  the  bishop  Roger  of  Salisbury  and 
Alexander,  bishop  of  Lincoln,  and  the  Chan- 
cellor Roger,  his  nephews,  and  put  them  all 
in  prison  till  they  gave  up  their  castles. 
When  the  traitors  perceived  that  he  was  a 
mild  man  and  soft  and  good,  and  enforced  no 
justice,  then  did  they  all  wonders.  They 
had  done  homage  to  him  and  sworn  oaths, 
but  they  kept  no  troth.  But  they  were  all 
forsworn  and  their  troths  were  entirely 
abandoned ;  for  every  powerful  man  built 
his  castles  and  held  against  him,  and  they 
filled  the  land  fuE  of  castles.  They  op- 
pressed grievously  the  wretched  men  of  the 
land  with  castle-building. 

When  the  castles  were  built,  then  they 
filled  them  with  devils  and  evil  men.  Then 
they  seized  the  men  who  they  thought  had 
any  property,  both  by   night   and  by  day, 


^^  traitors  ^  perceived  ^  justice,  punish- 
strange  things,  evils  *°  to  him  ^^  homage 
*^  sworn  ^  kept  ^^  were  ^  entirely  aban- 
every  ^  powerful  ^^  built  ^  against   ^'  held 


^^  their  ^®  traitors  ^  perceived  ^  justice,  punisl 
ment  ^'  strange  things,  evils  *°  to  him  *^  homaj 
*-  oaths  •'^  sworn  •"  kept  ^^  were  ^  entirely  abai 
doned  ^'^  every  ^  powerful  ^^  built  ^  against  ^'  hel 
^-  filled  ^  oppressed  ^  greatly  ^*  wretched  ^  with 
^^  works  ^  then  ^'  evil  ®°  seized  ®^  those  ®^  wh 
^^  weened,  thought  ®"'  property  "" 


iivy^v.         ..'ho 
**  both  ®'  by 


THE    POEMA   MORALE 


and  be  daeies,  carlmen  ^  and  wlmmen,  and 
diden  ^  heom  ^  in  prisun  efter  •*  gold  and 
sylver,  and  pined  ^  heom  untellendlice  ^ 
pining,''  for  ne  uuaeren*  naevre  ^  nan  martyrs 
swa  ^"  pined  alse  ^'  hi  wasron.  Me  ^-  henged  '^ 
up  bi  the  fet  "  and  smoked  heom  mid  ful  '^ 
smoke.  Me  henged  bi  the  thumbes,  other  "^ 
bi  the  hefed/^  and  hengen  '^^  bryniges  ^^  on 
her  ?"  fet.  Me  dide  ^  cnotted  strenges  '^^ 
abuton  -^  here  ^  haeved  '"  and  uurythen^^  to  -^ 
that  it  gaede  ^^  to  the  hasrnes.^^  Hi  dyden 
heom  in  quarterne  ^^  thar  ^^  nadres  -^  and 
snakes  and  pades  ^^  waeron  inne,  and  drapen  *^ 
heom  swa.^°  .  .  . 

I  ne  can  ne  I  ne  mai  '^  tellen  alle  the  wun- 
der  33  ne  alle  the  pines  ^*  that  hi  diden 
wrecce  ^^  men  on  ^  this  land ;  and  that 
lastede  tha  .xix.  wintre  ^^  wile  ^^  Stephne  was 
king,  and  aevre  ^^  it  was  uuerse  ^  and  uuerse. 


men  and  women  also,  and  thrust  them  in 
prison  for  gold  and  silver,  and  tortured  them 
with  unspeakable  tortures,  for  never  were 
any  martyrs  so  tortured  as  they  were.  They 
were  hanged  up  by  the  feet  and  smoked  with 
foul  smoke.  They  were  hanged  by  the 
thumbs,  or  by  the  head,  and  coats  of  mail  were 
hung  on  their  feet.  Knotted  strings  were 
put  about  their  heads  and  twisted  till  they 
penetrated  to  the  brains.  They  put  them  in 
dungeons  in  which  Vv'ere  adders  and  snakes  and 
toads,  and  killed  them  thus.  .  .  . 


I  cannot  and  I  may  not  teU  all  the  wonders 
nor  all  the  tortures  that  they  did  to  wretched 
men  in  this  land  ;  and  that  lasted  the  nineteen 
years  while  Stephen  was  king,  and  ever  it 
was  worse  and  worse. 


From  THE   POEMA   MORALE,    OR   MORAL  ODE  (c.  1170) 

(Unknown  Author) 


Ich  ■"  aem  elder  then  ich  "^  wes,  a  wintre  and  a 

lore ;  '^ 
Ic  •^  waelde  '^  more  thanne  ic  dude,^*  mi  wit  ah  '^ 

to  ben  more. 
Wei  lange  ic  ^  habbe  *^  child  ibeon  ^"  a  weorde 

and  ech  '^^  a  dede ; 
Theh  ^^  ic  beo  ^^  a  wintre  eald,^^  to  ying  ^^  I 

eom  ^^  a  rede.^ 
Unnut  ^  lyf  ic  habb  ilaed,^''  and  yiet,^^  me- 

thincth,  ic  lede ; 
Thanne  ic  me  bethenche,^'  wel  sore  ic  me 

adrede.'* 
Mest  ■'''  al  thajt  ic  habbe  ydon  ''**  ys  idelnesse 

and  chilche ;  " 
Wel  late  ic  habbe  me  bithoht,  bute  ^'^  me  God 

do  milce.*'^ 
Fele  ""'^  ydele  word  ic  habbe  iqueden  ^'^  syth- 

then  '^'^  ic  speke  cuthe,*^" 
And   fale  '^  yunge  '^^  dede  ido,   thet  me  of- 

thinchet '^^  nuthe.'"  10 

^  put    3  them    ''after    {i.e 

^  tortured  ''  unspeakable  ''  torture  ^ 

^^  so   '^  as 

"  feet    ^^  foul    ^''  or   "  head    i**  hung    '^  corselets 

(as  weights)   ^^  their    2'  cords  ^^  about  ^^  twisted 

^  till     ^*  went,     penetrated     ^'^  brains     ^'  prison 

2*  where      ^'■'  adders      ^o  toads      ^i  killed      ^'^  may 

^  evils     34  tortures     ^5  wretched     ^c  j^     37  yg^rs 


I  am  older  than  I  was  in  winters  and  in 

lore; 
I  govern  more  than  e'er  I  did,  my  wisdom 

should  be  more. 
Full  long  time  have  I  been  a  child  in  word 

and  eke  in  deed ; 
Though  I  be  in  winters  old,  too  young  am  I 

in  rede. 
Useless  is  the  life  I  lead,  and  long,  methinks, 

have  led ; 
When  I  remember  me  of  this,  full  sore  am  I 

a-dread. 
Nearly  all  that  I  have  done  is  childish  and  of 

naught ; 
But,  save  God  show  me  mercy  now,  too  late 

is  this  my  thought. 
Many   idle   speeches   have   I   spoken   since 

speech  to  me  was  lent ; 
And  many  a  foolish  deed  have  done,  that  I 

must  now  repent.  lo 


^  men  2  put  3  them  ''  after  {i.e.  to  obtain)  38  while  39  ever  *'  worse  ''^  I  ^-  in  years  and  in 
tortured  ''  unspeakable  ''  torture  ^  were  ^  never  knowledge  ''3  govern  "*'  did  ^^  ought  '^  have 
so  '^  as  *'^  one  (i.e.  they  iiidefinilc)  '3  hanged  '^  been  ''^  also  ■•'  though  ^  am  ^^  old  ^^  young 
feet    ^^  foul    ^''  or   ^^  head   ^^  hung    ^^  corselets      ''■'  counsel     "^  useless      ^^  led     ^  still     ^^  betBink 

f^  I  am  frightened  '^^  almost  ™  done  «i  child- 
ishness ""^  unless  *'3  mercy  ^"^  many  ^^  spoker 
•'•'  since  •■'"  could   '^  young,  silly  ^^  repents   ™  nov 


;n 
now 


THE    POEMA   MORALE 


Al  to  lome  ^  ic  habbe  aguit  ^  a  weorche  ^  and 

ec  ^  a  worde  ; 
Al  to  muchel  ic  habbe  ispend,  to  litel  yleid  '" 

an  horde. 
Mest  ^  al  that  me  licede  ^   ser,*  nu  hit  ^  me 

mislicheth ;  ^° 
The  ^^  mychel  ^^  folyeth  ^^  his  ywil,  him  sulfne 

he  biswiketh." 
Ich  mihte  habbe  bet  ^^  idon,  hadde  ic  tho  ^® 

yselthe ;  ^' 
Nu  ic  wolde,  ac  ^^  ic  ne  mei  ^'  for  elde  ^°  ne 

for  unhelthe ;  ^' 
Ylde  ^  me  is  bistolen  on,  £er  ic  hit  awyste ;  ^ 
Ne  mihte  ic  iseon  ^  before  me  for  smeche  -^ 

ne  for  miste. 
^rwe  -^  we  beoth  ^s  to  done  god,  and  to  yfele  ^' 

al  to  thriste ;  -^ 
More  aeie  -^  stent  ^^  man  of  manne  thanne  him 

do  of  Criste.  20 

The  ^^  wel  ne  deth  '^  the  hwile  he  mei,"^  wel 

oft  hit  hym  scael  ruwen,-^''' 
Thaenne  ?*  hy '"  mowen  sculen  ^^  and  ripen,^' 

ther  ^^  hi  aer  seowen.^^ 
Don  ec  *>  to  Gode  wet  ^^  ye  muye,-^  the  hwile 

ye  buth  -^'  a  life ; 
Ne  hdpie  no  man  ^  to  muchel  to  childe  ne  to 

wyfe ; 
The  "   him  selve  for}'-ut  ^  for  wife  other  for 

childe, 
He  sceal  cume  an  uvele  stede  **  bute  *^  hym 

God  beo  milde. 
Sende  aech  ■**  sum  god  biforen  hym,  the  hwile 

he  mei,  to  heovene ; 
Bet  ere  is  an  elmesse  "*"  bifore  thenne  been  asfter 

seovene. 
Ne  beo  the  leovre  ^^  thene  the  sulf  thj[  mei  ■**  ne 

thi  maye  ^ 
Sot  '"^  is  the  "  is  othres  mannes  freond  betre 

thene  his  aye.*^  30 

Ne  hopie  *^  wif  to  hire  were,^  ne  wer  ^*  to  his 

wife ; 
Beo  ^^  for  him  sulve  aevrich  ^^  man,  the  hwyle 

he  beo  ^"  alive. 
Wis  **   is  the  ^^   him  sulfne  bithencth  ™   the 

hwile  he  mote  ^^  libbe,^^ 
For    sone  ^^     wulleth  ^     him    foryite  ^°    the 

fremde  ^  and  the  sibbe.^^ 


All  too  often  have  I  sinned  in  deed  and  eke 

in  word ; 
All  too  freely  have  I  spent,  too  Uttle  laid  in 

hoard. 
Almost  all  I  now  mislike  of  things  I  liked  of 

yore ; 
Who  follows  over-much  his  will,  betrays  him- 
self the  more. 
Had  fortune  only  favored  me,  I  might  have 

done  more  good ; 
Now  for  weakness  and  for  age,  I  may  not, 

though  I  would. 
Old  age  is  stolen  me  upon,  ere  that  I  it  wist ; 
I  could  not  see  before  me  for  the  smoke  and 

for  the  mist. 
Timid  we  are  in  doing  good,  in  evil  all  too 

bold ; 
More  awe  of  man  than  awe  of  Christ  doth 

every  person  hold.  20 

Who  doth  not  well,  the  while  he  may,  shall 

often  rue  it  sore. 
When  comes  the  time  to  mow  and  reap  what 

he  has  sovi-n  before. 
Do  ye  for  God  the  best  ye  may,  the  while  ye 

are  in  life ; 
And  let  no  man  hope  overmuch  in  child  nor 

yet  in  wife. 
He  who  doth  himself  forget  for  wife  or  else 

for  child 
Shall  come  into  an  evil  place  save  God  to  him 

be  mild. 
Let  each  some  good  before  him  send,  the  while 

he  may,  to  heaven  ; 
For  better  is  one  alms  before  than  afterward 

are  seven. 
And  hold  not  dearer  than  thyself  thy  kins- 
man or  thy  son ; 
Foolish  to  be  another's  friend  rather  than  thine 

own.  3° 

And  let  no  wife  in  husband  hope,  nor  husband 

in  his  wife ; 
Be  each  man  for  himself  alone,  the  while  he 

is  in  life. 
Wise  is  who  bethinks  himself  the  while  he 

liveth  yet ; 
For  him  will  stranger  —  ay,  and  friend,  soon 

enough  forget. 


^  all  too  often  ~  sinned  ^  deed  *  also  ^  laid  ^  al-  s?  pg^p  3S  ^yhere  ^^  sowed  ''°  also  ^^  what  ^-  let  no 

most  ■  pleased  ^  formerly  ^  it  ^^  displeases  "  who  man    hope    ^  forgets    •"  in    evil    place    '^  unless 

'2  much     'follows     "betrays     ^^  better     1*^  then  ^^  each    •*' one    alms    ■'^dearer    •*»  kinsman    ^  son 

i^good  fortune  i^but   "may  not  .20  age  ^i  weak-  ^i  fooiig^  ^^  ovm  ^  hope  not  ^  man  ^^  be  ^6  every 

ness  22  before  I  knew  it   '-*  see   ^-i  smoke  ^  timid  67  jg     5s  ^jgg     69  ^.^q     go  bethinks    ®^  may    ^-  live 

^  are  ^  evil  ^^  bold  ^9  awe,  fear  ^  arises  to  ^i  doth  63  goon     «*  will     ^^  forget    ^  stranger    «"  kinsman 


^^good  fortune  ^^but  '^may  not  .^''age  ^^  weak- 
ness ^^  before  I  knew  it  -*  see  ^^  smoke  ^  timid 
^  are  ^  evil  ^^  bold  -^  awe,  fear  ^  arises  to  ^'  doth 
*^  may    ^  shall    repent    ^^  when    ^^  they     ^^  shall 


ORRM 


The  ^    wel  ne  deth  ^   the  hwile  he  mei,^  ne 

sceal  he  hwenne  he  wolde. 
Manies    mannes    sare    iswinch    habbeth    oft 

unholde.'' 
Ne  scolde  nan  man  don  a  furst,^  ne  sclawen  ^ 

wel  to  done ; 
For  mani  man  bihateth  ^  wel,  the^  hit   for- 

yiteth  sone. 
The  man  the  ^   siker  *   wule  beon  to  habbe 

Codes  blisse, 


Who  doth  not  well,  the  while  he  may,  he  shall 

not  when  he  would  ; 
Many  a  man's  sore  labor  oft  cometh  to  no 

good. 
In  doing  good  let    none    postpone    or    ever 

make  delay ; 
For  many  a  man  doth  promise  well  who  yet 

forgets  straightway. 
The  man  who  would  be  safe  and  sure  of  having 

God's  own  bliss 


Do  wel  him  sulf  the  hwile  he  mei,  then  haveth      If  he  do  well  the  while  he  may,  he  verily  shall 
he  mid  iwisse.^  40  not  miss.  40 


ORRM    (11.    1200) 
From  THE  ORRMULUM 


Nu,  ^^  bro]?err  Wallterr,  bro])err  min 

Affterr  ])e  flaeshess  kinde  ;  " 
&  bro}?err  min  i  ^^  Crisstenndom 

purrh  fulluhht  ^^  &  >urrh  troww>e ;  ^^ 
&  bro])err  min  i  ^^  Godess  hus, 

Set  o^^  J?e  )?ride  ^^  wise,^^ 
J)urrh  ]?att  witt  ^**  hafenn  ^^  takenn  ba  2" 

An  -^  reahellboc  ^^  to  foll^henn,^'' 
Unnderr  kanunnkess  ^^  had  ^^  &  lif , 

Swa  summ  ^^  Sannt  Awwstin  sette  ;  '^''■ 
Ice  hafe  ^^  don  swa  summ  ^^  )?u  badd,^* 

&  forjjedd  »»  te  ^i  >in  wiUe, 
Ice  hafe  ^^  wennd  ^^  inntil  ^^  Ennglissh 

Goddspelless  halljhe  lare,^* 
Affterr  l?att  little  witt  ^^  tatt  ^^  me 

Min  Drihhtin  hafe}>})  lenedd  ^^ 
pu  l^ohhtesst  ^*  tatt  ^  itt  mihhte  wel 

Till  ^^  mikell  frame  ^^  turrnenn, 
5iff  *^  Ennglissh  foUk,  forr  lufe  off  Crist, 

Itt  wollde  Jerne  ''^  lernenn, 
&  foUjhenn  ^'^  itt,  &  fillenn  «  itt 

Wi]?l>  J?ohht,  ^■*  w\])])  word,  wi]?)?  dede. 
&  forrj>i  ^^  §errndesst  ^^  tu  J?att  ice 

piss  werrc  ^'  Ipe  shollde  wirrkenn  ; 
&  ice  itt  hafe  forl^edd  ™  te,"^' 

Ace  ^^  all  l?urrh  Cristess  hellpe  ; 
&  unnc  birrf)  ''^  baj)e  ^°  Jjannkenn  Crist 

patt  itt  iss  brohht  till  ^^  ende. 
Ice  hafe  sammnedd  ''•  o  ""^  )?iss  boc 

pa  Goddspelless  neh  '-^"^  alle 


30 


'  who  ^  doth  ^  may  *  many  a  man's  sore  labor 
hath  often  misfortime  '"'  no  man  should  postpone 
*  delay  ^  promises  *  sure  ^  then  he  hath  it  certainly 
'"now  "nature  '^  in  '^  through  baptism  '''faith 
'^  on  ""  third  '^  waj',  degree  '*  we  two  '^  have  ™  both 
*'  one  ^  rule-book  ^''  follow  ^  canon's  ^^  order 
'®  just  as  ^  commanded  ^  1  have  ^^  badest  ^  ac- 


Now,  brother  Walter,  brother  mine 

After  the  fleshly  nature  ; 
And  brother  mine  in  Christendom 

Through  baptism  and  through  fealty ; 
And  brother  mine  in  God's  own  house 

In  still  another  manner, 
In  that  we  two  have  taken  both 

One  book  of  rules  to  follow, 
Within  the  life  of  canonhood. 

Just  as  St.  Austin  ordered  ;  10 

As  thou  didst  bid  me,  I  have  done, 

Thy  will  for  thee  fulfilling ; 
For  into  English  I  have  turned 

The  gospel's  holy  teaching, 
According  to  the  little  wit 

With  which  my  Lord  endowed  me. 
Thou  thoughtest  that  it  might  full  well 

Be  turned  to  mickle  profit 
If  English  folk,  for  love  of  Christ, 

It  zealously  would  study,  20 

And  follow  it,  and  it  fulfil, 

With  thought,  with  word,  with  action. 
And  therefore  thou  didst  yearn  that  I 

This  book  for  thee  should  render ; 
And  I  for  thee  have  finished  it, 

As  Christ  the  Lord  did  help  me  ; 
And  now  behooves  us  both  thank  Christ 

That  it  is  brought  to  ending. 
I  have  collected  in  this  book 

Now  nearly  all  the  gospels  30 

complished  •'''  thee  ^'■^  turned  ^^  into  '^  holy  lore 
^^  wit,  intelligence  ^''  that  ^'  my  Lord  has  lent 
^^  thoughtest  ^^  to  ^^  great  benefit  "^  \i  ^  eagerly 
^^  fulfil  *"•  with  thought  ^^  therefore  *^  desiredst 
''^  wo'rk  ^^  but  ^"^  us  two  it  behooves  ^  both  "  col- 
lected ^^  in  ^^  nigh,  near 


LAYAMON 


patt  sinndenn  '  o  the  messeboc  ^ 

Inn  all  Jje  aer  ^  att  messe. 
&  all  *  affterr  |>e  Goddspell  stannt  ^ 

patt  tatt  '^  te  Goddspell  menejp})/ 
patt  mann  birr]?  spellenn  ^  to  J?e  folic 

Off  J)e33re  ^  sawle  nede  ; 
&  3et  taer  tekenn  mare  inoh  ^^ 

pu  shallt  tasronne  "  findenn 
Ofif  |)att  tatt  8  Cristess  halljhe  l^ed  ^^ 

BirrJ?  ^^  trowwenn  ^*  wel  &  follahenn.^^ 
Ice  hafe  sett  her  o  ^®  ]?iss  hoc 

Amang  Goddspelless  wordess, 
All  ]>urrh  me  sellfenn,^"  mania  word 

pe  rime  ^*  swa  ^^  to  fillenn  ; 
Ace  ]>u.  shallt  finndenn  }?att  min  word, 

EjJwhaer  l^aer  -°  itt  iss  ekedd,^' 
Ma^a  hellpenn  ])a.  ~  l?att  redenn  itt 

To  sen  &  tunnderrstanndenn  ^ 
All  })ess  te  bettre  hu  ])ellm  birrjj  ^* 

pe  Goddspell  unnderrstanndenn ; 
&  forrj^i  '^  trowwe  ice  }>att  te  -''  birrj? 

Wel  ]?olenn  -''  mine  wordess, 
Ejjwhcer  Ipsdv  ^^  })u  shallt  findenn  hemm  ^^ 

Amang  Godspelless  wordess. 


That  all  the  year  at  mass  are  found 

Within  the  holy  massbook. 
And  aye  after  the  gospel  stands 

That  which  the  gospel  meaneth, 
Which  must  be  told  unto  the  folk, 

Because  the  soul  doth  need  it ; 
And  still  within  it  thou  shalt  find 

Enough  and  more  there  written 
Of  what  the  holy  flock  of  Christ 
40  Must  well  believe  and  follow. 

I  have  set  down  here  in  this  book, 

Among  the  words  of  gospel, 
All  of  myself  full  many  a  word. 

To  fill  the  measure  merely  ; 
But  thou  shalt  find  here  that  my  word, 

W^herever  it  is  added, 
May  help  the  people  who  shall  read 

To  see  and  understand  too 
The  better  how  it  them  behooves 
50  To  understand  the  gospel ; 

And  therefore  trow  I  that  thou  must 

Endure  my  words  with  patience. 
Wherever  thou  shalt  find  them  set 

Among  the  words  of  gospel. 


40 


50 


LAYAMON   (c.  1205) 
From   THE   BRUT 


Arthur  for  ^a  to  Cornwale 

Mid  unimete  ferde  ;  ^°  28530 

Modred  that  iherde  ^^ 

And  him  togeines  heolde  ^^ 

]Mid  unimete  ^  folke. 

Ther  weore  monie  vaeie  !  ^^ 

Uppen  there  Tambre  ^'^ 

Heo  ^^  tuhten  ^'  to  gadere  ; 

The  stude  hatte  ^*  Camelford ; 

Ever-mare  Hast  that  like  weorde  !  ^^ 

And  at  Camelforde  wes  isomned  ^'^ 

Sixti  thusend 

And  ma  thusend  there-to  ;  ^ 

Modred  wes  heore  aelder.*- 

Tha  *^  thiderward  gon  '*''  ride  28540 

Arthur  the  riche  *^ 

^  are  ^  mass-book  ^  j'ear  ^  always  ^  stands 
®  that  that,  that  which  "  means  *  that  it  be- 
hooves one  to  tell  *  of  their  ^^  and  besides  that, 
enough  more  ^^  therein  ^  hoh'  people  ^^  behooves 
^*  believe  ^^  follow  ^^  here  in  ^''  by  m3-self  ^*  rhythm, 
measure  ^^  so  ^^  everj'where  where  ^^  added  ^  those 
^  to  understand  ^*  all  the  better  for  this  how  it 
behooves  them  ^^  therefore  ^®  thee  -^  endure,  per- 


Arthur  went  to  Cornwall, 

The  host  with  him  was  countless ;        28530 

Modred  heard  the  tidings 

And  took  his  way  against  him 

With  host  no  man  could  number. 

Many  there  were  death-doomed  ! 

By  the  river  Tamar 

The  troops  came  together ; 

The  place  was  christened  Camelford ; 

Forever-more  shall  last  that  word  ! 

And  at  Camelford  was  assembled 

Sixty  thousand 

And  thousands  many  more  too ; 

Modred  was  their  leader. 

Then  thitherward  went  riding  28540 

Arthur  the  royal 

mit  ^^  them  ^^  went  ^°  with  a  numberless  army 
^^  heard  ^^  and  went  against  him  ^^  numberless 
^^  there  were  many  fey  (fated  to  die)  '^  upon  the 
Tamar  (a  river)  ^®  they  '"  came  ^*  the  place  was 
called  ^'  ever-more  shall  last  that  same  word 
(name)  ^  was  gathered  ■"  and  more  thousands 
besides  ^  was  their  leader  "^^  then   ^did  '^^  great 


LAYAMON 


Mid  unimete  folke, 
Vaeie  thah  hit  weore.* 
Uppe  there  Tambre 
Heo  tuhte  ^  to-somne ; ' 
Heven  here-marken;"^ 
Halden  ^  to-gadere ; 
Luken  sweord  longe,® 
Leiden  o  '  the  helmen ; 
Fur  ut  sprengen,*  28550 

Speren  brasthen ;  * 
Sceldes  gonnen  scanen,^" 
Scaftes  to-breken." 
Ther  faht  ^^  al  to-somne  " 
Folc  unimete. 
Tambre  wes  on  flode  ** 
Mid  unimete  ^^  blode. 
Mon  i  than  fihte 
Non  ^^  ther  ne  mihte 
I-kenne  nenne  kempe/^ 
No  1*  wha  dude  ^^  wurse,  no  wha  bett^** 
Swa  that  withe  ^^  wes  imenged  ;  "^         28562 
For  aelc  ^^  sloh  ^^  adun  riht, 
Weore  he  swein,^^  weore  he  cniht.^® 
Ther  wes  Modred  of-slawe  -' 
And  idon  of  Uf-dawe  ^* 

29*  ***** 

*  *        *        in  than  fihte. 
Ther  weoren  of-slawe  ^^ 

Alle  tha  snelkj^" 

Arthures  hired-men,^^  28570 

Heye  and  lawe,'^ 

And  tha  Bruttes  ^  alle 

Of  Arthures  borde,^* 

And  alle  his  fosterlinges  '* 

Of  feole  kineriches,^* 

And  Arthur  forwunded 

Mid  wal-spere  brade.^^ 

Fiftene  he  hafde 

Feondliche  wundcn ;  ^^ 

Mon  mihte  i  thare  lasten  **  28580 

Twa  gloven  ithrastc.'"' 

Tha  ^^  nas  ther  na  mare 
I  than  fehte  to  lave  ■*'^ 
Of  twa  hundred  thuscnd  monnen ''' 
Tha  '^  ther  leien  ^'^  to-hauwcn  ""^ 
Buten  ''^  Arthur  the  king  ane  *® 
And  of  his  cnihtes  tweien.^' 

*  fey  though  they  were  ^  they  came  '  together 
^  raised  battle-standards  ^  rushed  *  locked  long 
swords  '  laid  on,  struck  upon  ^  made  fire  leap  out 
'  rattled  spears  ^^  shields  did  shiver  ''  shafts  broke 
to  pieces  ^^  fought  '^together  '''a-flood  '^measure- 
less ''"'  no  man  in  the  iight  ^''  recognize  no  warrior 
'**  nor  ''  did  ^*  better  ^'  conflict  ^  confused  ^^  each 


With  army  unnumbered, 
Doomed  though  they  all  were. 

By  the  river  Tamar 
The  troops  came  together; 
Raised  their  royal  standards ; 
Rushed  there  together ; 
Long  swords  locked  they, 
Laying  blows  on  helmets ; 
Sparks  they  struck  out,  28550 

Spears  did  rattle ; 
Shields  were  a- shaking, 
Shafts  were  a-breaking. 
There  fought  all  together 
Folk  beyond  counting. 
Tamar  was  a  flood 
With  measureless  blood. 
Of  men  in  the  fight  there 
Nobody  might  there 
Distinguish  any  warrior, 
Nor  who  did  better,  who  did  worse. 
So  was  that  conflict  mingled ;  28562 

For  each  struck  adown  right. 
Were  he  yeoman,  or  were  he  knight. 
There  was  Modred  stricken, 
And  life  in  him  did  sicken. 

*         *         *         in  that  conflict. 

There  fell  in  that  battle 

All  of  the  brave  ones, 

Arthur's  own  henchmen,  28570 

The  high  and  the  lowly, 

And  all  the  Britons 

Of  Arthur's  board  too, 

And  all  his  fosterlings 

Of  foreign  nations  many, 

And  Arthur  sorely  wounded 

With  broad  blade  of  war-spear. 

Fifteen  times  was  he 

Fiendishly  wounded ; 

Even  into  the  smallest  28580 

Two  gloves  might  one  have  thrust. 

Then  were  there  in  that  battle 
Left  among  the  living 
Of  two  hundred  thousand  soldiers 
Who  lay  there  slaughtered 
But  Arthur  the  king  only 
And  two  of  his  warriors. 

^'*  struck  ^^  yeoman  ^^  knight  ^'^  slain  ^*  and  put  from 
life-days  ^^  A  line  or  more  is  missing  here.  ^^  the 
brave  ^'  retainers  ^  high  and  low  ^^  the  Britons 
^*  table  ^^  wards  ^^  many  kingdoms  *'  with  broad 
slaughter-spear  ^  dreadful  wounds  ^'  in  the  least 
^^  thrust  ^1  then  ^  in  the  fight  remaining  "  men 
**  who  **  lay  *"  hewed  to  pieces  *^  but  ^^  alone  ^*  two 


THE   BRUT 


Arthur  wes  for-wunded 
Wunder  ane  swithe.' 

Ther  to  him  com  a  cnave  ^  28590 

The  ^  wes  of  his  cunne ;  * 
He  wes  Cadores  sune. 
The  Eorles  of  Cornwaile. 
Constantin  hehte  ^  the  cnave ; 
He  wes  than  ^  kinge  deore. 
Arthur  him  lokede  on, 
Ther  he  lai  on  folden/ 
And  thas  word  *  seide 
]\Iid  sorhfulle  heorte : 

"  Constantin,  thu  art  wUcume  !  28600 

Thu  weore  ^  Cadores  sone  ! 
Ich  the  bitache  here  ^° 
Mine  kineriche ; " 
And  wite  '^  mine  Bruttes 
A  to  thines  Ufes ;  ^^ 
And  hald  heom  ^*  alle  tha  lawen  ^^ 
Tha  habbeoth  istonden  a  mine  dawen,^® 
And  alle  tha  lawen  gode 
Tha  bi  Utheres  dawen  stode. 
And  ich  wuUe  varen  ^'  ta  Avalun         28610 
To  vairest  ^^  aire  ^^  maidene, 
To  Argante  there  -"  quene, 
Alven  swithe  sceone ;  ^ 
And  heo  ^  seal  mine  wainden 
Makien  alle  isunde,-^ 
Al  hal  ^*  me  makien 
IVIid  haleweiye  drenchen.^^ 
And  seothe  ^®  ich  cumen  wulle 
To  mine  kineriche  ^" 

And  wunien  ^^  mid  Brutten  28620 

Mid  muchelere  womne."  ^' 

^fne  than  worden  ^ 
Ther  com  of  se  wenden  ^' 
That  wes  an  sceort  bat  lithen,^ 
Sceoven  mid  uthen  ;  ^ 
And  twa  wimmen  ther-inne 
Wunderliche  idihte.^ 
And  heo  nomen  Arthur  anan,^^ 
And  an  eovste  hine  vereden,^^ 
And  softe  hine  adun  leiden,  28630 

And  forth  gunnen  lithen.^^ 

Tha  ^*  wes  hit  iwnirthen  ^' 
That  Merlin  seide  whilen,*' 
That  weore  unimete  care  ^ 

*  wondroirely  much  ^  young  man  ^  who  *  kin 
^  was  named  ®  to  the  ^  the  ground  ^  these 
words  ®  thou  wert  *"  I  commit  to  thee  here 
^^  kingdom  ^  defend  ^^  ever  during  thy  life 
^*  keep  for  them  ^^  customs,  laws  ^^  that  have 
stood  in  my  days  ^'  I  will  go  ^*  fairest  ^'  of  all 
"  the  21  elf  very  beautiful  ^  she  23  weU  ^  whole 


28590 


28600 


28610 


Arthur  was  wounded 
Wondrous  severely. 

To  him  came  a  child  then 
Who  was  of  his  kindred ; 
He  was  Cador's  first-born, 
Who  Earl  was  of  Cornwall. 
Constantine  his  name  was; 
He  was  to  the  king  dear. 
Arthur  looked  upon  him. 
As  he  lay  on  the  ground  there, 
And  these  words  spake  he 
With  heart  fuU  of  sorrow : 
"  Constantine,  welcome  art  thou  ! 
Thou  wert  Cador's  first-born  ! 
To  thee  do  I  commit  here     • 
The  care  of  my  kingdom  ; 
And  guard  well  my  Britons 
Ever  whilst  thou  livest ; 
And  keep,  thou  all  the  customs 
That  loved  were  in  my  Hfe-time, 
And  all  the  customs  splendid 
That  Uther's  reign  attended. 
And  I  will  fare  to  Avalon 
To  the  fairest  of  aU  maidens, 
Where  Queen  Argante  tarries, 
Most  beautiful  of  fairies  ; 
And  she  shall  every  wound 
Make  both  whole  and  sound, 
All  whole  shall  she  make  me 
With  health-giving  potions. 
And  come  shall  I  hereafter 
Back  to  my  kingdom 
And  abide  with  my  Britons 
With  bhss  forever. " 

E'en  as  he  was  speaking 
There  came  from  sea  speeding 
A  very  small  boat  gliding 
Before  the  waves  a-riding ; 
And  women  twain  within  it 
Wondrously  attired. 
And  they  raised  up  Arthur  anon, 
And  aboard  rapidly  bore  him, 
And  adown  softly  they  set  him, 
And  forth  went  the}'^  sailing. 

Then  was  fulfilled  there 
What  Merlin  said  aforetime. 
That  infinite  grieving 


2*  with  healing  draughts  '^  aftem'ards  ^  kingdom 
2^  dwell  23  with  great  joy  '"  even  with  these  words 
'^  from  the  sea  moving  '2  that  was  a  short  boat 
gliding  ^  impelled  by  the  waves  ^*  wondrously 
attired  ^*  thev  took  Arthur  at  once  ^^  and  in  haste 
bore  him  "  did  glide  ^  then  ^^  fulfilled  *  whilom, 
formerly  *^  that  there  should  be  measureless  sorrow 


2862c 


28630 


8 


THE    ANCREN    RIWLE 


Of  Arthures  forth-fare.' 

Bruttes  ileveth  yete  ^ 
That  he  bon  on  live  ^ 
And  wunnien  ^  in  Avalun 
Mid  fairest  aire  ^  alven; 
And  lokieth  evere  Bruttes  yete  28640 

Whan  Arthur  cumen  lithe, "^ 

Nis  naver  ''  the  mon  iboren 
Of  naver  nane  burde  icoren  ^ 
The  cunne  ^  of  than  sothe  ^^ 
Of  Arthur  sugen  mare.^^ 
Bute  whQe  ^-  wes  an  witeye  ^^' 
Masrlin  ihate," 
He  bodede  ^^  mid  worde  — ■ 
His  quithes  I®  weoren  sothe  ^^  — 
That  an  Arthur  sculde  yete  28650 

Cum  Anglen  to  fulste.^* 


Should  be  at  Arthur's  leaving. 

Britons  believe  ever 
That  still  he  is  living 
And  fostered  in  Avalon 
With  the  fairest  of  all  fairies ; 
And  ever  hope  the  Britons  28640 

For  Arthur's  coming  hither. 

Was  never  the  man  born 
Of  mother  on  lucky  morn 
Who  can  of  the  true  tale 
Of  Arthur  tell  us  further. 
But  once  there  was  a  wizard, 
Merlin  they  called  him, 
With  words  he  predicted  — ■ 
His  sayings  were  truthful  — 
That  an  Arthur  should  one  day  28650 

Come  England  to  succour. 


From  THE   ANCREN   RIWLE  ^^  (c.  1225) 

{Unknown  Aiithor) 
NUNS    MAY   KEEP   NO   BEAST   BUT   A   CAT 


Ye,  mine  leove  ^^  siistren,^^  ne  schulen  -^  hab- 
ben  ^^  no  best  ^^  bute  kat  one.'^  Ancre  ^^  thet 
haveth  eihte  "  thiincheth  ^^  bet  ^^  husewif  j^"  ase 
Marthe  was,  then  ancre  ;  ^^  ne  none-weis  ^^  ne 
mei  heo  ^^  beon  ^^  Marie  mid  grithfulnesse  ^'^  of 
heorte.  Vor  theonne  ^^  mot  ^'^  heo  thenchen  " 
of  the  kues  ^^  foddre  and  of  heordemonne  ^^ 
huire,*"  oluhnen  ^^  thene  ■*-  heiward,^^  warien  ^^ 
hwon  ^^  me  ^^  piint  ^'^  hire,  and  yelden,^* 
thauh,^3  the  hermes.*  Wat  ^1  Crist,  this  is 
lodlich  ^2  thing  hwon  ^^  me  ^^  maketh  mone  ^^ 
in  tune  ^  of  ancre  ^^  eihte.^^  Thauh,"*^  yif  '"'^ 
eni  mot  ^^  nede  habben  ^^  ku,  loke  ^^  thet  heo  ^^ 
none  monne  ne  eilie  ^^  ne  ne  hermie ;  ^^  ne  thet 
hire  thouht  ne  beo  ^'^  nout  ther-on  ivestned.^^ 
Ancre  ne  ouh  "^  nout  to  habben  ^^  no  thing  thet 
drawe  ^  utward  hire  heorte. 

None  cheffare  ^^  ne  drive  ye.  Ancre  thet 
is  cheapild,''®  heo  cheapeth  ^^  hire  soule  the 
chepmon  ^^  of  helle. 

Ne  wite  ^^  ye  nout  in  oure  ^°  huse  '^  of  other 


^  death  ^  believe  yet  ^  is  alive  ^  dwells  ^  of  all 
shall  come  '  is  never  *  of  never  no  {i.e.  of  no) 
dy  chosen  ^  who  can   ^"  the  truth   ^^  say  more 


°  shall  come  '  is  never  °  of  never  no  {i.e.  01  no) 
lady  chosen  ^  who  can  ^"  the  truth  ^^  say  more 
*^  once  ^'  wizard  "  named  ^^  announced  ^^  sayings 
P  true  ^^  come  for  a  help  to  the  English  '^  The 
M,,^.'  T?,.io  20  ^„_  21  sisters  22  shall  ^3  have  "^  beast 
2^  property  ^^  seems  ^^  rather 
ways  ^2  she  ^'  be  ^^  peacef ulness 


'  once 
P  true  ^^  come  lor  a  neip 
Nuns'  Rule  ^o  dear  ^i  sisters 
2^  only    ^''  a  nun    ^^  prr.T-.Ar 
^°  housewife  ^^  no-way 


Ye,  my  dear  sisters,  shall  have  no  beast  but 
a  cat  only.  A  nun  that  has  property  seems 
rather  a  housewife,  as  Martha  was,  than  a 
nun ;  and  in  no  wise  may  she  be  Mary,  with 
peacefulness  of  heart.  For  then  must  she 
think  about  the  cow's  fodder  and  the  herds- 
men's wages,  flatter  the  constable,  curse 
when  the  cow  is  put  in  the  pound,  and  pay 
the  damages  nevertheless.  God  knows,  it 
is  a  hateful  thing  when  complaint  is  made  in 
the  village  of  a  nun's  property.  However, 
if  anyone  must  needs  have  a  cow,  let  her  see 
to  it  that  it  disturbs  or  harms  no  man ;  and 
that  her  heart  be  not  fastened  upon  it.  A 
nun  ought  to  have  nothing  that  will  draw  her 
heart  outward  to  the  world. 

Drive  ye  no  bargains.  A  nun  that  is  a 
bargainer  sells  her  soul  to  the  merchant  of 
hell. 

Keep  ye  not  in  your  house  any  of  other 

^^  then  3^  must  ^^  think  ^*  cow's  '^  herdsmen's 
■*"  hire  ^^  flatter  '^  the  ^^  heyward,  bailiff  *^  curse 
^^  when  *®  one  ^^  impounds  ^^  pay  ^^  nevertheless 
*"  damages  ^^  knows  ^^  hateful  ^^  complaint  ^^  town, 

farm      ^  a    niin'c;     ^'^  if     ^^  havp     ^^  look      ^*  disturb 


farm    *^  a  nun's    ^'^  if    ^^  have    ^^  look 

®3  ought    ^^  may  draw 


'"'  harm    "  be    ^^  fastened 

'^  bargain       ®®  bargainer       ®'  sells 

''^  keep,  take  care  of  ^°  your  ^^  house 


®^  tradesman 


KING    HORN 


monnes  thinges,  ne  eihte/  ne  clothes ;  ne  nout 
ne  undervo  -  ye  the  chirche  vestimenz,  ne 
thene  ^  caliz,-*  bute-yif  ^  strencthe  ^  hit  makie/ 
other  *  muchel  eie ;  ^  vor  of  swiiche  ^"  witunge  " 
is  ikumen  ^^  muchel  iivel  ^^  ofte-sithen." 


men's  things,  either  property  or  clothes ;  and 
do  not  receive  the  church  vestments  or  the 
chalice,  unless  compulsion  or  great  fear  cause 
you  to  do  so ;  for  of  such  custody  has  come 
great  evil  oftentimes. 


From  KING  HORN  (c.  1250) 
{Unknown  Author) 


Alle  beon  he  ^^  blithe 
That  to  my  song  lythe  !  '^ 
A  sang  ihc  schal  you  singe 
Of  Murry  the  kinge.  4 

King  he  was  bi  weste  ^" 
So  longe  so  hit  laste. 
GodhUd  het  ^*  his  quen  ; 
Fairer  ne  mihte  non  ben.^'  8 

He  hadde  a  sone  that  het  ^*  Horn ; 
Fairer  ne  mihte  non  beo  born, 
Ne  no  rein  upon  birine,-" 
Ne  sunne  upon  bischine.'^^  1 2 

Fairer  nis  non  thane  he  was ; 
He  was  brigt  so  the  glas. 
He  was  whit  so  the  flur. 
Rose- red  was  his  colur.^^  16 

In  none  kinge-riche  ^^ 
Nas  non  his  Uiche.^''  20 

Twelf  feren  ^^  he  hadde 
That  he  with  him  ladde,  ^^ 
Alle  riche  mannes  sones, 
And  alle  hi  were  faire  gomes  ^  24 

With  him  for  to  pleie. 
And  mest  he  luvede  tweie  ;  ^* 
That  on  him  het  ^a  Hathulf  child, 
And  that  other  Fikenild.  28 

Athulf  was  the  beste 
And  Fikenylde  the  werste. 

Hit  was  upon  a  someres  day, 
Also  ^°  ihc  you  telle  may,  32 

Murri  the  gode  king 
Rod  on  his  pleing  '^ 
Bi  the  se  side, 

Ase  he  was  woned  ^^  ride.^  36 

He  fond  bi  the  stronde, 
Arived  on  his  londe,  40 

Schipes  fiftene, 

^  property  ^  receive  '  the  *  chalice  ^  unless 
®  strength,  necessity  '^  make,  cause  *  or  '  fear 
^^  such  "  guarding  ^^  come  ^^  evil  ^'*  oft-times 
^^  they  ^®  listen  "  in  the  west  ^*  was  named  ^^  fairer 


Joy  to  none  be  wanting 
Who  listens  to  my  chaunting ! 
A  song  I  shall  you  sing 
Of  Murry  the  king.  4 

King  he  was  i'  th'  west 
While  his  rule  did  last. 
Godhild  was  his  queen  ; 
Fairer  might  not  be  seen.  8 

He  had  a  son  whose  name  was  Horn ; 
Fairer  might  there  none  be  born. 
Nor  rain  rain  on  such  a  one, 
Nor  upon  such  shine  the  sun.  1 2 

None  is  fairer  than  he  was ; 
He  was  bright  as  the  glass. 
As  the  flower  he  was  white. 
Red  as  rose  his  color  bright.  16 

Within  no  kingdom  great 
Could  be  found  his  mate.  20 

Twelve  companions  had  he 
That  ever  with  him  led  he; 
Each  was  a  noble's  son. 
And  each  was  a  fitting  one  24 

To  share  in  his  playing. 
Two  loved  he  beyond  saying ; 
The  one  was  called  Hathulf  child, 
And  the  other  Fikenild.  28 

Athulf  was  the  best 
And  Fikenild  the  worst. 

It  was  upon  a  summer's  day. 
As  I  to  you  the  story  say,  32 

IMurry  the  noble  king 
Rode  in  his  pleasuring 
By  the  water-side. 

As  he  was  wont  to  ride.  36 

He  found  by  the  strand  there, 
Arrived  in  his  land  there,  40 

Ships  fifteen  all  told 

might  none  be  ^  nor  any  rain  rain  upon  ^^  shine 
2-  After  this  line  other  MSS.  insert  two  other  lines. 
2^  kingdom  ^^  like  ^^  companions  ^®  led  ^~  fellows 
28  {-\yQ  29  ^y^g  uamcd   ^'^  as   ^^  in  his  sport  ^-  wont 


lO 


KING   HORN 


With  Sarazins  kene.* 

He  axede  what  hi  sohte  ^ 

Other  to  londe  brohte.  44 

A  payn  ^  hit  of  herde  ■* 

And  hym  wel  sone  answerde, 

"Thi  lond-folk  we  schuUe  slon  ^ 

And  alle  that  Crist  leveth  "^  upon,  48 

And  the  selve  '  rigt  anon  ; 

Ne  schaltu  ^  todai  henne  ^  gon." 

The  kyng  hgte  of  his  stede, 

For  tho  ^°  he  havede  nede,  52 

And  his  gode  knigtes  two  ; 

Al  to  fewe  he  hadde  tho.'" 

Swerd  hi  "  gunne  '^  gripe 

And  to-gadere  smite.  56 

Hy  "  smyten  '^  under  schelde, 

That  sume  hit  yfelde.'^ 

The  king  hadde  al  to  fewe 

Togenes  so  vele  schrewe.'*  60 

So  fele  '•>  mihten  ythe  ''' 

Bringe  hem  thre  to  dithe.'* 

The  pains  '^  come  to  londe 
And  neme  ^°  hit  in  here  honde.  64 

That  folc  hi  gunne  quelle  ^' 
And  churchen  for  to  felle. 
Ther  ne  moste  libbe  ^ 
The  fremde  ^3  ne  the  sibbe,^*  68 

Bute  hi  here  lawe  asoke  ^^ 
And  to  here  ^^  toke.. 

Of  alle  wymmanne 
Wurst  was  Godhild  thanne.  72 

For  Murri  heo  weop  ^^  sore 
And  for  Horn  yute  ^^  more.^^ 
He  ^  wenten  ut  of  halle,  77 

Fram  hire  maidenes  alle. 
Under  a  roche  of  stone 
Ther  heo  ^  livede  alone.  80 

Ther  heo  ^^  servede  Gode, 
Agenes  the  paynes  ^^  forbode  ;  ^^ 
Ther  he  ^"  servede  Criste, 
That  no  payn  hit  ne  wiste.^^  84 

Evere  heo  bad  ^*  for  Horn  Child 
That  Jesu  Crist  him  beo  myld. 

Horn  was  in  paynes  honde 
With  his  feren  ^^  of  the  londe.  88 

Muchel  was  his  fairhede,''"' 
For  Jhesu  Crist  him  makede. 
Payns  him  wolde  slen  ^^ 
Other  al  quic  flen.**  92 

'  bold  ^  they  sought  ^  pagan  *  heard  *  slay 
'  believe  ^  thyself  *  thou  shalt  not  '  hence  '"  then 
"  they  '^  did  *'  smote  ^*  felled  '^  against  so  many 
wicked  '*  many  "  easily  '*  death  ''  pagans  ^  took 
^  did    kill    ^  there    might   not   live    ^'  foreigner 


Of  Saracens  full  bold. 

He  asked  them  what  they  sought 

Or  else  to  land  brought.  44 

A  pagan  there  beside 

At  once  to  him  replied : 

"All  thy  people  we  shall  slay 

And  all  who  hold  with  Christ  this  day,  48 

And  thyself  without  delay  ; 

Hence  shalt  thou  not  go  away." 

The  king'  sprang  from  his  steed  then, 

For  surely  he  had  need  then,  52 

And  with  him  true  knights  two  — 

Of  men  he  had  too  few. 

Swords  in  hand  they  took 

And  together  struck.  56 

They  smote  so  under  shield 

That  some  fell  in  the  field. 

The  king  had  all  too  few 

Against  this  evil  crew.  60 

So  many  might  easily 

Put  to  death  these  three. 

The  pagans  came  to  land 
And  seized  it  in  their  hand.  64 

The  people  they  did  kill 
And  churches  spoil  at  will. 
There  none  alive  might  go, 
Kinsman  no  more  than  foe,  68 

But  who  his  faith  forsook 
And  that  of  pagan  took. 

Of  all  earthly  women 
Saddest  was  Godhild  then.  72 

For  Murry  wept  she  sore 
And  for  Horn  yet  more. 
She  went  out  of  the  hall,  77 

Leaving  her  maidens  all. 
Under  a  rock  of  stone 
There  lived  she  all  alone.  80 

To  serve  God  was  she  glad, 
Though  the  pagans  it  forbade ; 
And  there  she  served  Christ  too, 
And  naught  the  pagans  knew.  84 

Ever  she  prayed  for  Horn  Child 
That  Jesus  Christ  be  to  him  mild. 

Horn  was  in  pagans'  hand 
With  his  fellows  of  the  land.  88 

Beauty  great  had  he, 
As  Christ  would  have  it  be. 
The  pagans  wished  to  slay  him 
Or  else  alive  to  flay  him.  92 

^*  kinsman  ^^  unless  they  forsook  their  faith 
^*  theirs  ^^  she  wept  ^*yet  ^^  See  nhle  on  1.  16. 
™  she  3'  pagans'  '^  prohibition  ^'  knew  ^  prayed 
^*  companions     ^"^  fairness     ^^  slay     *^  flay    alive 


KING   HORN 


II 


Gef  his  fairnesse  nere,' 

The  children  alle  aslawe  ^  were. 

Thanne  spak  on  Admirald, 
Of  wordes  he  was  bald,^  96 

"Horn,  thu  art  wel  kene,* 
And  that  is  wel  isene  ;  ^ 
Thu  art  gret  and  strong, 
Fair  and  evene  long.*^  100 

Thu  schalt  waxe  more  '' 
Bi  fulle  seve  *  yere, 
Gef  thu  mote  ^  to  live  ^^  go  — 
And  thine  feren  ^'  also.  104 

Gef  hit  so  bi-falle, 
Ye  scholde  slen  ^^  us  alle ; 
Tharvore  thu  most  to  stere/^ 
Thu  and  thine  if  ere  ;  "  108 

To  schupe  schulle  ye  funde  ^* 
And  sinke  to  the  grunde.  '^ 
The  se  you  schal  adrenche  ;  ^^ 
Ne  schal  hit  us  noht  of-thinche,^'         112 
For  if  thu  were  ahve. 
With  sward  other  with  knive 
We  scholden  aUe  deie, 
And  thi  fader  deth  abeie."  ^*  116 

The  children  hi  brohte  to  stronde, 
Wringinde  here  honde/^ 
Into  schupes  borde 

At  the  furste  worde.  1 20 

Ofte  hadde  Horn  beo  wo,^ 
Ac  ^^  nevere  wurs  than  him  was  tho.^    122 
The  se  bigan  to  flowe 
And  Hornchild  to  rowe.  1 28 

The  se  that  schup  so  faste  drof, 
The  children  dradde  ther  of ; 
,        Hi  wenden  to-wisse  ^ 

Of  here  lif  to  misse,  132 

Al  the  day  and  al  the  niht 
TU  hit  sprang  dai  liht, 
Til  Horn  say  ^  on  the  stronde 
Men  gon  in  the  londe.  136 

"Feren,"  "  quath  he,  "yinge, 
Ihc  ^^  teUe  you  tithinge. 
Ihc  here  fogeles  2*"  singe 
And  that  gras  him  springe.  140 

Bhthe  beo  we  on  lyve, 
Ure  schup  is  on  r>'ve."  ^^ 
Of  schup  hi  gunne  funde  ^* 
And  setten  fout  ^*  to  grunde.'"  144 

Bi  the  se  side 

^  if  it  were  not  for  his  beauty  ^  slain  ^  bold 
*  brave  ^  very  evident  ®  of  good  height  ^  greater 
^  seven  ^  mayst  ^^  alive  ^^  companions  ^^  slay 
^'  go  to  ship   "  go    ^^  bottom    '^  drown   ^^  repent 


Had  he  not  been  so  fair, 

The  children  ah  had  perished  there. 

.An  admiral  then  foretold, 
In  speaking  he  was  bold  :  96 

"Horn,  valour  is  in  thee, 
As  any  man  can  see  ; 
Thou  art  now  large  and  strong, 
Fair  and  of  body  long.  100 

Thou  shalt  grow  ever  greater 
For  seven  years  or  better. 
If  thou  alive  may  go  — 
And  thy  comrades  also.  104 

,  If  so  it  should  befall, 
You  would  surely  slay  us  all ; 
Therefore  thou  must  to  sea, 
Thou  and  thy  company  ;  108 

To  ship  now  shall  you  go, 
And  sink  to  the  ground  below ; 
The  sea  shall  you  swallow ; 
Nor  shall  remorse  us  follow,  112 

For  if  we  gave  you  life. 
With  sword  or  else  with  knife 
We  all  should  soon  be  dead. 
And  thy  sire's  death  repaid.  116 

They  brought  the  boys  to  the  shore, 
\^'ringing  their  hands  full  sore. 
On  shipboard  they  thrust  them, 
No  longer  would  they  trust  them.        120 
Oft  had  Horn  suffered  woe, 
But  never  worse  than  he  then  did  know.  122 
The  sea  began  a-flowing 
xAnd  Horn  Child  a-rowing.  128 

The  sea  so  fast  the  ship  did  drive, 
No  hope  the  boys  had  to  survive. 
They  thought  without  a  doubt 
Their  lives  would  soon  go  out,  132 

All  the  day  and  aU  the  night 
Tin  there  sprang  daylight, 
Till  Horn  saw  on  the  strand 
^len  walking  in  the  land.  136 

"Comrades,"  said  he,  "true, 
Good  news  I  teU  to  you. 
I  hear  the  birds  a- singing 
And  the  grass  a-springing.  140 

Let  us  be  glad  once  more, 
Our  ship  has  come  to  shore." 
From  the  ship  they  went  to  land 
.\nd  set  foot  upon  the  strand.  144 

By  the  water  side 

^^  pay  for  "  wringing  their  hands  ^  been  sad 
21  but  ^  then  See  note  on  1.  16.  ^  they  expected 
certainly  ^4  gaw  25  j  zebji-ds  27  ghore  ^s  did  go 
^'  foot  ^  ground 


12 


KING    HORN 


Hi^  leten  that  schup  ride. 

Thanne  spak  him  Child  Horn, 

In  Suddene  he  was  iborn,  148 

"Schup,  bi  the  se  flode 

Daies  have  thu  gode  ; 

Bi  the  se  brinke 

No  water  the  na  drinke.  2  152 

Gef  thu  cume  to  Suddenne, 

Gret  thu  wel  of  myne  kenne;  156 

Gret  thu  wel  my  moder, 

Godhild,  quen  the  gode. 

And  seie  the  paene  ^  kyng, 

Jesu  Cristes  withering,**  160 

That  ihc  ^  am  hoi  and  fer  *> 

On  this  lond  arived  her  ; 

And  seie  that  hi  ^  schal  fonde  * 

The  dent  of  myne  honde."  164 


They  let  the  ship  ride. 

Then  up  spake  Child  Horn, 

In  Suddene  he  was  born :  148 

"Ship,  by  the  sea  flood 

May  thou  have  days  good ; 

By  the  sea  brink 

May  thee  no  water  sink.  152 

To  Suddene  if  thou  come, 

Greet  well  my  kin  at  home;  156 

Greet  well  my  mother  dear, 

Godhild,  queen  without  peer. 

And  teU  the  pagan  king, 

Hateful  to  Christ  in  everything,  160 

That  I  am  whole  and  sound 

Landed  on  this  ground  ; 

And  say  that  he  shall  feel 

The  blow  my  hand  shall  deal."  164 


Aylbrus  wende  ^  hire  fro ; 
Horn  in  haUe  fond  he  tho  i" 
Bifore  the  kyng  on  benche 
Wyn  for  to  schenche."  388 

"Horn,"  quath  he,  "so  hende,^^ 
To  bure  ^^  nu  thu  wende  ^^  392 

After  mete  stille 
With  Rymenhild  to  duelle.^* 
Wordes  suthe  ^^  bolde 
In  herte  thu  hem  holde.  396 

Horn,  beo  me  wel  trewe  ; 
Ne  schal  hit  the  nevre  rewe."  ^^ 

Horn  in  herte  leide 
Al  that  he  him  seide.  400 

He  yeode  ^*  in  wel  rigte 
To  Rymenhild  the  brigte. 
On  knes  he  him  sette,^^ 
And  sweteliche  hure  grette.^"  404 

Of  his  feire  sigte 
Al  the  bur  gan  ligte. 
He  spac  faire  speche  ; 
Nc  dorte  ^^  him  noman  teche.  408 

"Wel  thu  sitte  and  softe, 
Rymenhild  the  brigte, 
With  thine  Maidenes  sixe 
That  the  sitteth  nixte!^^  412 

Kingcs  stuard  ure  ^^ 
Sendc  me  in  to  bure. 
With  the  speke  ihc  scholde ; 
Seie*'  me  what  thu  woldest.  416 

Seie,  and  ich  schal  here, 
What  thi  wille  were." 

*  they  ^  drown  ^  pagan  ^  enemy  ^  I  "  sound  ^  he 
'  experience  ®  went  ^'^  then  "  pour  ^"^  courteous 
^?  bower    ^*  go     ^'^  remain,    be    ^^  very    ^^  repent 


Aylbrus  went  from  her  to  the  hall, 
Where  Horn  did  serve  before  them  all 
To  the  king  upon  the  bench 
Wine  his  thirst  to  quench.  388 

"Horn,"  said  he,  "my  friend. 
To  bower  must  thou  wend  392 

In  secret  after  meat 
Rymenhild  to  greet. 
Speeches  very  bold 

In  heart  thou  shalt  hold,  396 

Horn,  to  me  be  true. 
And  ne'er  shalt  thou  it  rue." 

Horn  in  heart  has  laid 
AU  he  to  him  said.  400 

In  he  went  forthright 
To  Rymenhild  the  bright. 
He  knelt  there  at  her  feet, 
And  sweetly  did  her  greet.  404 

Of  his  lovely  sight 
The  bower  grew  all  bright. 
He  spoke  with  courteous  speech  — 
Him  needed  no  man  teach:  408 

"  Sit  thou  in  weal  aright, 
Rymenhild  the  bright. 
With  handmaidens  twice  three 
That  ever  sit  with  thee  !  412 

The  steward  of  our  king 
A  message  did  me  bring : 
To  bower  should  I  seek 
To  hear  what  thou  wouldst  speak.      416 
Speak  and  tell  to  me 
Thy  will,  whatso  it  be." 

^^  went   ^^  he  kneeled   ^^  greeted   ^^  needed   ^^  that 
sit  nearest  thee  ^^  our  ^'^  tell 


KING    HORN 


13 


Rymenhild  up  gan  stonde 
And  tok  him  by  the  honde. 
Heo  sette  him  on  pelle,  ' 
Of  wyn  to  drinke  his  fuUe.- 
Heo  makede  him  faire  chere 
And  tok  him  abute  the  swere.^ 
Ofte  heo  him  custe,'* 
So  wel  so  hire  luste."" 
"Horn,"  heo  sede,  "withute  strif, 
Thu  schalt  have  me  to  thi  wif. 
Horn,  have  of  me  rewthe,*^ 
And  pHgt  '  me  thi  trewthe." 

Horn  tho  him  bithogte 
What  he  speke  migte. 
"Crist,"  quath  he,  "the  wisse,* 
And  yive  ^  the  hevene  blisse 
Of  thine  husebonde, 
Wher  he  beo  in  londe ! 
Ihc  am  ibore  to  lowe 
Such  wimman  to  knowe. 
Ihc  am  icome  of  thralle, 
And  fundling  bifalle.^" 
Ne  feolle  ^^  hit  the  of  cunde  ^ 
To  spuse  ^^  beo  me  bunde.'* 
Hit  nere  no  fair  wedding 
Bitwexe  a  thral  and  a  king." 

Tho  gan  RymenhUd  mis-lyke, 
And  sore  gan  to  sike.^^ 
Armes  heo  gan  buge ;  ^^ 
Adun  he  i'  feol  iswoge.^^ 

Horn  in  herte  was  ful  wo. 
And  tok  hire  on  his  armes  two. 
He  gan  hire  for  to  kesse, 
Wei  ofte  mid  ywisse.^^ 
"Lemman,"  ^  he  sede,  "dere, 
Thin  herte  nu  thu  stere.^^ 
Help  me  to  knigte, 
Bi  al  thine  migte. 
To  my  lord  the  king. 
That  he  me  yive  dubbing. 
Thanne  is  jni  thralhod 
Iwent  ^  in  to  knigthod, 
And  i  schal  we.^e  more. 
And  do,  lemman,  thi  lore."  -^ 

Rymenhild,  that  swete  thing, 
Wakede  of  hire  swowning.-^ 
"Horn,"  quath  heo,  "wel  sone 
That  schal  beon  idone  ; 
Thu  schal  beo  dubbed  knigt 
Are  ^^  come  seve  nigt. 
Have  her  this  cuppe. 


420 


426 

437 


440 


444 


448 


452 


456 


460 


464 


468 


472 


476 


;ck  ''kissed  ^pleased  ^pit}^ 
■  piignt  "  airecc  -  give  ^°  chanced  '^  it  would  not 
suit  ^^  nature  ^^  spouse  ^'*  bound  ^^  sigh  ^^  did  bow 


^  skin,  rug  ^  fill  ^  nect 
'  plight  *  direct  ^  give 


Rymenhild  up  did  stand 
And  took  him  by  the  hand.  420 

On  couch  she  set  him  tine, 
To  drink  his  fill  of  wine ; 
She  gave  him  welcome  true 
And  arms  about  him  threw ; 
Full  oft  she  did  him  kiss, 
Her  joy  was  most  in  this.  426 

"Horn,"  she  said,  "without  all  strife,  437 
Thou  shalt  have  me  as  thy  wife. 
Horn,  have  of  me  ruth 
And  plight  to  me  thy  truth."  440 

Horn  in  his  heart  did  seek 
What  words  he  then  might  speak. 
"May  Christ,"  said  he,  "now  guide  thee  ! 
And  heaven's  bliss  betide  thee  444 

Of  thy  husband  free, 
\Miere'er  in  land  he  be  ! 
But  I  am  born  too  low 
Such  a  woman's  love  to  know.  448 

I  come  of  thralls,  God  wot ; 
A  foundling's  was  my  lot. 
Befits  thee  not  by  kind 
Thyself  to  me  to  bind.  452 

It  were  no  fit  wedding 
Betwixt  a  thraU  and  a  king." 

Rymenhild  was  grieved  thereby 
And  sore  began  to  sigh.  456 

Her  arms  slipped  strengthless  down, 
And  there  she  fell  a-swown. 

Horn  such  woe  could  nowise  brook 
And  in  his  arms  the  maiden  took.        460 
And  then  he  did  her  kiss. 
Full  oft  and  oft,  i-wis. 
"Sweetheart,"  said  he,  "dear, 
Thy  heart  now  must  thou  steer.  464 

Help  me  become  a  knight. 
Truly,  with  aU  thy  might, 
To  my  lord,  the  king. 
That  he  me  grant  dubbing.  468 

Then  shall  my  thrallhood 
Be  changed  to  knighthood, 
And  I  grow  greater  still. 
And  do,  sweetheart,  thy  will."  472 

RymenhUd,  that  sweetest  thing. 
Wakened  then  from  her  swooning. 
"Horn,"  quoth  she,  "fuU  soon 
That  shall  all  be  done ;  476 

Thou  shalt  be  dubbed  a  knight 
Within  this  sevennight. 
This  cup  do  thou  now  bear 

^^  she    ^^  a-swoon    ^^  ver>'  often  indeed    -"  sweet- 
heart    ^^  direct,    control     ^  turned     -^  teaching 

24  curnnnino'    25  p-„ 


^*  swooning  ^^  ere 


14 


NICHOLAS    DE    GUILDFORD 


And  this  ring  ther-uppe/  480 

To  Aylbrus  the  stuard, 

And  se  he  holde  foreward.- 

Seie  ^  ich  him  biseche, 

With  loveliche  speche  484 

That  he  adun  falle 

Bifore  the  king  in  halle 

And  bidde  ^  the  king  arigte 

Dubbe  the  to  knigte.  488 

With  selver  and  with  golde 

Hit  wurth  ^  him  wel  iyolde.^ 

Crist  him  lene  spede  ' 

Thin  erende  to  bede."  ^  492 


And  this  ring  so  fair,  480 

To  Aylbrus  bear  them  both 

And  bid  him  keep  his  oath. 

Tell  him  I  him  beseech 

That  he  with  fairest  speech  484 

Upon  his  knees  do  fall 

Before  the  king  in  hall 

And  pray  the  king  aright 

Thee  to  dub  as  knight.  488 

With  silver  and  with  gold 

Shall  his  reward  be  told. 

Christ  him  grant  good  skill 

Well  to  obtain  thy  will !  "  492 


NICHOLAS   DE   GUILDFORD    (?)    (fl.  1250) 
THE   OWL  AND   THE  NIGHTINGALE 


Ich  ^  was  in  one  sumere  dale,!" 

In  one  swithe  digele  hale," 

I-herede  ^^  ich  holde  grete  tale  ^^ 

An  vde  and  one  nigtingale. 

That  plait  ^^  was  stif  and  stare  and  strong, 

Sum  wile  ^^  sof  te,  and  lud  among ;  ^^ 

And  aither  i'  agen  other  swal/* 

And  let  that  vule  mod  ut  al.^^ 

And  either  ^^  seide  of  otheres  custe  -" 

That  alre-worste  ^^  that  hi  wuste ;  '^- 

And  hure  and  hure  -'^  of  otheres  songe 

Hi  '^  heolde  plaiding  swithe '"  stronge. 

The  nigtingale  bi-gon  the  speche, 
In  one  hurne  '^'^  of  one  beche ; 
And  sat  up  one  vaire  bohe," 
Thar  were  abute  -*  blosme  i-nohe,^' 
In  ore  waste  '"^  thicke  hegge, 
I-meind  mid  spire  ^^   and  grene  segge. 
Heo  ^^  was  the  gladur  vor  ^^  the  rise,''* 
And  song  a  vele  cunne  wise.^^ 
Bet  thuhtc  the  drem  ^^'  that  he  "  were 
Of  harpe  and  pipe,  than  he  "  nere,''^ 
Bet  thuhte  ^^  that  he  •''  were  i-shote 
Of  harpe  and  pipe  than  of  throtc. 

Tho  ^^  stod  on  old  stoc  thar  bi-side, 
Thar  tho '"  ule  song  hire  tide,''^ 
And  was  mid  ivi  al  bi-growe, 
Hit  was  thare  ule  earding-stowe. 


^  Ijesides  ^  agreement  '  say  ^  pray  ^  shall  be 
^  paid  ''  grant  success  *  present  '  I  ^^  a  summer 
dale  "  a  very  secret  corner  '^  heard  ^'  talk  ^''  strife 
^^  while  ^^'  at  times  ^^  each  ^^  swelled  ''  the  foul 
spirit  all  out  ^^  qualities  ^'  the  very  worst  ^^  knew 
^  and  indeed  and  indeed  ^  they  ^"  very  ^'^  corner 


As  I  was  in  a  summer  dale, 

Within  a  very  secret  vale, 

I  heard  of  talking  a  great  tale 

Betwixt  an  owl  and  a  nightingale. 

The  strife  was  stiff  and  stark  and  strong ; 

Sometimes  'twas  soft,  then  loud,  their  song. 

Either  against  the  other  swelled, 

Let  out  the  rage  that  in  her  dwelled. 

And  each  said  of  the  other's  ways 

The  worst  she  knew  to  her  dispraise ;  10 

And  specially  of  each  other's  song 

They  had  a  quarrel  very  strong. 

The  nightingale  began  the  speech, 
Snug  in  a  corner  of  a  beech ; 
She  sat  upon  a  pretty  bough. 
There  were  about  her  blossoms  enow, 
All  in  a  lonely,  thickset  hedge. 
Tangled  with  shoots  and  green  with  sedge. 
She  was  the  gladder  for  the  sprays. 
And  sang  in  many  kinds  of  ways.  20 

It  rather  seemed  the  sound  I  heard 
Was  harp  and  pipe  than  song  of  bird  ; 
For  rather  seemed  the  sound  to  float 
From  harp  and  pipe  than  from  bird's  throat. 

There  stood  an  old  stump  there  beside, 
Wherefrom  the  owl  in  her  turn  cried ; 
It  was  with  ivy  overgrown. 
And  there  the  owl  dwelled  all  alone. 

^"  a  fair  bough  -^  about  -®  enough  ^  a  solitary' 
^^  mi.xed  with  sprouts  ^^  she  ^^  for  ^^  spray  ^^  and 
sang  in  many  kinds  of  ways  ^^  the  sound  seemed 
rather  ^^  it  ^*  was  not  ^^  it  seemed  rather  ^  then 
^'  where  the  *^  in  her  turn  ^^  the  owl's  home 


THE    OWL   AND   THE    NIGHTINGALE 


The  nihtingale  hi  ^  i-seh. 
And  hi  ^  bi-heold  and  over-seh,^  30 

And  thuhte  wel  vule  ^  of  thare  ule, 
For  me  hi  halt  ^  lothlich  ^  and  fule. 
"Unwiht,"  ^  heo  sede,  "awei  thu  flee  ! 
]\Ie  is  the  wers  ^  that  ich  the  seo  ; 
I-wis  ^  for  thine  vule  lete  ^ 
Wel  oft  ich  mine  song  for-lete ;  ^"^ 
Min  heorte  at-flith/i  ^^d  fait  ^'^  mi  tunge, 
Wonne  ^^  thu  art  to  me  i-thrunge." 
Me  luste  bet  speten  ^^  thane  singe, 
Of  ^^  thine  fule  gogelinge."  ^'  40 

Theos  ule  abod  fort  ^^  hit  was  eve, 
Heo  ne  mihte  no  leng  bileve,^^ 
Vor  hire  heorte  was  so  gret,^" 
That  wel  neh  -^  hire  fnast  at-schet ;  ^- 
And  warp  -^  a  word  thar-after  longe : 
"Hu  thincthe  -^  nu  bi  mine  songe? 
Wenst  -'"  thu  that  ich  ne  cunne  ^®  singe 
Theh  -"  ich  ne  cunne  -*  of  writelinge  ?  ^^ 
I-lome  ^°  thu  dest  ^^  me  grame,^- 
And  seist  me  bothe  teone  ^•^  and  schame ;      50 
Gif  ^  ich  the  heolde  on  min  vote,^^ 
So  hit  bi-tide  ^^  that  ich  mote  !  ^' 
And  thu  were  ut  of  thine  rise,^^ 
Thu  scholdest  singe  an  other  wise. 


The  nightingale  her  soon  espied, 
And  looked  at  her  with  scornful  pride.         30 
She  thought  but  meanly  of  the  owl, 
For  men  it  loathly  deem  and  foul. 
".Monster,"  she  said,  "away  with  thee! 
The  worse  for  me  that  thee  I  see ! 
Verily  for  thy  ugly  look, 
I  oftentimes  my  song  forsook. 
My  tongue  is  mute,  my  heart  takes  flight, 
When  thou  appearest  in  my  sight. 
I  rather  wish  to  spit  than  sing. 
At  sound  of  thy  foul  sputtering."  40 

The  owl  abode  till  eventide, 
No  longer  could  she  then  abide. 
So  swollen  was  her  heart  with  wrath 
That  she  could  scarcely  get  her  breath ; 
And  still  she  made  a  speech  full  long : 
"How  think'st  thou  now  about  my  song? 
Think'st  thou  to  sing  I  have  no  skill 
Merely  because  I  cannot  trill  ? 
Oft  am  I  angered  by  thy  blame. 
Thou  speakest  to  my  hurt  and  shame ;         50 
If  I  once  held  thee  in  my  claw,  — 
Would  that  I  might  here  in  this  shaw!  — 
And  thou  wert  down  from  off  thy  spray, 
Then  should'st  thou  sing  another  way  ! 


"Yet  thu  me  seist  of  other  thinge. 

And  telst  that  ich  ne  can  noht  singe,  310 

Ac  ^^  al  mi  reorde  ''"  is  woning,''^ 

And  to  i-here  grisUch  ''-  thing. 

That  nis  noht  soth,''^  ich  singe  efne  ^ 

Mid  fulle  dreme  ^°  and  lude  stefne.^" 

Thu  wenist  -^  that  ech  song  beo  grisUch  ^® 

That  thine  pipinge  nis  i-lich :  '^^ 

Mi  stefne  *  is  bold  and  noht  un-ome,'** 

Heo  *^  is-i  lich  '^^  one  grete  home ; 

And  thin  is  i-lich  ^  one  pipe 

Of  one  smale  weode  un-ripe.^^  320 

Ich  singe  bet  than  thu  dest ;  ^- 

Thu  ehaterest  so  ^  doth  on  Irish  prest. 

Ich  singe  an  eve,  a  rihte  time. 

And  seoththe,^  won  ^^  hit  is  bed-time, 

The  thridde  sithe  ^'^  at  middelnihte. 

And  so  ich  mine  song  adihte  ^® 

Wone  ^^  ich  i-seo  arise  veorre  ^^ 

^  her  ^  despised  ^  very  foully  *  for  everj-one 
holds  her  *  hateful  ^  monster  ^  I  am  the  worse 
*  truly  *  appearance  ^°  give  up  "  flies  away  ^^  fails 
^^  when  ^*  arrived  ^°  I  feel  more  like  spitting 
^^  because  of  ^^  screeching  ^^  waited  till  ^^  no 
longer  wait  ^°  swollen  "^  nigh  ^  breath  choked 
^  threw   -*  how  does  it  seem  -^  thinkest  ^^  cannot 


"And  yet  thou  say  est  another  thing. 

And  tellest  me  I  cannot  sing,  310 

That  all  my  song  is  mourning  drear, 

A  fearsome  sound  for  men  to  hear. 

That  is  not  sooth ;  my  voice  is  true. 

And  fuU  and  loud,  sonorous  too. 

Thou  thinkest  ugly  every  note 

Unlike  the  thin  ones  from  thy  throat. 

My  voice  is  bold  and  not  forlorn. 

It  soundeth  like  a  mighty  horn ; 

And  thine  is  like  a  little  pipe 

Made  of  a  slender  reed  unripe.  *  320 

Better  I  sing  than  thou  at  least ; 

Thou  chatterest  like  an  Irish  priest. 

I  sing  at  eve,  a  proper  time. 

And  after,  when  it  is  bedtime, 

And  once  again  at  middle-night, 

And  so  ordain  my  song  aright 

When  I  see  rising  from  afar 


^"^  though 
^^  causest 
it  happen 
entation 

46  ugly 

ing   ^^  it 
wards  *^ 


^  know   nothing     ^^  trilling     ^^  often 
^"^  anger  ^  injur\'  ^*  if  ^^  foot  ^®  so  may 
^^  may  '*  bough  ^^  but  ^^  voice  ^  1am- 
^  terrible    ^  true    ■"  precisely    ^^  sound 
"  that  is  not  like  thy  piping    ^  unpleas- 
^  like     °^  green    ^^  dost    ^^  as    **  after- 
third  time  *®  ordain  °'  afar 


i6 


THE    OWL   AND    THE    NIGHTINGALE 


Other  ^  dai-rim  -  other  ^  dai-sterre. 

Ich  do  god  mid  mine  throte, 

And  warni  men  to  heore  note  ;  ^  330 

Ac  ^  thu  singest  alle  longe  niht, 

From  eve  fort  ^  hit  is  dai-Hht, 

And  evre  lesteth  thin  o  '  song 

So  ^  longe  so  ^  the  niht  is  longe, 

And  evre  croweth  thi  wrecche  crei,^ 

That  he  ne  swiketh  1°  niht  ne  dai. 

Mid  thine  pipinge  thu  adunest  ^' 

Thas  monn^s  earen  thar  '^  thu  wunest,'* 

And  makest  thine  song  so  un-wiht  ^'' 

That  me  '^  ne  telth  ^^  of  the  nowiht.^^  340 

Evrich  murhthe  ^^  mai  so  longe  i-leste, 

That  heo  shal  liki  ^^  wel  un-wreste  ;  ^" 

Vor  harpe  and  pipe  and  fugeles  -^  songe 

Misliketh,  gif  hit  is  to  longe. 

Ne  beo  the  song  never  so  murie, 

That  he  ne  shal  thinche  ^^  wel  un-murie,-^ 

Gef  he  i-lesteth  over  un-wille.^^ 

So  thu  miht  ^^  thine  song  aspille ;  ^^ 

Vor  hit  is  soth,^^  Alvred  hit  seide, 

And  me  ^^  hit  mai  in  boke  rede,  350 

'  Evrich  thing  mai  leosen  ~*  his  godhede  ^^ 

Mid  unmethe  ^°  and  mid  over-dede.'"  ^^ 


Either  day-dawn  or  else  day-star. 

I  do  men  good  thus  with  my  throat. 

And  help  them  with  my  warning  note ;      330 

But  thou  art  singing  all  the  night, 

From  eve  untU  it  is  daylight. 

For  ever  lasts  thy  only  song. 

As  long  as  ever  the  night  is  long. 

And  ever  crows  thy  wretched  lay. 

That  ceaseth  not,  by  night  or  day. 

Thy  piping  is  ever  in  man's  ears. 

Wherever  thou  dwellest,  thy  din  he  hears ; 

Thou  makest  thy  song  a  thing  of  naught. 

No  man  accounteth  thee  as  aught ;  340 

For  any  mirth  may  last  so  long 

That  dislike  of  it  waxeth  strong ; 

For  harp  or  pipe  or  song  of  bird 

Displeaseth  if  too  long  'tis  heard. 

Never  so  merry  a  song  may  be 

But  to  disgust  shall  turn  its  glee 

If  it  shall  last  till  it  annoy ; 

So  mayst  thou  thy  song  destroy. 

For  it  is  true,  as  Alfred  said, 

And  in  his  book  it  may  be  read,  350 

'  Every  good  its  grace  may  lose 

By  lack  of  measure  and  by  abuse.'  " 


"Ule,"  heo  seide,  "wi  dostu  so?  411 

Thu  singest  a-winter  ^-  '  wolawo ' ;  ^^ 
Thu  singest  so  ^  doth  hen  a  ^^  snowe : 
Al  that  heo  singeth,  hit  is  for  wo  we ;  ^^ 
A-wintere  thu  singest  wrothe  ^^  and  gomere,^^ 
And  evre  thu  art  dumb  a-sumere. 
Hit  is  for  thine  fule  nithe,^^ 
That  thu  ne  miht  ^^  mid  us  beo  blithe, 
Vor  thu  forbernest '"'  wel  neh  ^^  for  onde,^ 
Wane  ^  ure  blisse  cumeth  to  londe.  420 

Thu  farest  so  »  doth  the  ille ;  ^^ 
Evrich  blisse  him  is  un-wille  ;  ^^ 
Grucching  and  luring  ^^  him  beoth  rade,*^ 
Gif  he  i-seoth  that  men  beoth  glade ; 
He  wolde  that  he  i-seye*^* 
Teres  in  evrich  monnes  eye ; 
Ne  rohte  he  ^^  theh  ^  flockes  were 
I-meind  ^^  bi  toppes  ^^  and  bi  here.^^ 
Al-so  thu  dost  on  thire  ^  side ; 
Vor  wanne  ^■'  snou  lith  thicke  and  wide,      430 
And  alle  wihtes  '■''•'  habbeth  sorhe,^" 

^  either  ^  dawn  ^  or  ■*  benefit  ^  but  ^  till  "^  last- 
eth  thy  one  ^  as  ^  cry  ^^  it  ceases  not  ^^  dinnest 
^^  where  '''dwellest  ^"^  horrible  ^^one  ^''accounts 
^'naught  ^^  every  mirth  '*  please  ^^  very  badly 
^'  bird's  ^^  seem  ^'^  unpleasant  ^''  if  it  lasts  unto 
displeasure  ^^  mayst  ^^  ruin  ^'  true  ^*  lose  ^'  good- 


"Owl,"  she  said,  "why  dost  thou  so?      411 
Thou  singest  in  winter  a  song  of  woe ; 
Thou  singest  as  doth  a  hen  in  snow : 
All  that  she  sings  it  is  for  woe ; 
In  winter  thou  singest  in  wrath  and  gloom, 
In  summer  thou  art  ever  dumb. 
'Tis  thy  foul  malice  that  hinders  thee. 
That  blithe  with  us  thou  may'st  not  be ; 
For  envy  'tis  that  in  thee  burns, 
When  in  the  spring  our  bliss  returns.  420 

Thou  farest  as  doth  the  wicked  ever, 
Whom  joy  of  others  pleases  never ; 
For  grudging  and  louring  is  he  mad 
Whene'er  he  sees  that  men  are  glad. 
Rather  would  such  a  one  espy 
Tears  in  every  person's  eye ; 
Never  a  whit  would  that  man  care 
Though  flocks  were  mixed,  both  head  and  hair. 
So  dost  thou  fare,  upon  thy  side ; 
For  when  the  snow  lies  thick  and  wide,      430 
And  every  creature  lives  in  sorrow, 

ness  ^^  excess  ^^  over-doing  ^^  in  winter  ■  ^^  wela- 
way  ^  in  ^^  woe  ^*  wrath  ^^  grief  ^  hatred 
^'  mayst  not  ^^  burnest  up  **  nigh  ^  envy  ^^  when 
'•'*  wicked  man  ^^  unpleasing  ^''  louring  ^^  ready 
*^  saw  ^^  he  would  not  care  ^  though  ^'  mixed 
up   ^^  heads    ^^  hair    ^  thy    ^^  creatures  *^  sorrow 


CURSOR    MUNDI 


17 


Thu  singest  from  eve  fort  amorhe.^ 

Ac  '  ich  alle  blisse  mid  me  bringe ; 

Ech  wiht  ^  is  glad  for  mine  thinge,'* 

And  blisseth  hit  ^  wanne  '^  ich  cume, 

And  hihteth  agen  ^  mine  kume.^ 

The  blostme  ginneth  springe  and  sprede 

Bothe  ine  treo  and  ek  on  mede ; 

The  UUe  mid  hire  faire  wHte  '^ 

Wolcumeth  me,  that  thu  hit  wite/"  440 

Bit  "  me  mid  hire  faire  bleo  ^^ 

That  ich  schulle  to  hire  fleo ; 

The  rose  also  mide  hire  rude/^ 

That  cumeth  ut  of  the  thorne  wude, 

Bit  "  me  that  ich  shulle  singe 

Vor  hire  luve  one  skentinge."  ^* 


Then  singest  thou  from  eve  till  morrow. 

But  I  all  gladness  with  me  bring, 

All  men  are  happy  when. I  sing; 

They  all  rejoice,  when  I  appear, 

And  hope  for  me  another  year. 

Blossoms  begin  to  spring  and  grow, 

On  tree,  in  mead,  and  in  hedge-row  ; 

The  lily  with  her  fair  white  hue 

Doth  welcome  me,  I  would  thou  knew ;      440 

With  her  sweet  face  she  biddeth  me 

That  I  to  her  shall  quickiy  flee  ; 

Likewise  the  rose  with  ruddy  hood. 

That  Cometh  from  the  thorny  wood, 

Biddeth  me  ever  that  I  shall  sing 

For  her  dear  love  in  carolling." 


From   CURSOR   MUNDI    (c.  1300) 

{Unknown  Author) 

THE   FLIGHT  INTO  EGYPT 


An  angel  thus  til  ^^  him  can  ^''  sai :  210 

"Rise  up,  Joseph,  and  busk  ^'  and  ga,  ^* 
Maria  and  thi  child  al-sua ;  '^ 
For  yow  be-hoves  nu  ^^  al  thre 
In  land  of  Egypt  for  to  fle ; 
Rise  up  ar  ^^  it  be  dai, 
And  folus  ^  forth  the  wUdrin  -^  wai. 
Herod,  that  es  the  child  ^■s  fa,2» 
Era  nu  ^^  wil  sek  him  for  to  sla.^' 
Thare  sal  ^^  yee  bide  stU  wit  ^^  the  bam,^° 
Til  that  I  eft  ^^  cum  yow  to  warn."  220 

Son  ^^  was  Joseph  redi  bun ;  ^^ 
Wit  ^^  naghtertale  ^^  he  went  o  ^^  tun, 
Wit  ^*  Maria  mUd  and  their  meine :  '^ 
A  maiden  and  thair  suanis  ^^  thre, 
That  servid  tham  in  thair  servis ; 
With  thaim  was  nan  bot  war  ^^  and  wis. 

Forth  SCO  rad,^°  that  moder  mild. 
And  in  hir  barm  *^  sco  ledd  ^  hir  chUd, 
Til  thai  come  at  *  a  cove  was  *"  depe. 
Thar  ^^  thai  tham  thoght  to  rest  and  slepe  ; 
Thar  did  *'^  thai  Mari  for  to  light,"  231 

Bot  son  thai  sagh  ''^  an  ugli  sight. 
Als  *^  thai  loked  tham  biside, 

^  till  morning  -  but  ^  creature  *  on  my  account 
^  rejoices  ^  when  "  hopeth  for  *  coming  '  face 
^^  know  "  bids  ^^  visage  ^^  redness  "  pastime  ^^  to 
^^  did    ^^  get  ready    ^^  go     ^'  also     ^'^  now    ^^  ere 


'■"  Know  '■'■  bids  ^'  visage  ""  redness  "  pastime 

^^did    ^^  get  ready    ^^  go     ^' also     ^"^  now    ^   ^.^       . 

*^  follow  ^  wilderness  ^*  child's  ^^  foe  ^^  from  now       was  ^'°  there 


An  angel  thus  to  him  did  say :  210 

"Rise  up,  Joseph,  and  busk  and  go, 
Maria  and  thy  child  also  ; 
For  it  behooves  you  now  all  three 
To  the  land  of  Egypt  for  to  flee ; 
Rise  up,  then,  ere  it  be  day, 
And  follow  forth  the  desert  way. 
Herod,  that  is  the  infant's  foe, 
Henceforth  will  seek  to  lay  him  low. 
There  with  the  bairn  shall  ye  remain 
Till  I  come  back  to  warn  you  plain."  220 

Now  soon  was  Joseph  ready  dight ; 
He  left  the  town  at  fall  of  night, 
With  Mary  mild  and  their  company  : 
A  maiden  and  their  servants  three, 
That  served  them  well  in  servants'  guise  ; 
With  them  was  none  but  wary  and  wise. 

Forth  she  rode,  that  mother  mild, 
And  in  her  bosom  bore  her  child, 
TlU  they  came  to  a  cave  full  deep ; 
There  they  had  thought  to  rest  and  sleep  ; 
There  helped  they  Mary  to  alight,  231 

But  soon  they  saw  an  ugly  sight. 
As  they  were  looking  them  beside, 

slay  -^  shall  ^  with  ^  child  ^^  again  ^^  soon 
prepared  ^  with  ^^  night-time  ^®  from  ^''  house- 
old  ^^  men-servants  ^^  none  but  was  wary  ^  she 
Jde   ■*^  bosom  ^  carried   ^^  came  to   ^^  cave  that 


-■  siay     -'  snau    —  wun     ""  cnuu     —  again 

^^  prepared  ^  with  ^^  night-time  ^®  from  ^''  1 

hold  ^^  men-servants  ^^  none  but  was  wary 

rcide   ■*^  bosom  ^  carried   ^^  came  to   ^^  cave 

was  ^'°  there  ^^  caused  ■*"  alight  ■**  saw  ^'^  as 


CURSOR    MUNDI 


Ute  o  '  this  cove  -  than  sagh  ^  thai  glide 

Mani  dragons  wel  ^  sodanU ; 

The  suanis  ^  than  bi-gan  to  cri. 

Quen  ^  Jesus  sagh  tham  glopnid  ^  be, 

He  Hghted  of  ^  his  moder  kne 

And  stod  a-pon  thaa  ^  bestes  grim/'' 

And  thai  tham  luted  ^^  under  him.  240 

Than  com  '-  the  propheci  al  cler 

To  dede  ^^  that  said  es  in  Sauter :  ^^ 

"The  dragons,  wonand  ^^  in  thair  cove, 

The  Laverd  '^  agh  ^^  yee  worthli  to  lofe."  ^* 

Jesus  he  went  befor  tham  than, 

Forbed  ^®  tham  harm  do  ani  man. 

Maria  and  Joseph  ne-for-thi  ^^ 

For  the  child  war  ful  dreri ;  ^^ 

Bot  Jfesus  ansuard  ^^  thaim  onan  :  ^^ 

"For  me  drednes  haf  ^^  nu  yee  nan,^*  250 

Ne  haf  yee  for  me  na  barn-site,^® 

For  I  am  self  man  al  parfite,^^ 

And  al  the  bestes  that  ar  wild 

For  me  most  -^  be  tame  and  mild." 

Leon  yode.tham  als  imid ;  -^ 

And  pardes,^"  als  "^  the  dragons  did, 

Bifor  Maria  and  Joseph  yede,^^ 

In  right  wai  tham  for  to  lede. 

Quen  Maria  sagh  thaa  ^  bestes  lute,^* 

First  SCO  "*'*  was  gretli  in  dute,^^  260 

Til  Jesus  loked  on  hir  blith 

And  dridnes  ^®  bad  hir  nan  to  kith.^'' 

"Moder,"  he  said,  "haf  thou  na  ward  ^* 

Nother  o  ^^  leon  ne  o  lepard. 

For  thai  com  noght  us  harm  to  do, 

Bot  thair  servis  at  ^^  serve  us  to." 

Bath  ^1  ass  and  ox  that  wit  ^-  tham  war  ^ 

And  bestes  that  thair  harnais  bar 

Ute  o   Jerusalem,  thair  kyth,^ 

The  leons  mekli  yod  ^"  tham  wit,^  270 

Wit-uten  harm  of  ox  or  ass. 

Or  ani  best  that  wit  tham  was. 

Than  was  fulfild  the  propheci, 

That  said  was  thoru  Jeremi : 

"Wolf  and  wether,  leon  and  ox, 

Sal '"'  comen  samen,^*'  and  lamb  and  fox." 

^  out  of  ^  cave  ^  saw  ^  very  ^  men  ^  when  ^  terri- 
fied ^  off  '  those  ^^  fierce  ''  bowed  ^^  came  ^^  to 
deed,  to  realization  ^'' the  Psalter  ^^  dwelling 
""'Lord  ^^  ought  ^^  praise  ^'forbade  ^"neverthe- 
less ^^  sad  ^^  answered  ^^  at  once  ^'*  have  ^^  none 


Out  of  this  cave  then  saw  they  glide 

Many  dragons  full  suddenly  ; 

The  servants  then  began  to  cry. 

When  Jesus  saw  them  frightened  be, 

He  lighted  from  his  mother's  knee. 

And  stood  upon  those  beasts  so  grim, 

And  low  they  bowed  them  under  him.        240 

Then  came  the  prophecy  all  clear 

As  in  the  Psalter  ye  may  hear : 

"Dragons  that  in  their  cavern  dwell 

The  praises  of  the  Lord  shall  tell." 

Jesus,  he  went  before  them  then, 
Forbade  their  harming  any  men. 
Maria  and  Joseph,  none  the  less. 
For  the  child  were  in  distress ; 
But  Jesus  answered  them  and  said : 
"For  me  have  ye  no  manner  dread ;  250 

For  me  as  child  have  ye  no  fright, 
A  perfect  man  am  I  by  right ; 
And  all  the  beasts  that  are  so  wild, 
For  me  must  be  both  tame  and  mild." 
A  lion  went  them  then  amid  ; 
And  leopards,  as  the  dragons  did. 
Before  Maria  and  Joseph  lay, 
Ready  to  lead  them  on  their  way. 
When  Mary  saw  the  beasts  all  lout, 
Greatly,  at  first,  she  was  in  doubt,  260 

Till  Jesus  blithely  drew  anear, 
And  bade  her  not  at  all  to  fear. 
"Mother,"  said  he,  "have  no  regard 
For  lion  or  for  fierce  leopard ; 
For  they  come  not  us  harm  to  do ; 
But  us  their  service  to  give  unto." 

Both  ass  and  ox  were  with  them  there. 
And  other  beasts  that  baggage  bare 
Out  of  their  home,  Jerusalem  ; 
The  lions  meekly  went  with  them,  270 

And  did  no  harm  to  ox  or  ass. 
Or  any  beast  that  with  them  was. 
Then  was  fulfilled  the  prophecy 
That  spoken  was  by  Jeremy  : 
"Wolf  and  wether,  lion  and  ox. 
Shall  come  together,  and  lamb  and  fox." 


^^  child-sorrow  ^^  perfect  ^^  must  ^^  a  lion  went 
with  them  also  ^  leopards  ^^  as  ^  went  ^^  bow 
^*  she  ^^  doubt,  fear  ^'*  terror  ^^  show,  feel  ^  re- 
gard ''^of  ''°to  41  both  '*2with  ^^  were  ^^  country 
^5  shall  ^Uogether 


A   LUVE    RON 


19 


THOMAS  DE   HALES  (bef.  1300) 
A  LUVE   RON!  A  LOVE   LETTER 


A  mayde  Cristes  -  me  bit  yorne  ^ 

That  ich  hire  ■*  wurche  ^  a  luv  ron ; 
For  hwan  heo  ^  myhte  best  ileorne  " 

To  taken  on  ^  other  soth  ^  lefmon  ^^ 
That  treowest  were  of  alle  berne," 

And  best  wyte  cuthe  ^^  a  freo  wymrnon. 
Ich  hire  nule  ^^  nowiht  '*  werne/^ 

Ich  hire  wule  '^  teche  as  ic  con.  8 

Mayde,  her  "  thu  myht  ^*  biholde 

This  worldes  luve  nys  ^^  bute  o  res,^*" 
And  is  byset  so  fele-volde,-^ 

Vikel,^-  and  frakel,^^  and  wok,^^  and  les.^^ 
Theos  theines  "^^  that  her  weren  bolde 

Beoth  aglyden  -'''  so  -^  wyndes  bles ;  -^ 
Under  molde  ^°  hi  Kggeth  ^^  colde 

And  faleweth  ^  so  ^*  doth  medewe  gres.    16 


A  maid  of  Christ  doth  plead  with  me 

To  write  her  a  letter  of  love  to-day, 
From  which  she  can  learn  most  readily 

To  take  another  true  love,  i'fay, 
WTio  faithfiilest  of  all  shall  be, 

And  best  can  guard  a  lady  gay. 
No  wise  will  I  deny  her  plea, 

But  I  will  teach  her  as  I  may.  S 

O  maiden,  here  thou  mayst  behold 

This  earthly  love  is  but  a  race. 
And  is  beset  so  many  fold, 

Fickle  and  false  and  weak  and  base. 
Those  knights  that  here  were  once  so  bold, 

Like  wind  have  glided  from  their  place ; 
Under  mould  they  are  lying  cold, 

And  wither  as  doth  the  meadow  grass.       16 


Nis  non  ^^  so  riche,  ne  non  so  freo,^** 

That  he  ne  scha!  heonne  ^^  sone  away. 
Ne  may  hit  never  his  waraunt  beo,  — 

Gold  ne  seolver,  vouh  ^^  ne  gray ;  ^'' 
Ne  beo  he  no  the  swift  ,^^  ne  may  he  flee, 

Ne  weren  ^'  his  lif  enne  *"  day. 
Thus  is  thes  world,  as  thu  mayht  ^^  seo, 

Al  so  '"^  the  schadewe  that  glyt  ^  away.    32 

This  world  fareth  hwilynde.^^ 

Hwenne  ^^  on  cumeth,  an  other  goth  ; 
That  ^^  wes  bi-fore  nu  is  bihynde, 

That  *^  er  ■»«  was  leof  ^'  nu  hit  is  loth  ;  ^^ 
For-thi  ^^  he  doth  as  the  blynde 

That  in  this  world  his  luve  doth.^° 
Ye  mowen  iseo  ^^  the  world  aswynde ;  '"^        39 

That  woxih  ^  goth  forth,  abak  that  soth.^ 

Theo  '"^  luve  that  ne  may  her  abyde, 

Thu  treowest  ^^  hire  ^^  myd  muchel  wouh,=^ 

Al  so  ^'  hwenne  hit  schal  to-glide,™ 
Hit  is  fals,  and  mereuh,''^  and  frouh,''^ 

And  fromward  ^^  in  uychon  tide." 

Hwile  hit  lesteth,  is  seorewe  ^^  mouh  ;  ^^ 

^  a  love  rune  (or  letter)  ^  of  Christ's  ^  begs 
me  eagerly  ^  her  ^  make  ^  whereby  she  ^  learn 
^  an  '  true  ^^  lover  ^^  men  ^  could  protect  ^^  will 
not  ^*  not  at  all  ^^  refuse  ^^  will  ^^  here  ^^  mayst 


IS  not   '"'  a   race   ^^  m   so  manv  wars 


22 


fickle 


.0  .iv.^  ^^  a  race  ^^ 
^  ugly  ^  weak  ^*  false  ^^  these  nobles  ^"  are  passed 
away  ^  as  ^'  breath  ^"^  the  earth  ^*  they  lie 
^*  wither  ^  there  is  none  ^*  free,  generous  *^  hence 


There's  none  so  rich  and  none  so  free 

That  hence  he  shall  not  soon  away. 
Nothing  may  ever  his  warrant  be,  — 

Gold,  nor  silver,  nor  ermine  gay ; 
Be  he  ever  so  swift,  he  may  not  flee. 

Nor  guard  his  life  a  single  day. 
Thus  is  this  world,  as  thou  mayst  see. 

Like  as  the  shadow  that  glides  away. 


3* 


This  world  fareth  like  the  wind. 

One  thing  gone,  another  here ; 
What  was  before  is  now  behind. 

What  now  is  loath  before  was  dear  ; 
Therefore  he  doth  as  doth  the  blind, 

Who  sets  his  love  on  this  world's  gear. 
The  world  is  vanishing,  ye  shall  find ;  39 

Evil  goes  forward,  truth  to  the  rear. 

The  love  that  may  not  here  abide, 

Thou  art  wrong  to  trust  it  now; 
Away  from  thee  that  love  will  glide, 

Capricious  and  frail  and  false  of  vow, 
And  hasting  away  at  every  tide. 

The  while  it  lasts,  'tis  sorrow  enow ; 


^®  ermine  ""^  vair  **  be  he  never  so  swift  ^*  protect 
^"  a  single  ^  just  as  ^  glides  ''^  swiftly  ■*"*  when 
^^what    ^^  formerly    *^  dear    ^*  hated   ^Hherefore 

^  rilarfs    ^  mqA7  cpp     ^  vani^Vi    ^  thfi  wrnnp"    ^^  the 


20 


A    LUVE    RON 


'An  ende/  ne  werie^  mon  [robe]  so  syde;^ 
He  schal  to-dreosen  ■*  so  lef  on  bouh.^ 


In  the  end,  none  wears  a  robe  so  wide, 
But  he  shall  fall  as  leaf  from  bough. 


48 


Hwer  is  Paris  and  Heleyne, 

That  weren  so  bryht  and  feyre  on  bleo  ;  ^ 
Amadas  and  Dideyne,  '^ 

Tristram,  Yseude  and  alle  theo  ;  * 
Ector,  with  his  scharpe  meyne,^ 

And  Cesar,  riche  of  worldes  feo  ?  i" 
Heo  beoth  iglyden  ^^  ut  of  the  reyne  ^ 

So  ^^  the  schef  ^"^  is  of  the  cleo.^^  72 

Hit  is  of  heom  ^^  al  so  hit  nere ;  '^ 

Of  heom  '^^  me  haveth  ^*  wunder  itold, 
Nere  hit  reuthe  ^^  for  to  here 

Hw  hi  2°  were  with  pyne  aquold,^^ 
And  what  hi  tholeden  ^^  alyve  here. 

Al  is  heore  '^  hot  iturnd  to  cold. 
Thus  is  thes  world  of  false  fere  ;  -^ 

Fol  "^^  he  is  the  ^^  on  hire  is  bold.  80 

Theyh  ^'^  he  were  so  riche  mon  ^ 

As  Henry  ure  ^^  kyng. 
And  al  so  veyr  ^'^  as  Absalon 

That  nevede  ^^  on  eorthe  non  evenyng,®^ 
Al  were  sone  his  prute  ^^  agon. 

Hit  nere  ^*  on  ende  ^  wurth  on  heryng.'^ 
Mayde,  if  thu  wilnest  ^^  after  leofmon,^'^ 

Ich  teche  the  enne  ^*  treowe  king.  88 

A  !   swete,  if  thu  iknowe  ^^ 

The  gode  thewes  *  of  thisse  childe  ! 
He  is  feyr  and  bryht  on  heowe,*^ 

Of  glede  chere,*^  of  mode  ^'^  mylde, 
Of  lufsum  lost,"**  of  truste  treowe, 

Freo  of  heorte,  of  wisdom  wilde  ;  ''* 
Ne  thurhte  the  never  rewe,^* 

Myhtestu  do  the  ^^  in  his  hylde.'**  96 

He  is  ricchest  mon  of  londe ; 

So  ^'  wide  so  "  mon  spekelh  with  muth, 
Alle  heo  '^^  beoth  ^^  to  his  honde 

Est  and  west,  north  and  suth. 
Henri,  king  of  Engelonde, 

Of  hym  he  halt  ^^  and  to  hym  buhth.^^ 
Mayde,  to  the  he  send  ^^  his  sonde, ^'' 

And  wilneth  ^^  for  to  bco  the  cuth.^*        104 

:^  :|(  :{c  4:  if:  :(: 

^  at  last  ^  wear  ^  wide  *  fall  *  bough  ®  of  face 
''  Idoyne  ®  those  '  strength  ^*  wealth  "  they 
have  slipped  away  '^  land  '^  as  ^^  sheaf  ^^  from 
the  hillside  ^^  them  ^^  as  if  they  had  not  existed 
'*  people  have  ^^  were  it  not  pity  ^^  how  they 
^^  killed  with  torture  ^^  suffered  ^''  their  ^  validity 
**  foolish  ^''  who  ^'^  though  ^*  man  ^^  our  ^^  beauti- 


Paris  and  Helen  —  where  are  they. 

That  were  so  bright  and  fair  of  face  ? 
Amadas  and  Ydoine  gay, 

Tristram,  Yseult,  and  all  that  race? 
Hector,  strong  in  battle  array, 

And  Caesar,  great  in  worldly  place? 
They  all  have  glided  from  earth  away  . 

As  sheaf  from  the  hill,  that  leaves  no  trace.  72 

They're  now  as  though  they  never  were  here ; 

Of  them  are  many  wonders  told, 
Were  it  not  pity  for  one  to  hear 

How  they  were  tortured  and  died  of  old, 
And  what  they  suffered  in  life  while  here. 

All  their  heat  is  turned  to  cold. 
Thus  all  this  world  doth  false  appear ; 

Foolish  is  he  who  in  it  is  bold.  80 

Although  he  were  a  man  as  strong 

As  Henry  is,  our  gracious  King, 
And  fair  as  Absalom  the  young, 

Whose  match  no  man  on  earth  cotild  bring, 
His  pride  were  soon  not  worth  a  song. 

In  value  less  than  a  red  herring. 
O  maid,  if  thou  wilt  love  full  long, 

I  will  show  thee  a  loyal  king.  88 

Ah,  my  sweet,  if  thou  but  knew 
The  blessed  virtues  of  this  Lord  ! 

He  is  fair  and  bright  of  hue, 

Both  glad  of  cheer  and  mild  of  word, 

Of  lovesome  grace,  of  trust  most  true. 
Free-hearted,  rich  in  wisdom's  hoard ; 

Never  shovddst  thou  have  need  to  rue, 
.  If  thou  but  trust  thee  in  his  ward.  96 

He  is  the  strongest  man  in  land, 

As  far  as  men  can  speak  with  mouth. 
And  all  are  liegemen  in  his  hand, 

East  and  west,  north  and  south. 
Henry,  King  of  English  land, 

Doth  hold  of  him  and  to  him  boweth. 
O  maid,  he  sends  thee  his  command, 

His  will  to  be  thy  friend  avoweth.  104 

****** 

ful,  fair  ^^  had  not  '^  equal  ^^  pride  '^  were  not  '^  a 
herring  '^  longest  ^"  a  lover  '*  I  will  teach  thee  a 
'^  didst  know  '*'•  qualities  *^  hue,  appearance  ^  coun- 
tenance ^^  mood  ■***  of  lovable  desire  ^^  able  ""^  thou 
wouldst  never  need  to  repent  ^"^  might'st  thou 
put  thyself  ^*  grace  ^^  they  ^°  are  ^^  holds  ^^  bows 
^  sends   ^  messenger  ^^  desires  ^®  known  to  thee. 


MIDDLE    ENGLISH   LYRICS 


21 


MIDDLE   ENGLISH   LYRICS 

{Unknown  Authors) 
ALYSOUN  (c.  1300) 


Bytuene  Mersh  ^  and  Averil, 

When  spray  biginneth  to  springe, 
The  Intel  foul  ^  hath  hire  wyl 

On  hyre  lud  ^  to  synge. 

Ich  libbe  ■*  in  love  longinge 

For  semlokest  ^  of  alle  thinge. 

He  ^  may  me  blisse  bringe  ; 
Icham  ^  in  hire  baundoun.* 

x\n  hendy  hap  ichabbe  yhent,^ 

Ichot/"  from  hevene  it  is  me  sent,  10 

From  alle  wjTnmen  mi  love  is  lent  " 
And  lyht  ^-  on  Alysoun. 

On  heu  ^^  hire  her  is  fayr  ynoh, 

Hire  browe  broune,  hire  eye  blake,  — 

With  lossum  chere  "  he  on  me  loh  !  ^^  —       15 
With  middel  ^^  smal,  and  wel  ymake.^' 
Bote  ^^  he  me  wolle  ^^  to  hire  take. 
Forte  buen  ^^  hire  owen  make.-' 
Longe  to  lyuen  ichulle  ^^  forsake, 

And  feye  ^  fallen  adoun.  20 

An  hendy  hap,  etc. 

Nihtes-when  y  wende  ^  and  wake ; 
Forthi  -*  myn  wonges  ^^  waxeth  won. 

Levedi,^"  al  for  thine  sake 
'  Longinge  is  ylent  ^^  me  on.  25 

In  world  nis  non  so  wytermon,^' 
That  al  hire  bounte  ^^  telle  con.-^' 
Hire  swjnre  ^^  is  whittore  then  the  swon. 

And  fey  rest  may  ^^  in  toune. 

An  hendi,  etc.  30 

Icham  for  wowyng  al  forwake,''' 

Wery  so  water  in  wOre,^^ 
Lest  eny  reve  ^^  me  my  make.-' 

Ychabbe  y->'ir  yore,^'' 

Betere  is  tholien  whyle  sore  ^®  35 

Then  ^^  mournen  evermore. 

Geynest  under  gore,"*" 
Herkne  to  my  roun  !  *' 

An  hendi,  etc. 

'  March  ^  little  bird  '  in  her  language  *  I  live 
^  most  beautiful  ®  she  '  I  am  *  power  ^  a  pleas- 
ant fortune  I  have  got  '"  I  know  "  departed 
^  alighted  '^  in  color  '^  with  loving  look  '^  laughed 
"  waist  '^  made  '^  unless  ''  will  2°  (for)  to  be 
^'  mate  ^  I  will  ^^  ready  to  die  ^'^  at  night-time  I 
turn    2^  therefore    ^^  cheeks    ^'^  ladv    ^*  descended 


Betwixt  old  March  and  April  gay. 

When  sprays  begin  to  spring. 
The  little  bird  in  her  own  way 

Follows  her  will  to  sing. 

But  I  must  live  in  love  longing 

For  one  who  is  the  fairest  thing. 

'Tis  she  who  may  to  bliss  me  bring, 
For  she  my  love  hath  won. 

A  blessed  fortune  is  my  lot, 

'Tis  sent  to  me  from  Heaven,  I  wot,  10 

To  other  women  my  love  turns  not 
But  lights  on  Alison. 

Fair  enough  in  hue  her  hair. 

Her  brows  are  brown,  and  black  her  eyne. 
She  smiled  on  me  with  lovesome  air ;  15 

Trim  is  her  waist  and  neat  and  fine. 

Unless  thou'lt  take  me  to  be  thine, 

Thy  own  dear  love,  O  lady  mine, 

Of  longer  living  shall  I  pine. 
By  death  shall  be  undone.  20 

A  blessed  fortune  is  my  lot,  etc. 

Often  at  night  I  toss  and  wake ; 

For  this  my  cheeks  are  pale  and  wan. 
Lady,  'tis  all  for  thy  dear  sake 

Longing  has  fallen  me  upon.  25 

In  world  is  none  so  wise  a  man 

That  all  her  goodness  tell  he  can. 

Her  neck  is  whiter  than  the  swan ; 
I\Iy  heart  she  has  undone. 

A  blessed  fortune  is  my  lot,  etc.  30 

Weary  as  water  in  weir  I  wake. 

And  woo  thee  more  and  more, 
Lest  some  one  rob  me  of  my  make.-' 

For  I  have  heard  of  yore. 

Better  to  suffer  a  while  full  sore,  35 

Than  go  a-mourning  evermore. 

Gayest  under  gore. 
Hear  my  orison ! 

A  blessed  fortune  is  my  lot,  etc. 

^®  there  is  no  so  wise  man  ^^  goodness  ''  can  ^-  neck 
^^  maid  ^*  I  am  for  wooing  all  worn  with  watch- 
ing ^^  weary  as  water  in  weir  ^^  take  away  from 
^"  I  have  heard  long  ago  ^  it  is  better  to  endure 
hurt  for  a  while  ^^  than  ^^  most  gracious  one  alive 
(in  clothing)  '*'  secret 


22 


MIDDLE    ENGLISH    LYRICS 


SPRINGTIME   (c.  1300:) 


Lenten  ^  ys  come  with  love  to  toune,  i 

With  blosmen  and  with  briddes  roune ;  ^ 

That  al  this  bhsse  bryngeth. 
Dayes-eyes  in  this  ^  dales ; 
Notes  suete  ^  of  nyhtegales ;  5 

Uch  foul  song  singeth.^ 
The  threstercoc  him  threteth  00 ;  ^ 
Awa}'  is  huere  ^  wynter  woo 

When  woderoue  *  springeth. 
This  ^  foules  ^  singeth  ferly  fele/"  10 

And  wlyteth  "  on  huere  wynter  wele/* 

That  al  the  wode  ryngeth. 

The  rose  rayleth  "  hire  rode/^ 
The  leves  on  the  lyhte  wode 

Waxen  al  with  wille.^^  15 

The  mone  mandeth  ^'''  hire  bleo/'' 
The  lilie  is  lossom  ^^  to  sec, 

The  fenyl  and  the  lille ;  i^ 
Wowes  this  wilde  drakes,^" 
Miles  murgeth  huere  makes ;  ^^  2o~ 

Ase  strem  that  striketh  ^"  stille, 
Mody  meneth,  so  doht  mo  ;  ^^ 
Ichot  ycham  on  of  tho,^^ 

For  love  that  likes  ille.^^ 

The  mone  mandeth  ^^  hire  lyht,  25 

So  doth  the  semly  sonne  bryht, 

When  briddes  singeth  breme  ;  ^'' 
Deawes  donketh  ^*  the  dounes ;  ^^ 
D  cores  with  huere  derne  rounes,'"* 

Domes  forte  deme  ;  ^^  30 

Wormes  woweth  under  cloude ;  ^^ 
Wymmen  waxeth  wounder  proude, 

So  wel  hit  wol  hem  seme. 
Yef  ^^  me  shal  wonte  ^*  wille  of  on,^^ 
This  wunne  weole  ^®  y  wole  ^'  forgon,  35 

Ant  wyht  in  wode  be  fleme.^* 

^  spring  ^  whisper  '  these  ^  sweet  ^  each  bird 
sings  a  song  ®  the  throstle  cock  threatens  ever 
^  their  *  woodruff  ^  birds  ^^  wonderfully  many 
"cry  ^^  weal  ^^puts  on  ^^  redness  '^vigorously 
^^  mends  "  complexion  '^  beautiful  '^  thyme 
^^  these  wild  drakes  woo  ^'  beasts  gladden  their 
mates  '^^  runs  '^^  tlie  moody  man  laments,  —  so  do 


With  love  is  come  to  town  the  spring,  i 

With  blossoms  and  birds'  whispering; 

That  all  this  bliss  now  bringeth. 
There  are  daisies  in  the  dales, 
Pipings  sweet  of  nightingales,  5 

His  song  each  warbler  singeth. 
The  throstlecock  doth  strutting  go ; 
Away  is  all  their  winter  woe 

When  up  the  woodruff  springeth. 
A  thousand  birds  are  smging  gay  10 

Of  winter's  sadness  passed  away, 

Till  all  the  woodland  ringeth. 

The  rose  puts  on  her  ruddy  hood, 
The  leaves  within  the  greening  wood 

With  a  will  are  growing.  15 

The  moon  is  brightening  her  face; 
Here  is  the  lUy  in  her  grace, 

With  thyme  and  fennel  blowing ; 
A-wooing  go  the  wilding  drakes, 
Beasts  are  courting  now  their  mates ;  20 

The  stream  is  softly  flowing ; 
Many  a  wretch  bemoans  his  lot ; 
I  am  one  of  them,  I  vv^ot. 

My  love  for  naught  bestowing. 

The  moon  now  mendeth  fast  her  light,  25 
So  doth  the  seemly  sun  shine  bright, 

When  birds  are  bravely  chaunling; 
The  dews  are  falling  on  the  hill ; 
For  pleas  of  love  in  whispers  still 

Sweethearts  are  not  wanting ;  30 

The  worm  is  wooing  in  the  clod  ; 
Women  wax  now  wondrous  proud, 

Their  joy  in  life  a-vaunting. 
If  love  of  one  I  may  not  know, 
This  blissful  boon  I  will  forego,  35 

Lonely  the  wild  wood  haunting. 

others  -^  I  know  I  am  one  of  those  ^^  pleases  ill 
2®  mends,  increases  ^'^  loud  ^*  dews  wet  ^^  hills 
^o  lovers  with  their  secret  whispers  [come]  '^  cases 
[of  love]  to  judge  ^^  worms  woo  under  clod  ^^  if 
^''  lack  ^^  one  ^^  boon  of  joy  ^^  will  ^*  and  be  a 
banished  wight  in  the  forest 


MIDDLE    ENGLISH    LYRICS 


23 


UBI   SUNT  QUI  ANTE  NOS   FUERUNT?  (c.  1350) 


Were  beth  ^  they  that  biforen  us  weren, 
Houndes  ladden  ^  and  havekes  beren,^ 

And  hadden  feld  and  wode  ? 
The  riche  levedies  ^  m  here  ^  hour, 
That  wereden  gold  in  here  '"  tressour,^ 

With  here  ^  brighte  rode  ;  ^ 


Where  are  they  that  hved  of  yore  ? 
Hounds  they  led  -and  hawks  they  bore, 

And  held  both  park  and  chase. 
The  ladies  in  their  bowers  fair, 
Who  bound  with  gold  their  lovely  hair, 

And  winsome  were  of  face ; 


Eten  and  drounken,  and  maden  hem  glad ;  They  ate  and  drank  and  made  them  glad ; 


Here  lif  was  al  with  gamen  **  y-lad, 
Men  kneleden  hem  ^  biforen ; 

They  beren  hem  wel  swithe  heye ;  i" 

And  in  a  twincling  of  an  eye 
Here  soules  weren  forlorfin.^^ 

Were  is  that  lawhing  ^-  and  that  song, 
That  trayling  and  that  proude  gong,^^ 

Tho  havekes  ^^  and  tho  houndes  ? 
Al  that  joye  is  went  away, 
That  wele  ^^  is  comen  to  weylaway  ^^ 

To  manye  harde  stoundes.^^ 

Here  '"  paradis  they  nomen  ^*  here,^' 
And  nou  they  lyen  in  helle  y-fere ;  ^^ 

The  fyr  hit  brennes  ^^  evere : 
Long  is  ay,  and  long  is  o, 
Long  is  wy,  and  long  is  wo ; 

Thennes  ne  cometh  they  nevere. 


24 


^  where  are  ^  led  '  hawks  bore  ^  ladies 
^  their  ^  head-dress  ^  complexion  *  pleasure 
^  them     ^^  bore    themselves    ver>'    high     ^^  lost 


Their  life  was  all  with  pleasure  led, 

Men  khelt  unto  their  sway ; 
They  bore  themselves  full  haughty  and  high ; 
And  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 

Their  souls  were  lost  for  aye.  12 

Where  is  that  laughing  and  that  song. 
That  swaggering  step  that  strode  along, 

The  hawks  and  all  the  hounds  ? 
All  that  joy  is  passed  away, 
That  weal  is  turned  to  woe  for  aye. 

To  woe  that  hath  no  bounds.  18 

Their  heaven  they  had  ere  they  did  die, 
And  now  together  in  hell  they  lie ; 

The  fire  it  burneth  ever. 
Long  is  ay  !   and  long  is  oh  ! 
Long  is  wy  !   and  long  is  wo  ! 

Thence  escape  they  never.  24 

^^  laughing   ^^  gait   ^*  those   hawks   ^^  weal   ^^  alas 
^^  hours  ^*  took  ^^  here  ~°  together  ^^  bums 


THE    AGE    OF    CHAUCER 


WILLIAM   LANGLAND?  (i332?-i4oo?) 
PIERS  THE  PLOWMAN 
From  THE  PROLOGUE    (A  — TEXT) 


In  a  somer  sesun,     whon  softe  was  the  sonne, 
I  schop  ^  me  into  a  shroud,^     as  ^  I  a  scheep  ^ 

were ; 
In  habite  as  an  hermite     unholy  of  werkes, 
Wente  I  wyde  in  this  world     wondres  to  here  f 
Bote  ®  in  a  Mayes  morwnynge,     on  Malverne 

hulles,  ^  5 

Me  bifel  a  ferly,*     of  fairie,^  me-thoughte. 
I  was  wery,  forwandred,^"     and  wente  me 

to  reste 
Undur  a  brod  banke     bi  a  bourne  "  side ; 
And  as  I  lay  and  leonede     and  lokede  on  the 

watres, 
I  slumbrede  in  a  slepynge,     hit  ^^  swyed  '^  so 

murie."  lo 

Thenne    gon    I    meeten  ^^     a     mervelous 

sweven," 
That  I  was  in  a  wildernesse,     wuste  ^^  I  never 

where ; 
And  as  I  beheold  into  the  est     an  heigh  ^^  to 

the  Sonne, 
I   sauh  ^®   a    tour   on    a    toft,-*^     tryelyche  ^^ 

i-maket ; 
A  deop  dale  bineothe,     a  dungun  ther-inne,  15 
With  deop   dich   and  derk     and   dredful  of 

sighte. 
A  feir  feld  full  of  folk    fond  ^^  I  ther  bitwene, 
Of  alle   maner  of  men,     the  mene  and  the 

riche, 
Worchinge  ^^   and   wandringe     as   the  world 

asketh. 
Summe  putten  hem  ^^  to  the  plough,     plei- 

dcn  ^^  ful  seldene,-^  20 

In  settynge  and  in  sowynge     swonken  ^^  ful 

harde, 
And   wonnen   that  "*   theos   wasturs  ^^     with 

glotonye  distruen.^'^ 

^  shaped,  arrayed  ^  garment  ^  as  if  *  sheep 
*  hear  '' but  'hills  *  strange  thing  'enchant- 
ment ^'^  worn  out  with  wandering  "  burn,  brook 
'*  it   *'  whispered,    made    a    low    sound    ^*  merry 


In  a  summer  season     when  soft  was  the  sun- 
shine, 
I  got  me  into  a  garment     that  grew   on  a 

sheep's  back ; 
In  habit  like  a  hermit     unholy  in  living, 
I  went  wide  in  this  world     wonders  to  seek 

out. 
But  on  a  May  morning,      on  Malvern  hill- 
side, 5 
I  met  with  a  marvel,     of  magic  I  thought  it. 
I  was   weary,  forvv^andered,     and  went  to 

refresh  me 
Under  a  broad  bank     by  the  side  of  a  brooklet. 
And  as  I  lay  and  leaned  there     and  looked  on 

the  v/aters, 
I  slumbered  in  a  sleeping,     the  sound  was  so 

soothing.  ID 

Then  came  to  my  mind's  eye     a  marvellous 

vision. 
That  I  was  in  a  wilderness,     where  wist  I 

never ; 
And  as  I  looked  into  the  east     and  up  where 

the  sun  was, 
I  saw  a  tower  on  a  toft     trimly  constructed ; 
A  deep  dale  beneath     a  dungeon  within  it,  1.5 
With  deep  ditch  and  dark     and  dreadful  to 

look  on. 
A  fair  iield  full  of  folk     found  I  between  them, 
Of  all  manner  of  men,     the  mean  and  the 

mighty, 
Working    and    wandering         as    the    world 

asketh. 
Some  put  hand  to  the  plow,     played  very 

seldom,  20 

In  setting  and  sowing     sweated  thev  hardly. 
And  won  what  these  wasters     with  gluttony 

devour. 

^^did  I  dream  ^^  dream  *' knew  ^*  on  high  ^^  saw 
^^  field,  building-site  ^^  choicely,  skilfullj-  ^  found 
'^^  working  ^''  them  ^^  played  ^^  seldom  ^'  laboured 
2'*  what  ^'  these  wasters   ^°  destroy 


24 


PIERS    THE    PLOWMAN 


25 


And  summe  putten  hem  to  pruide,^      ap- 

paraylden  hem  ther-after.- 
In   cuntenaunce  ^    of    clothinge     comen   dis- 

gisid.^ 
To  preyeres  and  to  penaunce     putten  hem 

monye,^  25 

For  love  of  ur  ®  Lord     liveden  ful  streite, 
In  hope  for  to  have     hevene-riche  blisse  ;  '^ 
As  ancres  *  and  hermytes     that  holdeth  hem 

in  heore  ^  celles, 
Coveyte  ^"  not  in  cimtre     to  cairen  "  aboiite, 
For  non  likerous  lyflode  '-     heore  Hcam  ^^  to 

plese. 
And  summe  chosen  chaffare, "    to  cheeven  ^^ 

the  bettre,  31 

As  hit  semeth  to  ure  sighte     that  suche  men 

thryveth. 
And  summe,  murthhes  "^  to  maken,  as  mun- 

strals  cunne/^ 
And   gete   gold   with    here  ^    gle,     giltles,    I 

trowe; 
Bote   japers  ^^   and   jangelers/^     Judas   chil- 
dren, 
Founden    hem    fantasyes     and    fooles    hem 

maaden, 
And  habbeth  wit  at  heore  ^  wille     to  worchen 


vif  hem  luste. 


37 


That  ^^    Poul   precheth  of  hem,     I   dar   not 

preoven  ^  heere : 
Qui   loquitur    turpiloquiiim     he    is   Liiciferes 

hyne.  ^ 
Bidders  "^^     and     beggers         faste    aboute 

eoden,^^ 
Til  heor  bagges  and  heore  balies  ^®     weren 

bretful  i-crommet ;  -'  41 

'  Feyneden  hem  -*  for  heore  foode,     foughten 

atte  29  ale ; 
In  glotonye,  God  wot,     gon  heo  ^°  to  bedde 
And  ryseth  up  with  ribaudye  ^^     this  roberdes 

knaves ;  ^^ 
Sleep  and  sleughthe  ^^     suweth  ^  hem  evere. 
Pilgrimes    and    palmers       plihten  ^^    hem 

togederes  46 

For  to  seche  ^*  Seint  Jame     and  seintes  at 

Roome ; 
Wenten  forth  in  heore  wey     with  mony  wyse 

tales. 
And  hedden  ^"  leve  to  lyen     al  heore  lyf  aftir. 


And   some   pranked   them    in   pride,     ap- 
pareled them  accordingly, 

In  quaint  guise  of  clothing     came  they  dis- 
figured. 
To  prayers  and  to  penance     put  themselves 
many,  25 

All  for  love  of  our  Lord     lived  they  most 
strictly, 

In  hope  of  having     heaven's  bliss  after ; 

As  nuns  and  as  hermits    that  in  their  cells 
hold  them. 

Covet  not  careering     about  through  the  coun- 
try, 

With  no  lustful  luxuries     their  living  to  pam- 
per. _  30 
And  some  took  to  trade,     to  thrive  by  the 
better. 

As  to  our  sight  it  seemeth     that  such   men 
prosper. 
And  some,  merriments  to  make,     with  min- 
strels' cunning. 

And  get  gold  with  their  glee,     guiltless,  me- 
thinketh; 

But   jesters   and    jugglers,     Judas'   children, 

Forged    them   wild    fantasies     as   fools   pre- 
tended, 36 

Yet  have  wit  at  their    will    to  work,  were  they 
willing. 

What   Paid  preacheth  of  them     prove  here 
I  dare  not : 

Qui    loquitur    turpiloquium     he    is    Lucifer's 
henchman. 
Bidders  and  beggars     fast  about  bustled. 

Till  their  bags  and  their  bellies     were  brimful 
and  bulging;  41 

Faking  for  their  food,     and  fighting  at  the 
alehouse. 

In  gluttony,  God  wot,     go  they  to  slumber, 

And    rise    up    with    ribaldry,     these    robber 
rascals ; 

Sleep  and  sloth  too     pursue  them  forever.   45 
Pilgrims   and   palmers     pledged   them   to- 
gether 

To  seek  St.  James's     and  saints'  shrines  at 
Rome  too ; 

Went  they  forth  on  their  way     with  many 
wise  stories, 

x\nd  had  leave  to  be  liars     all  their  lives  after. 


^  pride  -  accordingly  ^  fashion  "*  came  disguised  ^^  what     ^  prove,    declare     ^^  servant     "^^  beggars 

^  many  ^  our   ^  the  joy  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ^5  ^,gj,j  26  bellies  ^^  brimful   crammed  ^s  shammed 

*  nuns    9  their   i"  desire   "  roam   ^  luxurious  food  29  ^t  the    ^^  go  they    ^^  ribaldry    ^'  these  robber 

^^  body  ^*  trade   ^^  thrive   ^^  amusements   i"  know  rascals  ^^  sloth  ^^  follow  ^^  plighted  ^^  seek  ^'  had 
how  ^*  jesters  "  buffoons  "^^  to  work  if  they  pleased 


26 


WILLIAM   LANGLAND 


^  Grete  lobres  -  and  longe,     that  loth  weore  to 

swynke,^  50 

Clotheden  hem  in  copes,     to  beo  knowen  for 

bretheren ; 
And    summe    schopen    hem    to  *    hermytes 

heore  ese  to  have. 
I  fond  there  freres,^     all  the  foure  ordres,  55 
Prechinge    the    peple     for    profyt    of    heore 

wombes,® 
Glosynge  ^  the  Gospel     as  hem  good  liketh,^ 
For  covetyse  of  copes     construeth  hit  ille ; 
For    monye  ^    of     this     maistres     mo  wen  "* 

clothen  hem  at  lyking, 
For     moneye  ^^     and     heore     marchaundie 

meeten  togedere ;  60 

Seththe  ^^  Charite  hath  be  "  chapmon/^     and 

cheef  to  schriven  ^^  lordes, 
Mony  ferlyes  han  ^^  bifalle     in  a  fewe  yeres. 
But  ^^  Holychirche  and  heo  '**     holde   bet  ^* 

togedere, 
The  moste  mischeef  on  molde  ^°     is  mountyng 

up  faste. 
Ther  prechede  a  pardoner,     as  ^^  he  a  prest 

were,  65 

And  brought  forth  a  bulle     with  bisschopes 

seles. 
And    seide    that    himself    mighte     asoylen  ^ 

hem  alle 
Of   falsnesse    and  fastinge     and    of    vouwes 

i-broken.2^  < 

The   lewede  ^^   men   levide  -^   him   wel     and 

likede  his  speche. 
And  comen  up  knelynge     to  kissen  his  bulle ; 
He   bonchede  ^^    hem    with    his  brevet     and 

blered  2"  heore  eiyen,-*  71 

And   raughte  ^^   with   his  ragemon  ^°     ringes 

and  broches. 
Thus   ye   giveth   oure  ^^   gold     glotonis  '^   to 

helpen ; 
And    leveth    hit    to    losels  ^^     that    lecherie 

haunten.^"* 
Weore    the    bisschop    i-blesset     and    worth 

bothe  his  eres,^''  75 

His  sel  shulde  not  be  sent     to  deceyve  the 

peple. 
Hit  is  not  al  bi  ^'^  the  bisschop     that  the  boye 

precheth,  ♦ 

Bote   the   parisch    prest    and    the    pardoner 

parte  the  selver 

^  /  have  omitted  two  lines,  which  probably  were  not 
in  the  earliest  version.  ^  lubbers  ^  labour  *  shaped 
them  to,  became  ^friars  ^  bellies  '^  interpreting 
"■"  according  to  their  own  desire  ^  many  ^^  may 
^^  money  ^^  since  ^^  been  ^^  trader  ^^  shrive,  confess 


Great  lubbers  and   long,  that   loth  were  to 

labour,  50 

Clothed  themselves  in  copes,     to  be  counted 

for  "brethren" ; 
And  some  entered  as  anchorites     their  ease 

for  to  purchase. 
I  found  there  the  friars,     all  the  four  orders, 
Preaching  to  the  people     for  profit  of  their 

bellies,  56 

Glossing  the  gospel     as  good  to  them  seemed. 
For  coveting  of  copes     construe  it  wrongly ; 
For  many  of  these  masters     may  dress  at 

their  fancy. 
For  money  and  their  merchandise     meet  oft 

together ;  60 

Since   Charity  hath  been  a  chapman,     and 

chiefly  to  shrive  nobles. 
Many  freaks  have  befallen     in  a  few  seasons. 
Save  Holy-Church  and  they     hold  better  to- 
gether, 
The  worst  mischief  in  the  world     is  mounting 

up  swiftly. 
There  too  preached  a  pardoner,  as  if  he  a 

priest  were,  65 

And  brought  forth  a  bull  — •     a  bishop  had 

signed  it  — 
And  said  that  himself  could     absolve  them 

aU  fully 
Of  falseness  in  fasting     and  of  vows  they  had 

broken. 
The  unlettered  believed  hmi  well     and  liked 

what  he  told  them, 
And    came    up   kneelmg     to    kiss   his  sealed 

paper ; 
He    banged    them    with    his    brevet         and 

blinded  their  vision. 
And  raked  in  with  his  rigmarole     rings  and 

brooches. 
Thus    ye    give    up    your    gold     gluttons    to 

pamper ; 
And  rain  it  on  rascals     that  revel  in  lewdness. 
Were   the   bishop   blessed     and   worth   both 

his  ears,  75 

His  seal  should  not  be  sent     to  deceive  thus 

the  people. 
But  the  blame  is  not  all  on  the  bishop     that 

the  boy  preaches. 
But  the  parish  priest  and  the  pardoner     part 

the  silver 

^^  many  wonders  have  ^^  unless  ^^  they  =  the  friars 
^^  better  ^"^  earth  ^^  as  if  ^^  absolve  ^^  broken  vows 
^^  ignorant  ^^  believed  ^^  banged  ^^  blinded  ^*  eyes 
2^  reached,  got  ^°  license  ^'  your  ^^  gluttons  ^  ras- 
cals ^^  practice  ^^  ears  '"'■'■       -     "  >'  -  '-   '-  -^ 


^^  it  is  not  all  the  fault  of 


PIERS   THE   PLOWMAN 


27 


That  the  pore  peple  of  the  parisch  schulde 

have     yif  that  heo  ne  weore.^ 
Persones  and  parisch  prestes     playneth  ^  to 

heore  bisschops  80 

That  heore  parisch  hath  ben  pore     seththe  ^ 

the  pestilence  tyme, 
To  have  a  lycence  and  leve     at  Londun  to 

dwelle, 
To  singe    ther    for    simonye,     for    selver    is 

swete. 
Ther  hovide  *  an  hundret     in  houves  ^  of 

selke, 
Serjauns  hit  semide     to  serven  atte  barre;  85 
Pleden  for  pens  *     and  poundes  the  lawe, 
Not  for  love  of  ur  Lord     unloseth  heore  lippes 

ones.'' 
Thou  mightest  beter  meten  *  the  myst     on 

Malverne  hulles 
Then   geten   a  mom  ^   of   heore   mouth     til 

moneye  weore  schewed ! 
I  saugh  ther  bisschops  bolde     and  bachilers 

of  divyne  i"  90 

Bicoome  clerkes  of  acounte     the  king  for  to 

serven. 
Erchedekenes    and    denis,"        that     dignite 

haven 
To    preche    the    peple     and    pore    men   to 

feede, 
Beon  lopen  '^  to  Londun,     bi  leve  of  heore 

bisschopes, 
To  ben  clerkes  of  the  Kynges  Benche,    the 

cuntre  to  schende.^^ 
Barouns    and    burgeis "     and    bondages  ^* 

alse  1®  96 

I  saugh  in  that  semble/'      as  ye  schul  heren 

aftur ; 
Bakers,  bochers,     and  breusters  ^^  monye ; 
WoUene-websteris  ^^    and  weveris  of  I}Tien ;  99 
TaiEours,  tanneris,       and  tokkeris '°  bothe; 
]\lasons,  minours,     and  mony  other  craftes ; 
Dykers,  and  delvers,     that  don  heore  dedes 

ille,2i 
And  driveth  forth  the  longe  day    with  "Deu 

save  Dam  Emme!" '^ 
Cookes   and   heore   knaves-^     cry  en    "Hote 

pies,  hote ! 
"Goode  gees  and  grys  I '■*     Go  we  dyne,  go 

we !" 
Taverners  to  hem  tolde     the  same  tale,     106 


That  the  poor  people  of  the  parish     should 

have  but  for  these  two. 
Parsons  and  parish  priests     complain  to  their 

bishops  go- 

That  their  parish  hath  been  poor     since  the 

pestilence  season. 
To  have  a  license  and  leave     in  London  to 

linger, 
To  sing  there  for  simony,     for  sweet  is  silver. 
There  hovered  a  hundred     in  hoods  of  silk 

stuff; 
It  seemed  they  were  sergeants     to  serve  in 

the  law  courts,  85 

To  plead  for  pennies     and  pounds  for  ver- 
dicts. 
Not  for  love  of  our  Lord     unloose  their  lips 

ever. 
Thou  couldst  better  measure  the  mist     on 

Malvern  hiE  sides 
Than  get  a  mum  of  their  mouths     till  money 

were  showed  them. 
I  saw  there  bishops  bold     and  bachelors 

of  divinity  90 

Become  clerks  of  account     and  king's  own 

servants. 
Archdeacons  and  deans,     whose  duty  binds 

them 
To  preach  to  the  people     and  poor  men  to 

care  for, 
Have  lighted  out  to  London,    b}'  leave  of  their 

bishops, 
To  be  clerks  of  the  King's  Bench,    the  country 

to  injure. 
Barons  and  burgesses     and  bondmen  also 
I   saw  in   that   assembly,     as  I   shaU   show 

later ;  97 

Bakers,  butchers,     and  brewers  many ; 
Woolen-weavers     and  weavers  of  linen  ; 
Tailors,  tanners,     and  tuckers  likewise  ;     100 
INIasons,  miners,     and  many  other  craftsmen ; 
Dikers    and    diggers     that    do    their    deeds 

badly, 
And  drive  forth  the  long  day     with  "Dieu 

save  Dame  Enime!" 
Cooks    and    their    cookboys     crying,    "Hot 

pies !  hot ! 
Good  geese  and  piglets!         Go  we  dine,  go 

we!"  los 

Tavern-keepers  told  them     a  tale  of  traffic. 


^  if  it  were  not  for  them  ^  complain  ^  since  ^  lin- 
gered °  hoods  ®  pence,  money  ^  once  *  thou 
mightst  more  easily  measure  ^  syllable  ^^  divinity 
^  deans  ^  have  run  ^^  injure  ^-  burgesses  ^^  bond- 


men '®  also  ^^  assembly  ^^  brewers  ^^  woolen- 
weavers  ^^  tuckers,  finishers  of  cloth  -^  that  do 
their  work  badly  ^A  popular  song  of  the  time. 
^^  boys  ^  pigs 


28                                               WILLIAM  LANGLAND 

With  wyn  of  Oseye  '     and  win  of  Gaskoyne,  With  wine  of  Alsace     and  wine  of  Gascon, 

Of  the  Ryn  ^  and  of  the  Rochel,     the  rost  to  Of  the  Rhine  and  the  Rochelle,     the  roast  to 

defye,^  digest  well. 

Al  this  I  saugh  slepynge,     and  seve  sithes  All  this  saw  I  sleeping,     and  seven  times 

more.  more. 

THE   FABLE  OF  BELLING  THE   CAT 
From  THE   PROLOGUE    (B  —  TEXT) 

With  that  ran  there  a  route  ^     of  ratones  ^  With   that   ran   there  a  rabble     of  rats  all 

at  ones,^  together, 

And   smale   mys  *   with   hem,^     mo    then   a  And  small   mice  with   them,     more  than  a 

thousande,  thousand, 

And  comen  ^^  to  a  conseille     for  here "  com-  And  came  to  a  counsel     for  their  common 

une  profit ;  profit ; 

For  a  cat  of  a  court e     cam  whan  hym  lyked,  For  a  cat  of  a  court   came  when  it  pleased  him, 

And  overlepe  hem  lyghtlich     and  laughte  ^^  And  overleaped  them  lightly     and  levied  on 

hem  at  his  wille,                                      150  them  freely,                                         150 

And    pleyde    with    hem    perilouslych     and  And  played  with  them  perilously     and  pushed 

possed  ^^  hem  aboute.  them  about  there. 

"For  doute"  of   dy verse  dredes^^     we  dar  " For  drede  of  divers  deeds     we  dare  not  once 

noughte  wel  loke  ;  look  up ; 

And  yif  ^^  we  grucche  ^"^  of  his  gamen,^^     he  wil  And  if  his  game  we  grudge  him,    he  will  grieve 

greve  us  alle,  us  also, 

Cracche  ^^  us,  or  clawe  us     and  in  his  cloches  ^^  Claw  us  or  clinch  us     and  in  his  clutches 

holde,  hold  us. 

That  us  lotheth  the  lyf     or  ^^  he  lete  us  passe.  Making  life  to  us  loathsome     ere  he  let  us 

Myghte  we  with  any  witte     his  wille  with-  scamper. 

stonde,                                                      156  Might  we  with  any  wisdom     his  wilfulness 

We  myghte  be  lordes  aloft     and  lyven  at  hinder,                                                  156 

owre  ese."  We  might  be  lords  aloft   and  live  at  our  liking." 

A    raton  ^    of    renon,^^     most    renable  "^^    of  A  rat  of  high  renown,     most  reasonable  of 

tonge,  discourse, 

Seide  for  a  sovereygne     help  to  hymselve :  ^^ —  Said  for  a  sovereign     help  for  their  sorrow  :  — 

"I  have  y-sein  ^®  segges,"  ^^  quod  he,     "in  the  "I  have  seen  swains,"  said  he,     "in  the  city 

cite  of  London  of  London 

Beren   beighes  ^^   f ul   brighte     abouten   here  Wear    circlets    most    splendid     about    their 

nekkes,  necks  swinging. 

And  some  colers  of  crafty  work ;     uncoupled  And  some  collars  of  crafty  work ;     uncoupled 

thei  wenden  ^'^                                         162  they  ramble                                         162 

Both  in  wareine  ^^  and  in  waste,    where  hem  Both    in    warren    and   in   waste   land,     e'en 

Icve  lyketh  ;  ^'  where'er  it  pleases ; 

And   otherwhile   thei  aren  elleswhere,     as   I  And  other  times  are  they  elsewhere,     as  I  am 

here  telle.  advised. 

Wer(;  there  a  belle  on  here  beighe,^^     bi  Jcsu,  Were  a  bell  borne  on  the  collar,     by  Jesu,  as 

as  me  thynkcth,  me  thinketh. 

Men  myghte  wite  ^'  where  thei  went,     and  One  might  wit  where  they  went,     and  away 

awei  renne !  ^■^                                          166  scamper!                                              166 

'  Alsatia  ^  Rhine  ^  digest  '*  seven  times  ^  crowd  ^*  eloquent    ^'^  themselves    ^^  seen    ^''  people   (here 

*  rats  ^  once  *  mice  "  them  ^^  came  ^'  their  '^  seized  dogs  are  meant)  ^  rings  ^'  go   ^'^  warren   ''  wher- 

"  pushed    ^*  fear  '*  dreads  '^  if  ^^  grudge  '*  sport  ever    they   jjlease    ''^  collar    ^^  know  ^*  run 
*'  scratch    ^^  clutches    ^^  before    ^  rat    ^^  renown 


PIERS    THE    PLOWMAN 


29 


And  right  so,"  quod  this  raton,     "reson  me 

sheweth 
To  bugge  ^  a  belle  of  brasse     or  of  brighte 

sylver 
And  knitten  on  a  colere     for  owre  comune 

profit, 
And  hangen  it  upon  the  cattes  hals ;  "^     than 

here  ^  we  mowen  * 
Where  *  he   ritt  ^   or   rest     or   rennet  h  '    to 

playe. 
And  yif  him  list  for  to  laike,*     thenne  loke 
we  mowen,  172 

And  peren  ^  in  his  presence     ther-while  hym 

plaie  liketh ;  ^^ 
And  yif  him  wrattheth,'^  be  y-war     and  his 
weye  shonye."  ^^ 
Alle  this  route  of  ratones     to  this  reson  thei 

assented.  175 

Ac  tho  ^^  the  belle  was  y-bought     and  on  the 

beighe  hanged, 
Ther  ne  was  ratoun  in  alle  the  route,     for  alle 

the  rewme  '■*  of  Fraunce, 
That  dorst  have  y-bounden  the  belle     aboute 

the  cattis  nekke, 
Ne  hangen  it  aboute  the  cattes  hals,    al  Enge- 

lond  to  Wynne ; 
And  helden  hem  imhardy  ^^    and  here  conseille 

feble,  180 

And  leten  ^^  here  laboure  lost     and  alle  here 

longe  studye. 
A  mous  that  moche  good     couthe,i^  as  me 

thoughte, 
Stroke  forth  sternly     and  stode  biforn  hem 

alle. 
And  to  the  route  of  ratones     reherced  these 

wordes : 
"Though  we  culled  ^^  the  catte     yut  '^  sholde 

ther  come  another  185 

To  cracchy  us  and  al  owre  kynde,     though  we 

croupe  -°  under  benches. 
For-thi  ^1  I  conseille  alle  the  comune     to  lat 

the  catte  worthe,^ 
And  be  we  never  so  bolde     the  belle  hym  to 

shewe ; 
For  I  herde  my  sire  seyn,^     is  sevene  yere 

y-passed, 
'  There  ^^  the  catte  is  a  kitoun     the  courte  is 

ful  elyng' ;  '^^  190 

That   witnisseth   Holi-write,     who-so   wil   it 

rede :  Ve  terrc  ubi  puer  rex  est,  ^^  &C. 

'  buy  -  neck  ^  hear  ^  may  ^  whether  ®  rides 
"  runs  *  if  he  wishes  to  play  ^  appear  ^^  when  he 
pleases  to  play  "  he  is  angry  ^^  shun  ^^  but  when 


And  right  so,"  said  this  rat  then,     "reason 

doth  counsel 
To  buy  a  bell  of  brass     or  of  bright  silver 
And  clasp    on   a   collar       for   our   common 

profit, 
And  knit  it  round  the  cat's  neck;     then  may 

we  know  clearly 
Whether  he  rides  or  rests     or  runs  to  disport 

him. 
And  if  he  pleases  to  play     then  rnay  we  press 

forward,  172 

And  appear  in  his  presence     while  playing 

him  pleases ; 
And  if  wrathful  he  be,  then  beware     and  his 

way  shun  well." 
All  this  rabble  of  rats     to  this  reasoning 

assented.  175 

But   when   the  bell  had  been  bought     and 

bound  on  the  collar, 
There  was  no  rat  in  all  the  rout     that,  for  all 

the  realm  of  France, 
Durst  have  bound  that  same  bell     about  the 

cat's  neck  there. 
Nor  have  hung  it  about  his  head,     to  have 

all  England ; 
And  found  themselves  fearful,     and  of  feeble 

counsel,  180 

And  allowed  their  labour  lost     and  their  long 

study. 
A  mouse  that  much  good     marked,  as  me- 

thinketh. 
Strode  forth  sternly     and  stood  out  before 

them. 
And  to  that  rabble  of  rats     rehearsed  this 

wisdom : 
"Though  we  killed  the  cat,     yet  would  there 

come  another  185 

To  catch  us  and  our  kin,     though  we  crept 

under  benches. 
Therefore  I  counsel  all  the  commons     to  let 

the  cat  flourish. 
And  be  we  never  so  bold     the  bell  for  to  show 

him ; 
For  I  heard  my  sire  say  —  'tis  seven  years 

since  then  — 
'  Where  the  cat  is  a  kitten     the  court  will  be 

ailing';  190 

That  witnesseth  Holy-writ,     whoso  will  read 

it :   Vae  terrae  ubi  puer  rex  est,  etc. 


"  realm  ^^  timid  *^  counted  *'  knew  *^  killed  "  yet 
20  should  creep  ^^  therefore  ^^  be  ^^  say  ^*  where 
^}  ailing  ^®  woe  to  the  land  where  the  king  is  a  boy 


30 


SIR    JOHN    MANDEVILLE 


For  may   no    renke  ^    there   rest    have     for 

ratones  bi  nyghte. 
The  while  he  caccheth  conynges  ^   he  coveiteth 

nought  owre  caroyne/ 
But  fet  *  hym   al   with  venesoun,*     defame 

we  hym  nevere. 
For  better  is  a  litel  losse     than  a  longe  sonve, 
The    mase  ^     amonge    us    alle     though     we 

mysse  ''  a  shrewe.*  196 

For    many    mannes    malt     we    mys    wolde 

destruye, 
And  also  ye  route  *  of  ratones     rende  mennes 

clothes, 
Nere  "  that  cat  of  that  courte     that  can  yow 

overlepe ; 
For  had  ye  rattes  yowre  wille,     ye  couthe  " 

nought  reule  ^^  yowre-selve.  200 

I  sey  for  me,"   quod  the  mous,     "I  se  so 

mykel  ^^  after, 
Shal  never   the   cat   ne   the  kitoun     bi   my 

conseille  be  greved, 
Ne  carpyng  "  of  this  coler     that  costed  ^^  me 

nevre. 
And  though  it  had  coste  me  catel.^*'    biknowen^^ 

it  I  nolde,^^ 
But  suffre  as  hym-self  wolde     to  do  as  hym 

liketh,  205 

Coupled  and  uncoupled     to  cacche  what  thei 

mowe.^^ 
For-thi  uche  -"  a  wise  wighte  I  warne     wite  ^i 

wel  his  owne."  — 
What  this  meteles  ^^  bemeneth,^     ye  men 

that  be  merye, 
Devine  ye,  for  I  ne  dar,^'*     bi  dere  God  in 

hevene ! 


For  rest  there  may  no  man  reap     for  rats  in 

the  night-time. 
While  that  he  catcheth  conies     he  coveteth 

not  our  carcases, 
But  feeds  him  all  with  venison,     defame  we 

him  never. 
For  better  is  a  little  loss     than  a  long  sorrow. 
The  maze  among  us  all     though  we  miss  one 

rascal.  196 

For   many   a   man's   malt     we   mice   would 

destroy. 
And  also  ye  rabble  of  rats     would  rend  men's 

clothing 
But  for  that  cat  of  that  court     that  can  over- 
leap you ; 
For  had  ye  rats  your  will,     ye  could  not  rule 

your  own  selves.  200 

I  say  for  me,"  said  that  mouse,     "I  see  so 

much  after, 
Shall  never  the  cat  nor  the  kitten     by  my 

counsel  be  grieved. 
Nor  chatter  of  this  collar     that  cost  me  noth- 
ing. 
And  though  it  had  cost  me  cash,     confess  it 

I  would  not, 
But  suffer  him  as  himself  would     to  do  as 

doth  please  him,  205 

Coupled  and  uncoupled     to  catch  all  they  are 

able. 
Therefore  every  v.'ise  wight  I  warn     to  watch 

well  his  havings."  — 
What  the  mystery  means  now,     ye   men 

that  are  merry. 
Divine  ye,  for  I  dare  not,     by  dear  God  of 

heaven ! 


SIR   JOHN   MANDEVILLE?  (d.  1371) 
THE  VOIAGE  AND   TRAVAILE   OF   SIR  JOHN  MAUNDEVILE,   KT. 

From   CHAP.    IV 


And  from  Ephesim  Men  gon  ^^  throghc  many 
lies  in  the  See,  unto  the  Cytee  of  Paterane, 
where  Seynt  Nicholas  was  born,  and  so  to 
Martha,  where  he  was  chosen  to  ben  ^^  Bis- 
schoppe  ;  and  there  growethe  right  gode  Wyn 
and  strong;  and  that  Men  callen  Wyn  of 
Martha.  And  from  thens  "  gon  Men  to  the 
lie  of  Crete,  that  the  Emperour  yaf  "^^  som- 

'  man,  person  ^  rabbits  ^  flesh  "feeds  ^game 
*  confusion  ^  get  rid  of  *  tyrant  ^  crowd  ^°  were 
it  not  for  "  could  ^^  rule  ^^  much  ^*  talking  1*  cost. 


And  from  Ephesus  men  go  through  many 
isles  in  the  sea  unto  the  city  of  Pateran,  where 
St.  Nicholas  was  born,  and  so  to  IVIartha, 
where  he  was  chosen  to  be  bishop ;  and  there 
groweth  right  good  wine  and  strong ;  and 
men  call  it  Wine  of  Martha.  And  from 
thence  go  men  to  the  isle  of  Crete,  which  the 
Emperor  gave  formerly  to  the  Genoese.     And 

^*'  property  ^^  confess  ^^  would  not  ^^  may  '^  each 
^1  keep  ^'  dream  ^'■^  means  ^'^  dare  not  ^^  go  ^^  be 
2"  thence  ^^  gave 


THE    VOIAGE    AND    TRAVAILE    OF    SIR    JOHN    MAUNDEVILE       31 


tyme '  to  Janeweys.-  And  Lhannc  passen 
Men  thorghe  the  Isles  of  Colos  and  of  Lango ; 
of  the  whiche  lies  Ypocras  was  Lord  offe. 
And  some  Men  seyn,^  that  in  the  He  of  Lango 
is  yit  ■•  the  Doughtre  of  Ypocras,  in  forme  and 
lykeness  of  a  gret  Dragoun,  that  is  a  hundred 
Fadme  '•"  of  lengthe,  as  Men  seyn  :  For  I  have 
not  seen  hire.  And  thei  of  the  Isles  callen 
hire.  Lady  of  the  Lond.®  And  sche  lyethe 
in  an  olde  castelle,  in  a  Cave,  and  schewethe  ' 
twj^es  or  thryes  in  the  Yeer.  And  sche  dothe 
none  harm  to  no  Man,  but-yif  ^  Men  don  hire 
harm.  And  sche  was  thus  chaunged  and 
transformed,  from  a  fair  Damysele,  in-to 
lyknesse  of  a  Dragoun,  be  ^  a  Goddesse,  that 
was  clept  ^^  Deane."  And  Men  seyn,  that 
sche  schalle  so  endure  in  that  forme  of  a 
Dragoun,  unto  the  tyme  that  a  Knyghte  come, 
that  is  so  hardy,  that  dar  come  to  hire  and  kiss 
hire  on  the  Mouthe:  And  then  schalle  sche 
turne  ayen  ^-  to  hire  owne  Kynde,"  and  ben  a 
Woman  ayen  :  But  aftre  that  sche  schalle  not 
liven  longe.  And  it  is  not  long  siththen,^^  that 
a  Knyghte  of  the  Rodes,  that  was  hardy  and 
doughty  in  Armes,  seyde  that  he  wolde 
kyssen  hire.  And  whan  he  was  upon  his 
Coursere,  and  wente  to  the  Castelle,  and 
entred  into  the  Cave,  the  Dragoun  lifte  up 
hire  Hed  ayenst  ^^  him.  And  whan  the 
Knyghte  saw  hire  in  that  Forme  so  hidous 
and  so  horrible,  he  fleyghe  ^^  awey.  And  the 
Dragoun  bare  ^'  the  Knyghte  upon  a  Roche,^^ 
mawgre  his  Hede;'^  and  from  that  Roche, 
sche  caste  him  in-to  tlfe  See :  and  so  was  lost 
bothe  Hors  and  Man.  And  also  a  yonge  ^° 
Man,  that  wiste  ^^  not  of  the  Dragoun,  wente 
out  of  a  Schipp,  and  wente  thorghe  the  He, 
til  that  he  come  to  the  Castelle,  and  cam  in  to 
the  Cave ;  and  wente  so  longe,  til  that  he 
fond  a  Chambre,  and  there  he  saughe  ^  a 
Damysele,  that  kembed  -^  hire  Hede,  and 
iokede  in  a  JSIyrour ;  and  sche  hadde  meche  ^* 
Tresoure  abouten  hire :  and  he  trowed,"  that 
sche  hadde  ben  a  comoun  Woman,  that 
dwelled  there  to  receyve  IVIen  to  Folye.  And 
he  abode,  tille  the  Damysele  saughe  the 
Schadewe  of  him  in  the  Myrour.  And  sche 
turned  hire  toward  him,  and  asked  hym, 
what  he  wolde.  And  he  seyde,  he  wolde  ben 
hire  Limman  ^^  or  Paramour.  And  sche  asked 
him,  yif  ^'  that  he  were  a  Knyghte.     And  he 

^  formerly,  once  upon  a  time  ^  the  Genoese  ^  say 
*  yet  ^  fathom  ^  land  '  appears  *  unless  *  by 
^"  called  "  Diana  ^  again,  back  ^^  nature  ^*  since 


then  men  pass  through  the  isles  of  Colos  and 
Lango;  of  the  which  isles  Hippocrates  was 
lord.  And  some  men  say  that  in  the  isle  of 
Lango  is  yet  the  daughter  of  Hippocrates, 
in  form  and  likeness  of  a  great  dragon  that  is 
a  hundred  fathoms  in  length,  as  men  say ;  for 
I  have  not  seen  her.  And  ihey  of  the  isles 
call  her  Lady  of  the  Land.  And  she  lieth  in 
an  old  castle,  in  a  cave,  and  appeareth  twice 
or  thrice  in  the  year.  And  she  doeth  no 
harm  to  any  man,  unless  men  do  harm  to  her. 
And  she  was  thus  changed  and  transformed 
from  a  fair  damsel  into  likeness  of  a  dragon  by 
a  goddess  that  was  called  Diana.  And  men 
say  that  she  shall  so  continue  in  that  form  of  a 
dragon  until  the  time  that  a  knight  shall  come 
who  is  so  hardy  that  he  dares  come  to  her  and 
kiss  her  on  the  mouth  :  and  then  shall  she  re- 
turn to  her  own  nature  and  be  a  woman  again : 
but  after  that  she  shall  not  live  long.  And  it 
is  not  long  since  that  a  knight  of  the  Rhodes 
that  was  hardy  and  doughty  in  arms  said  that 
he  would  kiss  her.  And  when  he  was  upon 
his  courser,  and  went  to  the  castle,  and 
entered  into  the  cave,  the  dragon  lifted  up  her 
head  against  him.  And  v\'hen  the  knight 
saw  her  in  that  form,  so  hideous  and  so  hor- 
rible, he  fled  away.  And  the  dragon  bore  the 
knight  upon  a  rock  despite  his  efforts;  and 
from  the  rock  she  cast  him  into  the  sea :  and 
so  was  lost  both  horse  and  man.  And  also  a 
young  man,  that  did  not  know  about  the 
dragon,  went  out  of  a  ship,  and  went  through 
the  isle  till  he  came  to  the  castle,  and  came 
into  the  cave ;  and  went  on  till  he  found  a 
chamber,  and  there  he  saw  a  damsel  that  was 
combing  her  hair  and  looking  in  a  mirror ;  and 
she  had  much  treasure  about  her :  and  he 
supposed  that  she  was  a  common  woman,  who 
dwelt  there  to  receive  men  to  folly.  And  he 
waited  till  the  damsel  saw  his  shadow  in  the 
mirror.  And  she  turned  herself  toward  him. 
and  asked  him  what  he  wished.  And  he  said 
he  would  be  her  lover  or  paramour.  And 
she  asked  him  if  he  were  a  knight.  And  he 
said,  "Nay."  And  then  she  said  that  he 
could  not  be  her  lover :  but  she  bade  him  go 
back  to  his  fellows  and  make  himself  a^knight, 
and  come  again  upon  the  morrow,  and  she 
would  come  out  of  the  cave  before  him ;  and 
then  he  should  come  and  kiss  her  on   the 

^^  against  ^^  fled  ^^  bore  ^*  rock  ^®  despite  his  head 
( =  despite  all  he  could  do)  -^  3'oung  *^  knew  ^  saw 
^^  combed  ^^much  ^^  believed,  thought  ^''  lover  ^^if 


32 


SIR    JOHN    MANDEVILLE 


seyde,  nay.  And  than  sche  seyde,  that  he 
myghte  not  ben  hire  Lemman :  ^  But  sche 
bad  him  gon  ayen  ^  unto  his  Felowes,  and 
make  him  Knyghte,  and  come  ayen  upon  the 
Morwe,  and  sche  scholde  come  out  of  the  Cave 
before  him  ;  and  thanne  come  and  kysse  hire 
on  the  mowthe,  and  have  no  Drede ;  "for  I 
schalle  do  the  no  maner  harm,  alle  be  it  that 
thou  see  me  in  Lyknesse  of  a  Dragoun.  For 
thoughe  thou  see  me  hidouse  and  horrible 
to  loken  onne,  I  do  ^  the  to  wytene,*  that  it  is 
made  be  Enchauntement.  For  withouten 
doute,  I  am  non  other  than  thou  seest  now, 
a  Woman ;  and  therfore  drede  the  noughte. 
And  yif  thou  kysse  me,  thou  schalt  have  alle 
this  Tresoure,  and  be  my  Lord,  and  Lord  also 
of  alle  that  He."  x\nd  he  departed  fro  hire 
and  wente  to  his  Felowes  to  Schippe,  and  leet  ^ 
make  him  Knyghte,  and  cam  ayen  upon  the 
JMorwe,  for  to  kysse  this  Damysele.  And 
whan  he  saughe  hire  comen  ®  out  of  the  Cave, 
in  forme  of  a  Dragoun,  so  hidouse  and  so  hor- 
rible, he  hadde  so  grete  drede,  that  he 
fleyghe  ''  ayen  to  the  Schippe ;  and  sche 
folewed  him.  And  whan  sche  saughe,  that 
he  turned  not  ayen,  sche  began  to  crye,  as  a 
thing  that  hadde  meche  **  Sorwe :  and  thanne 
sche  turned  ayen,  in-to  hire  Cave ;  and  anon 
the  Knighte  dyede.  And  siththen  ^  hidre- 
wards,^°  myghte  no  Knighte  se  hire,  but  that 
he  dyede  anon.  But  whan  a  Knyghte  com- 
ethe,  that  is  so  hardy  to  kisse  hire,  he  schalle 
not  dye ;  but  he  schalle  turne  the  Damysele 
in-to  hire  righte  Forme  and  kyndeiy  ^^  Schapp, 
and  he  schal  be  Lord  of  alle  the  Contreyes 
and  lies  aboveseyd. 


mouth,  and  have  no  dread;  "for  I  shall  do 
thee  no  manner  of  harm,  albeit  that  thou  see 
me  in  likeness  of  a  dragon.  For  though  thou 
see  me  hideous  and  horrible  to  look  upon,  I 
give  thee  to  know  that  it  is  caused  by  en- 
chantment. For  without  doubt  I  am  none 
other  than  thou  seest  now,  a  woman ;  and 
therefore  dread  thee  naught.  And  if  thou 
kiss  me,  thou  shalt  have  all  this  treasure,  and 
be  my  lord  and  lord  also  of  all  the  isle." 
And  he  departed  from  her  and  went  to  his 
fellows  on  the  ship,  and  had  himself  made  a 
knight,  and  came  back  upon  the  morrow  to 
kiss  the  damsel.  And  when  he  saw  her  come 
out  of  the  cave,  in  the  form  of  a  dragon,  so 
hideous  and  so  horrible,  he  had  so  great  dread 
that  he  fled  back  to  the  ship ;  and  she  fol- 
lowed him.  And  when  she  saw  that  he  turned 
not  back,  she  began  to  cry,  as  a  thing  that  had 
great  sorrow :  and  then  she  turned  back  into 
her  cave ;  and  at  once  the^knight  died.  And 
from  then  until  now  no  knight  has  been  able 
to  see  her  but  that  he  died  very  soon.  But 
when  a  knight  comes  that  is  so  bold  as  to  kiss 
her,  he  shall  not  die ;  but  he  shall  turn  the 
damsel  into  her  right  form  and  natural  shape, 
and  he  shall  be  lord  of  all  the  countries  and 
isles  abovesaid. 


From   CHAP.   XXVII 


In  the  Lond  of  Prestre  John  ben  many 
dyverse  thinges  and  many  precious  Stones,  so 
grete  and  so  large  that  men  maken  of  hem  ^^ 
\'esselle;  ^^  as  Plateres,  Dissches,  and  Cuppes. 
And  many  other  marveylles  ben  there ;  that 
it  were  to  ^*  combrous  and  to  ^*  long  to  putten 
it  in  scripture  ^^  of  Bokes. 

But  of  the  princypalle  Yles  and  of  his 
Estate  and  of  his  Lawe  I  schalle  telle  you 
som  paftye.^''  This  Empcrour  Prestre  John  is 
Cristene  ;  and  a  gret  partie  of  his  Contree  also  : 
but  yit  thei  have  not  alle  the  Articles  of  oure 
Feythe,'^  as  wee  have.  Thei  beleven  wcl  in 
the  Fadre,  in  the  Sone,  and  in  the  Holy  Cost : 

'  lover  ^  back  ^  cause  *  know  ^  let  *  come 
'  fled  *  much  ®  since  ^^  till  now  "  natural  '^  them 


In  the  land  of  Prester  John  are  many  di- 
verse things,  and  many  precious  stones  so 
great  and  so  large  that  men  make  of  them 
vessels ;  as  platters,  dishes  and  cups.  And 
many  other  marvels  are  there ;  that  it  were 
too  cumbrous  and  too  long  to  put  it  in  the 
writing  of  books. 

But  of  the  principal  isles  and  of  his  estate 
and  of  his  law  I  shall  tell  you  some  part. 
This  emperor  Prester  John  is  Christian ;  and 
a  great  part  of  his  country  also  :  but  yet  they 
have  not  all. the  articles  of  our  faith,  as  we 
have.  They  believe  well  in  the  Father,  in  the 
Son,  and  in  the  Holy  Ghost :  and  they  are  very 

^^  vessels     ^'^  too     ^*  writing     ^^  part     ^''  religion 


THE    VOIAGE   AND    TRAVAILE   OF    SIR    JOHN   MAUNDEVILE      33 


and  thei  ben  fuUe  devoute  and  righte  trewe  on^ 
to  another.  And  thei  sette  not  be  ^  no 
Barettes,^  ne  be  Cawteles,*  ne  of  no  Disceytes.^ 
And  he  hathe  undre  him  72  Provynces;  and 
in  every  Provynce  is  a  Kyng.  And  theise 
Kynges  han  ^  Kynges  undre  hem ;  and  alle 
ben  tributaries  to  Prestre  John.  And  he 
hathe  in  his  Lordschipes  many  grete  mar- 
veyles.  For  in  his  Contree  is  the  See  that 
men  clepen  '  the  Gravely  ^  See,  that  is  alle 
Gravelle  and  Sond  ^  with-outen  ony  drope  of 
Watre ;  and  it  ebbethe  and  flowethe  in  grete 
\\  awes/"  as  other  Sees  don;  and  it  is  never 
stille  ne  in  pes"  in  no  manner  ^^  cesoun.^^ 
And  no  man  may  passe  that  See  be  Navye  ^^ 
ne  be  no  maner  of  craft :  ^^  and  therfore  may 
no  man  knowe  what  Lond  is  beyond  that  See. 
And  alle-be-it  that  it  have  no  Watre.  yit  men 
fynden  ^^  there-in  and  on  the  Bankes  fuUe  gode 
Fissche  of  other  maner  of  kynde  and  schappe 
thanne  men  fynden  in  ony  other  See  ;  and  thei 
ben  of  right  goode  tast  and  delycious  to 
mannes  mete. 

And  a  3  journeys  long  fro  that  See,  ben  gret 
Mountaynes ;  out  of  the  whiche  gothe  "  out  a 
gret  Flood, ^*  that  comethe  out  of  Paradys  ;  and 
it  is  fulle  of  precious  Stones,  withouten  ony 
drope  of  Water  ;  and  it  rennethe  ^^  thorghe  the 
Desert,  on  that  -"  o  ^  syde,  so  that  it  makethe 
the  See  gravely ;  and  it  berethe  i"  in-to  that 
See,  and  there  it  endethe.  And  that  Flome  ^^ 
rennethe  also  3  dayes  in  the  Woke,-^  and 
bryngethe  with  him  grete  Stones  and  the 
Roches  22  also  therewith,  and  that  gret  plentee. 
And  anon  as  thei  ben  entred  in-to  the  gravely 
See,  thei  ben  seyn  ^  no  more,  but  lost  for  evere 
more.  And  in  tho  3  dayes  that  that  Ryvere 
rennethe  no  man  dar  -^  entren  in-to  it :  but 
in  the  other  dayes  men  dar  entren  wel  ynow.-^ 
Also  beyonde  that  Flome, ^^  more  upward  to 
the  Desertes,  is  a  gret  Pleyn  alle  gravelly 
betwene  the  Mountaynes ;  and  in  that  Playn 
every  day  at  the  Sonne  risynge  begynnen  to 
growe  smale  Trees ;  and  thei  growen  til 
mydday,  berynge  Frute ;  but  no  man  dar 
taken  of  that  Frute,  for  it  is  a  thing  of 
Fayrye.^®  And  aftre  mydday  thei  discrecen  ^^ 
and  entren  ayen  ^^  in-to  the  Erthe  ;  so  that  at 
the  goynge  doun  of  the  Sonne  thei  apperen  no 
more ;  and  so  thei  don  every  day :  and  that 
is  a  gret  marvaylle. 

*  one  ^  set  not  by  ( =  do  not  practice)  ^  frauds 
*  tricks  ^  deceits  ^  have  ^  call  ^  gravelly  ®  sand 
*"  waves    "  peace     ^  kind  of     ^^  season     ^*  ship 


devout  and  very  true  one  to  another.  And 
they  do  not  practice  any  tricks,  or  frauds,  or 
deceits.  And  he  hath  under  him  seventy- 
two  provinces ;  and  in  every  province  is  a 
king.  And  these  kings  have  kings  under 
them;  and  all  are  tributaries  to  Prester 
John.  And  he  hath  in  his  lordships  many 
great  marvels.  For  in  his  country  is  the  sea 
that  men  call  the  Gravelly  Sea,  that  is  all 
gravel  and  sand,  without  any  drop  of  water ; 
and  it  ebbeth  and  floweth  in  great  waves,  as 
other  seas  do ;  and  it  is  never  still  nor  in 
peace  in  any  season.  And  no  man  may  pass 
that  sea  by  ship  or  by  any  kind  of  craft :  and 
therefore  may  no  man  know  what  land  is 
beyond  that  sea.  And  albeit  that  it  have  no 
water,  yet  men  find  therein  and  on  the  banks 
very  good  tish  of  different  kinds  and  shapes 
from  those  that  men  find  in  any  other  sea  ;  and 
they  are  all  very  good  to  eat  and  delicious  for 
man's  food. 


And  three  days'  distance  from  that  sea  are 
great  mountains ;  out  of  which  flows  a  great 
river,  that  comes  from  Paradise  ;  and  it  is  full 
of  precious  stones,  without  any  drop  of  water ; 
and  it  runs  through  the  desert,  on  the  one  side, 
so  that  it  makes  the  sea  gravelly ;  and  it 
flows  into  the  sea  and  ends  there.  And  this 
river  runs  three  days  in  the  week,  and  brings 
with  it  great  stones  and  rocks  also,  and  that 
in  great  abundance.  And  as  soon  as  they 
have  entered  into  the  Gravelly  Sea,  they  are 
seen  no  more  but  are  lost  forever.  And 
during  the  three  days  that  the  river  runs,  no 
man  dares  enter  into  it :  but  during  the  other 
days  one  may  enter  well  enough.  Also 
beyond  that  river,  further  upward  towards  the 
deserts,  is  a  great  plain  of  gravel  between  the 
mountains ;  and  in  that  plain,  every  day  at 
the  rising  of  the  sun,  there  begin  to  grow  small 
trees ;  and  they  grow  till  midday,  bearing 
fruit ;  but  no  man  dares  take  any  of  that 
fruit,  for  it  is  a  thing  of  faerie.  And  after 
midday  they  decrease  and  enter  again  into 
the  earth ;  so  that  at  the  setting  of  the  sun 
they  appear  no  more ;  and  so  they  do  every 
day :  and  that  is  a  great  marvel. 


^^  device    ^^  find    "goes,   flows 
2"  the   ^^  week   ^^  rocks    ^  seen 
2^  magic  ^^  decrease  ^^  again 


^*  river     '^  runs 
^^  enough 


1     *°  nv« 
^*  dare 


34 


JOHN    WICLIF 


JOHN   WICLIF    (d.  1384) 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  MATHEW 

(first  version) 

CHAP.  V 

Jhesus  forsothe/  seynge  ^  cumpanyes,  wente 
up  in-to  an  hill ;  and  when  he  hadde  sete,^  his 
disciplis  camen  nighe  to  hym.  And  he, 
openynge  his  mouthe,  taughte  to  hem,  say- 
inge,  "Blessid  be  the  pore  in  spirit,  for  the 
kingdam  in  hevenes  is  heren.^  Blessid  be 
mylde  men,  for  thei  shuln  ^  welde  ^  the  eerthe. 
Blessid  be  thei  that  mournen,  for  thei  shuln  ^ 
be  comfortid.  Blessid  be  thei  that  hungren 
and  thristen  rightwisnesse,"  for  thei  shuln  ben 
fulfiUid.  Blessid  be  mercyful  men,  for  thei 
shuln  gete  mercye.  Blessid  be  thei  that  ben  ^ 
of  clene  herte,  for  thei  shuln  see  God.  Blessid 
be  pesible  men,  for  thei  shuln  be  clepid  ^  the 
sonys  of  God.  Blessid  be  thei  that  suffren 
persecucioun  for  rightwisnesse,''  for  the  kyng- 
dam  of  hevenes  is  herun.'*  Yee  shulen  *  be 
blessid,  when  men  shulen  curse  you,  and 
shulen  pursue  you,  and  shulen  say  al  yvel  ^° 
ayeins  ^^  you  leezing,^-  for  me.  Joye  ^^  yee 
with-yn-forth,"  and  glade  yee  with-out-forth, 
for  youre  meede  ^^  is  plentevouse  ^^  in  hevenes  ; 
forsothe  so  thei  han  ^'  pursued  and  ^^  prophetis 
that  weren  before  you.  Yee  ben  ^  salt  of  the 
erthe ;  that  yif  ^®  the  salt  shal  vanyshe  awey, 
wherynne  shal  it  be  saltid  ?  To  no  thing  it  is 
worth  over,-"  no  ^^  bot  ^^  that  it  be  sent  out, 
and  defoulid  of  men.  Ye  ben  ^  light  of  the 
world ;  a  citee  putt  on  an  hill  may  nat  be  hid  ; 
nether  men  tendyn  -^  a  lanterne,  and  putten 
it  undir  a  busshel,  but  on  a  candilstike,  that 
it  yeve  ^*  light  to  allc  that  ben  in  the  hous. 
So  shyyne  ^^  youre  light  before  men,  that  thei 
see  youre  good  werkis,  and  glorifie  youre  Fadir 
that  is  in  hevens.  Nyle  ^'''  ye  gesse,  or  deme,^' 
that  Y  came  to  undo,  or  distruye,  the  lawe, 
or  the  prophetis ;  I  came  not  to  undo  the  lawe, 
but  to  fulfiUe.  Forsothe  ^^  I  say  to  you 
trewthe,  til  heven  and  erthe  passe,  oon  ^^ 
i,  that  is  leste  •'"'  lettre,  or  titil,  shal  nat  passe 
fro  the  lawe,  til  allc  thingis  be  don.  Therfore 
he  that  undoth,  or  breketh,  oon  of  these  leste  ^" 
maundcmentis,^^  and  techith  thus  men,  shal 
be  clepid  ■*-  the  leste  in  the  rewme  ■*■'  of  hevenes ; 

^  indeed  ^  seeing  ^  sat  ■*  theirs  ^  shall  ®  rule 
^  righteousness  **  are  ^  called  ^°  evil  ^^  against 
^  lying  '^  rejoice  ^''  with-yn-forth  =  inwardly 
^*  reward  '*"  plenteous  "  have  ^**  also  '^  if  -"  besides 


THE    GOSPEL   OF   MATHEU 

(second  version) 

CAP.    V 

And  Jhesus,  seynge  ^  the  puple,  wente  up  in- 
to an  hil ;  and  whanne  he  was  set,  hise  dis- 
ciplis camen  to  hym.  And  he  openyde  his 
mouth,  and  taughte  hem,  and  seide,  "Blessed 
ben  pore  men  in  spirit,  for  the  kyngdom  of 
hevenes  is  heme.'*  Blessid  ben  mylde  men, 
for  thei  schulen  ^  welde  ^  the  erthe.  Blessid 
ben  thei  that  mornen,  for  thei  schulen  be 
coumfortid.  Blessid  ben  thei  that  hungren 
and  thristen  rightwisnesse,  for  thei  schulen 
be  fulfillid.  Blessid  ben  merciful  men,  for  thei 
schulen  gete  merci.  Blessid  ben  thei  that 
ben  of  clene  herte,  for  thei  schulen  se  God. 
Blessid  ben  pesible  men,  for  thei  schulen  be 
clepid  ^  Goddis  children.  Blessid  ben  thei 
that  suffren  persecusioun  for  rightfulnesse,  for 
the  kingdam  of  hevenes  is  heme.''  Ye  schulen 
be  blessid,  whanne  men  schulen  curse  you, 
and  schulen  pursue  you,  and  shulen  seie  al 
yvel  ^^  ayens  "  you  liynge,  for  me.  Joie  ^^ 
ye,  and  be  ye  glad,  for  youre  meede  ''^  is  plen- 
tevouse ^'^  in  hevenes ;  for  so  thei  han  ^^  pur- 
sued also  profetis  that  weren  bifor  you.  Ye 
ben  salt  of  the  erthe  ;  that  if  the  salt  vanysche 
awey,  whereynne  schal  it  be  saltid?  To  no 
thing  it  is  worth  overe,^"  no  ^^  but  ^^  that  it  be 
cast  out,  and  be  defoulid  of  men.  Ye  ben 
light  of  the  world ;  a  citee  set  on  an  hil  may 
not  be  hid ;  ne  me  teendith  ^^  not  a  lanterne, 
and  puttith  it  undur  a  busschel,  but  on  a 
candilstike,  that  it  yyve  hght  to  alle  that  ben 
in  the  hous.  So  schyne  youre  light  befor 
men,  that  thei  se  youre  goode  werkis,  and 
glorifie  youre  Fadir  that  is  in  hevenes.  Nil  "^^ 
ye  deme,'^^  that  Y  cam  to  undo  the  lawe,  or 
the  profetis  ;  Y  cam  not  to  undo  the  lawe,  but 
to  fulfdle.  Forsothe  Y  seie  to  you,  til  hevene 
and  erthe  passe,  o  ^^  lettir  or  o  -^  titel  shal 
not  passe  fro  the  lawe,  til  alle  thingis  be  doon. 
Thcrfor  he  that  brekith  oon  of  these  leeste  ^° 
maundementis;"  and  techith  thus  men,  schal 
be  clepid  ■'"  the  lesle  in  the  rewme  ^  of  hevenes ; 
but  he  that  doith,  and  techith,  schal  be  clepid 
greet  in  the  kyngdom  of  hevenes.     And  Y  seie 

^^  not  ^^  but  ^^  light  ^*  give  ^^  Subj.  of  command 
^^  do  not,  literally,  wish  not  (Lat.  nolite)  ^^  think 
^  verily  ^^  one  ^'^  least  ^^  commandments  ^^  called 
*^  kingdom 


THE    GOSPEL    OF    MATHEW 


35 


forsothe,  this^  that  doth,  and  techith,  shal 
be  clepid  grete  in  the  kyngdame  of  hevenes. 
Forsothe  Y  say  to  you,  no-but-yif  -  youre 
rightwisnesse  shal  be  more  plentevoiise  than 
of  scribis  and  Pharisees,  yee  shulen  not  entre 
in-to  kyngdam  of  hevenes.  Yee  han  ^  herde 
that  it  is  said  to  olde  men.  Thou  shal  nat 
slea;  forsothe  he  that  sleeth,  shal  be  gylty 
of  dome.^  But  I  say  to  you,  that  evereche  ^ 
that  is  wrothe  to  his  brother,  shal  be  gylty  of 
dome  ;  forsothe  he  that  shal  say  to  his  brother, 
Racha,  that  is,  a  word  of  scorn,  shal  be  gylty 
of  counseile ;  ^  sothly  he  that  shal  say,  Fool, 
that  is,  a  word  of  dispisynge,  shal  be  gylti 
of  the  lijr  '  of  helle.  Therfore  yif  thou  offrist 
thi  yiit  *  at  the  auter,^  and  there  shalt  by- 
thenke,^"  that  thi  brother  hath  sum-what 
ayeins  thee,  leeve  there  thi  yift  before  the 
auter,  and  go  first  for  to  be  recounseilid,  or 
acordid,  to  thi  brother,  and  thanne  thou  cum- 
mynge  shalt  ofifre  thi  yifte.  Be  thou  consent- 
ynge  to  thin  adversarie  soon,  the  whijle  thou 
art  in  the  way  with  hym,  lest  peraventure  thin 
adversarie  take  ^^  thee  to  the  domesman,^-  and 
the  domesman  take  thee  to  the  mynystre,^^ 
and  thpu  be  sente  in-to  prisoun.  Trewely  I 
say  to  thee.  Thou  shalt  not  go  thennes,  til 
thou  3^elde  "  the  last  ferthing.  Ye  han  herd, 
that  it  was  said  to  olde  men,  Thou  shalt  nat 
do  lecherye.  Forsothe  Y  say  to  you,  for- 
why  ^^  every  man  that  seeth  a  w'omman  for  to 
coveite  hire,  now  he  hath  do  lecherie  by  hire 
in  his  herte.  That  yif  thi  right  eiye  sclaundre^*' 
thee,  puUe  it'out,  and  cast  it  fro  thee;  for  it 
speedith  i"  to  thee,  that  oon  ^^  of  thi  membris 
perishe,  than  al  thi  body  go  in-to  helle.  And 
yif  thi  right  hond  sclaundre  thee,  kitt  ^^  it 
awey,  and  cast  it  fro  thee ;  for  it  spedith  to 
thee,  that  oon  of  thi  membris  perishe,  than 
that  al  thi  body  go  in-to  helle.  Forsothe  it  is 
said,  Who-evere  shal  leeve  his  wyf ,  yeve  -" 
he  to  hir  a  libel,  that  is,  a  litil  boke,  of  for- 
sakyng.  Sothely  Y  say  to  you,  that  every 
man  that  shal  leeve  his  wyf,  outaken  -^  cause 
of  fornicacioun,  he  makith  hire  do  lecherie 
and  he  that  weddith  the  forsaken  wijf,  doth 
avoutrie.^  Efte-soonys  ^^  yee  han  herd,  that 
it  was  said  to  olde  men.  Thou  shalt  not  for- 
swere,  sothely  2*  to  the  Lord  thou  shalt  yeeld  ^* 
thin  oethis.-^     Forsothe  Y  say  to  you,  to  nat 

^  he  ^  unless  ^  have  *  judgement  ^  every  one 
^  the  council  ^  fire  *  gift  ^  altar  ^'^  rernember 
^  deliver  '^  judge  ^^  officer  ^'^  pay  ^^  that  ^^  slander 


to  you,  that  but  your  rightfulnesse  be  more 
plentevouse  than  of  scribis  and  of  Farisees,  ye 
schulen  not  entre  into  the  kyngdom  of  hevenes. 
Ye  han  ^  herd  that  it  was  seid  to  elde  men, 
Thou  schalt  not  slee  ;  and  he  that  sleeth,  schal 
be  gilti  to  doom.''  But  Y  seie  to  you,  that  ech 
man  that  is  wrooth  to  his  brothir,  schal  be 
gilti  to  doom  ;  and  he  that  seith  to  his  brother, 
Fy !  schal  be  gilti  to  the  counseil ;  ^  but  he 
that  seith.  Fool,  schal  be  gilti  to  the  fier  of 
helle.  Therfor  if  thou  offrist  thi  yifte  *  at  the 
auter, ^  and  ther  thou  bithenkist,  that  thi 
brothir  hath  sum-what  ayens  thee,  leeve 
there  thi  yifte  bifor  the  auter,  and  go  first  to 
be  recounselid  to  thi  brothir,  and  thanne  thou 
schalt  come,  and  schalt  offre  thi  yifte.  Be 
thou  consentynge  to  thin  adversarie  soone, 
while  thou  art  in  the  weie  with  hym,  lest 
peraventure  thin  adversarie  take  "  thee  to  the 
domesman, ^2  and  the  domesman  take  thee  to 
the  mj'nystre,^^  and  thou  be  sent  in-to  prisoun. 
Treuli  Y  seie  to  thee,  thou  shalt  not  go  out  fro 
thennus,  til  thou  yelde  ^^  the  last  ferthing. 
Ye  han  herd  that  it  was  seid  to  elde  me». 
Thou  schalt  do  no  letcherie.-  But  Y  seie  to 
you,  that  every  man  that  seeth  a  womman  for 
to  coveite  hir,  hath  now  do  letcherie  bi  hir  in 
his  herte.  That  if  thi  right  iye  sclaundre  ^^ 
thee,  pulle  hym  out,  and  caste  fro  thee ;  for 
it  spedith  ^'^  to  thee,  that  oon  ^*  of  thi  membris 
perische,  than  that  al  thi  bodi  go  in-to  helle. 
And  if  thi  right  hond  sclaundre  thee,  kitte  ^^ 
hym  aweye,  and  caste  fro  thee ;  for  it  spedith 
to  thee  that  oon  ^^  of  thi  membris  perische, 
than  that  al  thi  bodi  go  in-to  helle.  And  it 
hath  be  seyd,  Who-evere  leeveth  his  wiif ,  3yve 
he  to  hir  a  libel  of  forsakyng.  But  Y  seie  to 
you,  that  every  man  that  leeveth  his  w'iif, 
outtakun  cause  of  fornycacioun,  makith  hir 
to  do  letcherie,  and  he  that  weddith  the  for- 
sakun  wiif,  doith  avowtrye.  Eftsoone  ye  han 
herd,  that  it  was  seid  to  elde  men,  Thou  schalt 
not  forswere,  but  thou  schalt  yelde  thin  othis 
to  the  Lord.  But  Y  seie  to  you,  that  ye 
swere  not  for  ony  thing ;  nethir  bi  hevene,  for 
it  is  the  trone  of  God  ;  nether  bi  the  erthe,  for 
it  is  the  stole  8f  his  feet ;  nether  bi  Jerusalem, 
for  it  is  the  citee  of  a  greet  kynge ;  nether 
thou  shalt  not  swere  bi  thin  heed,  for  thou 
maist  not  make  oon  heere  white  ne  blacke; 

1^  protiteth  ^^  one  ^^  cut  -"  give  (subj.  of  com- 
mand) ^1  except  ^^  adultery  ^^  again  ^  truly 
^°  oaths 


36 


JOHN    WICLIF 


swere  on  al  manere;  neither  by  hevene,  for 
it  is  the  trone  of  God ;  nether  by  the  erthe, 
for  it  is  the  stole  of  his  feet ;  neither  by  Jeru- 
salem, for  it  is  the  citee  of  a  greet  kyng; 
neither  thou  shalt  swere  by  thin  heved,^  for 
thou  maist  not  make  oon  heer  whyt  or  blak ; 
but  be  youre  word  yea,  yea ;  Nay,  nay ;  for- 
sothe  that  that  is  more  than  this,  is  of  yvel. 
Yee  han  herde  that  it  is  said,  Eiye  -  for  eiye,^ 
toth  for  toth.  But  Y  say  to  you,  to  nat  ayein- 
stonde  ^  yvel ;  but  yif  any  shal  smyte  thee 
in  the  right  cheeke,  yeve  to  hym  and  *  the 
tother ;  and  to  hym  that  wole  stryve  with 
thee  in  dome,"  and  take  awey  thi  coote,  leeve 
thou  to  hym  and  *  thin  over-clothe  ;  and  who- 
evere  constrayneth  thee  a  thousand  pacis,  go 
thou  with  hym  other  tweyne.  Forsothe  yif  ^ 
to  hym  that  axith  of  thee,  and  turne  thou 
nat  awey  fro  hym  that  wol  borwe  ''  of  thee. 
Yee  han  herd  that  it  is  said.  Thou  shalt  love 
thin  neighbore,  and  hate  thin  enmy.  But  Y 
say  to  you,  love  yee  youre  enmyes,  do  yee  wel 
to  hem  ^  that  hat  en  ^  you,  and  preye  yee  for 
ftien  pursuynge,  and  falsly  chalengynge  ^"  you  ; 
that  yee  be  the  sonys  of  youre  Fadir  that  is  in 
hevenes,  that  makith  his  sune  to  springe  up 
upon  good  and  yvel  men,  and  rayneth  upon 
juste  men  and  unjuste  men.  For  yif  ye  loven 
hem  that  loven  you,  what  meed  "  shul  ^^  yee 
have  ?  whether  and  *  puplicans  don  nat  this 
thing?  And  yif  yee  greten,  or  saluten,  youre 
bretheren  oonly,  what  more  over  "  shul  yee 
don  ?  whether  and  ''  paynymmys  "  don  nat 
this  thing?  Therfore  be  yee  parfit,i^  as  and"* 
youre  hevenly  Fadir  is  parfit.  Take  yee  hede, 
lest  ye  don  your  rightwisnesse  before  men, 
that  yee  be  seen  of  hem,  ellis  ""  ye  shule  nat  han 
meed' at  youre  Fadir  that  is  in  hevenes.  Ther- 
fore when  thou  dost  almesse,"  nyle  ^*  thou 
synge  byfore  thee  in  a  trumpe,  as  ypocritis 
don  in  synagogis  and  streetis,  that  thei  ben 
maad  worshipful  of  men ;  forsothe  Y  saye  to 
you,  thei  han  re^eyved  her  '^  meede.  But 
thee  doynge  almesse,'^  knowe  nat  the  left 
hond  what  thi  right  hond  doth,  that  thi  almes 
be  in  hidlis,^"  and  thi  Fadir  that_seeth  in  hidlis, 
shal  yclde  '■"  to  thee." 


but  be  youre  word,  yhe,  yhe ;  Nay,  nay ;  and 
that  that  is  more  than  these,  is  of  yvel.  Ye 
han  herd  that  it  hath  be  seid,  lye  for  iye,  and 
tothe  for  tothe.  But  Y  seie  to  you,  that  ye 
ayenstonde  ^  not  an  yvel  man ;  but  if  ony 
smyte  thee  in  the  right  cheke,  schewe  to  him 
also  the  tothir ;  and  to  hym  that  wole  stryve 
with  thee  in  doom,''  and  take  awey  thi  coote, 
leeve  thou  to  him  also  thi  mantil ;  and  who- 
ever constreyneth  thee  a  thousynde  pacis,  go 
thou  with  hym  othir  tweyne.  Yyve  ^  thou 
to  hym  that  axith  of  thee,  and  turne  not 
awey  fro  hym  that  wole  borewe  ^  of  thee.  Ye 
han  herd  that  it  was  seid.  Thou  shalt  love  thi 
neighbore,  and  hate  thin  enemye.  But  Y 
seie  to  you,  love  ye  youre  enemyes,  do  ye  wel 
to  hem  that  hatiden  you,  and  preye  ye  for 
hem  *  that  pursuen,  and  sclaundren  you ; 
that  ye  be  the  sones  of  your  Fadir  that  is  in 
hevenes,  that  makith  his  sunne  to  rise  upon 
goode  and  yvele  men,  and  reyneth  on  just  men 
and  unjuste.  For  if  ye  loven  hem  *  that  loven 
you,  what  mede  ^^  schulen  ye  han  ?  whether 
pupplicans  doon  not  this?  And  if  ye  greten 
youre  britheren  oonli,  what  schulen  ye  do 
more?  ne  doon  not  hethene  men  this?  Ther- 
fore be  ye  parfit,  as  youre  hevenli  Fadir  is 
parfit." 

[It  will  be  observed  that  the  Second  Version  agrees 
with  the  Authorized  Version  in  the  division 
into  chapters,  while  the  First  Version  con- 
tains a  few  verses  usually  assigned  to  Chapter 
VI.l 


'  head   '^  eye    ^  resist    *  also    ^  a  lawsuit    ^  give       '^  shall     ^^  besides     ^*  heathen     ^^  perfect 
^  borrow     ^  them     *  hate     ^^  accusing     ^'  reward       "  alms  ^^  do  not  ^^  their  2"  secret  -'  pay 


^^  else 


GAWAIN    AND    THE    GREEN    KNIGHT 


37 


SYR  GAWAYN  AND  THE  GRENE  KNYGHT 

{Unknoimi  Author) 
FYTTE   THE   FIRST 


XI 

Ther  wacz  ^  lokyng  on  lenthe,-  the  lude  ^  to 

beholde, 
For  uch  ^  mon  had  mervayle  qual  ^  hit  mene 

myght, 
That  a  hathel  ^  and  a  horse  myght  such  a  hwe 

lach.7 
As  growe  grene  as  the  gres  **  and  grener  hit 

semed, 
Then  '  grene  aumayl  ^°  on  golde  lowande  " 

bryghter. 
Al  studied  that  ther  slod,  and  stalked  hym 

nerre/- 
Wyth  al  the  wonder  of  the  worlde.  what  he 

worch  ^^  schulde ; 
For  fele  sellyez  ^^  had  thay  sen,  hot  such  never 

are/^ 
For-thi  for  fantoum  and  fayryye  ^^  the  folk 

there  hit  demed.  240 

Ther-fore  to  answare  wacz  arghe  ^"  mony  athel 

freke/« 
And  al  stouned  ^^  at  his  steven,-"  and  ston-stil 

set en, 
In  a  swoghe  sylence  -^  thurgh  the  sale  -'  riche  ; 
As  ^^  al  were  slypped  upon  slepe,  so  slaked 

hor  lotez  ^^ 

In  hyye ;  ^^ 
I  deme  hit  not  al  for  doute,^^ 
Bot  sum  for  cortaysye. 
Let  hym  that  al  schulde  loute  '^'' 
Cast  ^^  unto  that  wyye.^ 


XI 

Long  was  there  looking,  that  lord  to  behold, 
For  each  man  had  marvel  what  might  be  the 

meaning 
That  a  horsem.an  and  a  horse  might  such  a  hue 

catch. 
As  grow-green  as  the  grass  and  greener  yet 

seemed  they, 
Than  green  enamel  on  gold  glowing  brighter. 
All  studied  that  stood  there,  and  stalked  to 

him  nearer,    ' 
With  all  the  wonder  in  the  world  what  wiles 

he  was  planning ; 
For  many  sights  had  they  seen,  but  such  a 

sight  never ; 
So  for  phantom  and  faerie  the  folk  there  did 

deem  it. 
Therefore  to  answer  was  fearful  many  a  fine 

fellow,  240 

And  all  were  stunned  by  his  speech  and  stone- 
still  sat  they. 
In  a  sheer  silence  through  the  haU  splendid ; 
As  if  they  had  slipped  into  sleep,  so  slacked 

they  their  talking. 
That  day ; 
Not  all  for  fear,  I  trow, 
But  some  in  courteous  way, 
Let  him  to  whom  all  bow 
The  stranger  first  assay. 


XII 

Thenn  Arthour  bifore  the  high  dece  ^^  that 
aventure  ^°  byholdez,'*^  250 

And  rekenly  hym  reverenced,^-  for  rad  ^'  was 
he  never, 

And  sayde,  "Wyye,  welcum  iwys  ^'^  to  this 
place ; 

The  hede  of  this  ostel  ^^  Arthour  I  hat.^^ 

^  was  ^  for  a  long  time  "*  man  ■*  each  ^  what 
®  knight  '  catch  such  a  colour  *  grass  ^  than 
^°  enamel  ^^  gleaming  ^^  nearer  ^'^  do  ^'^  many 
strange  things  '^  before  ^^  therefore  as  ilkision 
and  magic  ^"  timid  ^*  many  a  noble  knight  ^^  were 
amazed  ^^  voice  ^^  in  a  swoon-Hke  silence  ^  hall 


XII 

Then  Arthur  before  the  high  dais  that  inci- 
dent beholdeth, 

And  courteously  accosted  him,  for  cowed  was 
he  never, 

And  said,  "Warrior,  welcome  i-wis  to  this 
place ; 

The  head  of  this  hostel  Arthur  I  hight.       253 


-^  as  if  '^^  so  slackened  their  noises  ^^  suddenly 
2^  fear  ^"  but  let  him  to  whom  all  should  bow 
( =  Arthur)  ^*  speak  2*  dais  ^°  happening  ^^  ob- 
serves ^^  courteously  greeted  him  ^^  afraid  ^^  in- 
deed  ^^  house  ^®  I  am  called 


38 


GAWAIN   AND    THE    GREEN    KNIGHT 


Light    luflych  ^    adoun,    and    lenge,-   I    the 

praye. 
And  quat-so   thy   wylle  is,   we  schal   wyt  ^ 

after." 
"Nay,  as  help  me,"  quoth  the  hathel,  "He 

that  on  hyghe  syttes, 
To  wone  ^  any  quyle  ^  in  this  won,^  hit  wacz 

not  myn  ernde  ;  ^ 
Bot  for  ^  the  los  ^  of  the  lede  ^°  is  lyft  up  so 

hyghe, 
And   thy   burgh   and   thy  burnes "   best   ar 

holden, 
Stifest  under  stel-gere  ^^  on  stedes  to  ryde,  260 
The  wyghtest  ^^    and   the  worthyest   of   the 

world  es  kynde, 
Preve  "  for  to  play  wyth  in  other  pure  laykez ;  ^^ 
And  here  is  kydde  1®  cortaysye,  as  I  haf  herd 

carp ''  — 
And  that  hacz  wayned  '*  me  hider,  iwyis,  at 

this  tyme. 
Ye  may  be  seker  ^^  bi  this  braunch  that  I  bere 

here 
That  I  passe  as  in  pes,  and  no  plyght  seche.^" 
For,  had  I  founded  ^^  in  fere,  in  feghtyng  wyse, 
I  have  a  hauberghe  ^^  at  home  and  a  helme  ^^ 

bothe, 
A    schelde,   and    a   scharp   spere,   schinande 

bryght, 
Ande  other  weppenes  to  welde,^*  I  wene  wel 

als.^^ 
Bot  for  ^  I  wolde  no  were,^^  my  wedez  -"  ar 

softer. 
Bot  if  thou  be  so  bold  as  alle  burnez  "  tellen, 
Thou  wyl  grant  me  godly  ^^  the  gomen  ^*  that 

I  ask,  273 

Bi  ryght." 
Arthour  con  onsware '" 
And  sayd,  "Syr  cortays  knyght, 
If  thou  crave  batayl  bare. 
Here  faylez  thou  not  to  fyght." 


Alight  lovesomely  down  and  linger  here,  so 

please  thee. 
And  whatso  thy  will  is  we  shall  wit  later." 
"Nay,  so  help  me,"  quoth  the  horseman,  "He 

that  on  high  sits, 
To  dwell  any  while  in  this  dwelling  is  not  my 

due  errand ; 
But  that  the  praise  of  thy  people  is  published 

so  widely, 
And  thy  castle  and  thy  comrades  choicest 

are  counted, 
Stiffest    under   steel-gear    on    steeds    to    en- 
counter, 260 
The  wightest  and  the  worthiest  of  this  world's 

kindred. 
Proven  to  play  with  in  other  pleasant  contests  ; 
And  here  is  kept  courtesy,  as  I  have  heard 

recounted  — ■ 
'Tis  this  has  drawn  me  hither,  indeed,  at  this 

season. 
You  may  be  certain  by  this  bough  that  I  bear 

with  me 
That  I  pass  as  in  peace,  and   press  for  no 

quarrel. 
For  had  I  faced  you  in  fear  or  in  fighting  hu- 
mour, 
I  have  a  hauberk  at  home  and  a  helmet  also, 
A  shield  and  a  sharp  spear,  shining  brightly. 
And     other     weapons     to     wield,     I     ween 

well  like-wise. 
But  as  I  coveted  no  combat,  my  clothing  is 

softer. 
But  if  thou  be  as  bold  as  all  barons  call  thee, 
Thou  wilt  grant  me  graciously  the  game  I  shall 

ask  thee,  273 

By  right." 
Arthur  gave  answer  there 
And  said,  "Sir  courteous  knight, 
If  thou  crave  battle  bare, 
Here  fail'st  thou  not  to  fight." 


XIII 

"Nay,  frayst  ^^  I  no  fyght,  in  fayth  I  the  telle ; 
Hit  arn  -^'^  aboute  on  this  bench  bot  berdlez 

chylder. 
If  I  were  hasped  ^^  in  armes  on  a  heghe  ^'^ 

stede. 
Here  is  no  mon  me  to  mach,''^  for  myghtez  so 

wayke.'^" 

^  alight  graciously  ^  remain  '  know  ^  dwell 
*  while  ''  place  '  errand  *  because  ^  fame  ^°  people 
"  knights  ^^ steel-gear,  armour  ^''stoutest  ^^ proven 
^^  fine  sports    ^''  shown     ^'  declare    "*  has   drawn 


XIII 

"Nay,  to  fight  am  I  not  fain,  in  faith  as  I 

tell  thee ; 
There  are  about  on  this  bench  but  beardless 

children. 
If  I  were  clasped  in  armour  on  a  high  charger. 
Here  is  no  man  to  match  me,  for  in  might  are 

they  weaklings. 

^'  sure  ^"  seek  no  danger  ^^  come  ^^  hauberk 
'^  helmet  ^*  wield  ^^  also  ^''  war  ^^  garments 
'^^  graciously  ^*  game  ^°  answered  ^^  ask  ^-  there 
are  '^  clasped   '*'*  high,  tall  ^^  match  ^^  weak 


GAWAIN   AND    THE    GREEN    KNIGHT 


39 


For-thy  ^  I  crave  in  this  court  a  Crystemas 

gomen,^ 
For  hit  is  Yol  and  Nwe  Yer,  and  here  are  yep  ^ 

mon}- ;  284 

If  any  so  hardy  in  this  hous  holdez  hym-selven, 
Be  so  bolde  in  his  blod,  bra>Ta  ^  in  hys  hede, 
That  dar  stifly  strike  a  strok  for  an  other, 
I  schal  gif  hym  of   my  gyft  thys  giserne  ^ 

ryche,  — ■ 
This  ax,  that  is  heve  innogh,  —  to  hondele  ^ 

as  hym  lykes,  289 

And  I  schal  bide  ^  the  fyrst  bur,*  as  bare  as  I 

sitte. 
If  any  freke  ^  be  so  felle  i"  to  fonde  "  that  12 

I  telle, 
Lcpe  1^  lyghtly  me  to,  and  lach  ^*  this  weppen — 
I  quit-clayme  hit  for  ever,  kepe  hit  as  his 

auen  ^^  — 
And  I  schal  stonde  hym  a  strok,  stif  on  this 

flet,i6 
EUez  thou  wyl  dight  me  the  dom  i'  to  dele 

hym  an  other ; 

Barlay ;  ^* 
And  yet  gif  hym  respite 
A  twelmonyth  and  a  day ; 
Now  hyghe,"  and  let  se  tite  ^° 
Dar  any  her-inne  oght  say."  300 


Therefore  I  crave  in  this  court  a  Christmas 

gambol. 
For  it  is  Yule  and  New  Year,  and  here  are 

many  young  braggarts ; 
If  any  in  this  house  holds  him  so  hardy, 
If  he  be  so  bold  in  his  blood,  hot-brained  of 

temper 
That  he  dare  stiffly  strike  one  stroke  for  an- 
other, 
I   shall   give   him   of   my   gift   this   gisarme 

splendid  — 
This  axe,  that  is  heavy  enough  — ■  to  handle 

as  he  pleases ; 
And  I  shall  bide  the  first  blow,  as  bare  as  I 

sit  here. 
If  any  man  be  so  mad  as  to  make  such  a  trial 
Let  him  leap  to  me  lightly  and  lay  hold  of 

this  weapon —  292 

I^ quit-claim  it  for  ever,  keep  it  as  his  own  — 
Xnd  I  shall  stand  him  a  stroke,  stiff  on  this  floor, 
If  thou  wilt  but  grant  me  the  grace  to  give 

him  another, 

In  fay ; 
Yet  respite  shall  there  be 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day; 
Now  hasten  and  let  us  see 
If  any  here  dare  aught  say."  300 


XIV 

If  he  hem  stowned  -^  upon  fyrst  ,22  stiller  were 

ihanne 
Alle  the  hered-men  ^  in  halle,  the  hygh  and 

the  iowe. 
The  renk  ^  on  his  rounce  ^*  hym  ruched  ^^  in 

his  sadel 
And   runischly  ^^   his   rede  yyen  -^   he   reled 

aboute ; 
Bende  his  bresed  ^^  browez,  blycande  ^^  grene  : 
Wayved  his  berde   for  to  wayte  ^°  quo-so  ^^ 

wolde  ryse. 
When  non  wolde  kepe  hym  with  carp,^-  he 

coghed  ful  hyghe  ^^ 
.\nde  rimed  hym  ful  richley  ^*  and  ryght  hym  ^^ 

to  speke : 
"What,   is  this  Arthures  hous,"   quoth  the 

hathel  ^^  thenne, 
"That  al  the  rous  rennes  of  ^'^  thurgh  ryalmes 

so  mony?  310 

^  therefore  ^  game,  amusement  ^  bold,  read}' 
*  mad  ^  pole-axe  ®  handle  "  abide,  endure  ^  blow 
^  man  ^°  fierce  ^^  try  ^-  what  ^^  let  him  leap  ^^  seize 
^^  own  ^®  floor  ^^  provided  thou  wilt  give  me  the 
right  ^*  I  claim  this  ^^  hasten  ^°  quickly  ^i  amazed 


XIV 

If  they  were  astounded  at  first,  now  were 

they  stiller. 
All   the   henchmen    in    hall,    the    high    and 

the  lowly. 
The  stranger  on  his  steed  then  settled  him  in 

his  saddle 
And   ragingly  his  red   eyes   he   rolled   upon 

them ; 
Bent  his  bushy  brows,  green  and  bristling ; 
Waved  his  beard  as  he  watched  whether  any 

would  offer. 
When  none  would  come  at  his  challenge,  he 

coughed  full  loudly 
And  stretched  himself  starkly  and  stayed  not 

in  speaking : 
"What?   is  this  x\rthur's  house,"  quoth  then 

the  horseman, 
"Whereof  all  the  renown  runs  through  realms 

unnumbered?  3^° 

22  at  first  23  retainers  24  horse  25  settled  26  furi- 
ously 27  eyes  28  bristly  29  glittering  ^o  observe 
31  who-so  =^2  when  none  would  reply  ^^  coughed 
aloud  ^^  and  made  full  preparation  ^^  got  ready 
2**  knight   3^  of  which  all  the  fame  goes 


40 


GAWAIN    AND    THE    GREEN    KNIGHT 


Where  is  now  your  sourquydrye  ^  and  your 

conquest  es, 
Your   gryndel-laykr   and   your  greme,^   and 

your  grete  wordes? 
Now  is  the  revel  and  the  renoun  of  the  Rounde 

Table 
Over-wait  ■*    wyth    a    worde    of    on    wyyes  ^ 

speche ; 
For   al   dares  ^   for    drede,    withoute    dynt  ^ 

schewed  !  " 
Wyth  this  he  laghes  *  so  loude,  that  the  lorde 

greved; 
The  blod  schot  for  scham  in-to  his  schyre  ^ 
face 

And  lere.i" 
He  wex  as  wroth  as  wynde ; 
So  did  alle  that  ther  were.  320 

The  kyng,  as  kene  bi  kynde," 
Then  stod  that  stif  mon  nere  ^^ 


Where  is  now  your  arrogance  and  all  your 

conquests, 
Your  fierceness  and  your  fellness  and  your 

fine  boasting? 
Now   is   the   revel   and   the   renown   of   the 

Round  Table 
Overthrown  by  a  word  of  one  man's  speech  ; 
For  all  quail  for  cowardice,  tho'  no  combat 

threatens  !" 
With  this  he  laughed  so  loud  that  the  lord 

was  grieved ; 
The  blood  shot  for  shame  into  his  fair  cheek 
And  face. 
As  wrathful  then  as  wind 
Grew  all  men  in  that  place.  320 

The  king,  as  bold  by  kind, 
Neared  that  stout  man  apace 


XV 

Ande  sayde,  "Hathel,  by  heven  thyn  askyng  is 

nys,^^    • 
And  as  thou  foly  hacz  frayst,^'*  fynde  the  be- 
hoves.^* 
I  know  no  gome  ^'^  that  is  gast  "  of  thy  grete 

wordes. 
Gif  me  now  thy  geserne,^*  upon  Godez  halve, ^^ 
And  I  schal  bay  then  thy  bone, 2°  that  thou 

boden  "  habbes." 
Lyghtly  lepez  he  hym  to,  and  laght  -^  at  his 

honde ; 
Then   feersly   that   other   freke  ^^  upon   fote 

lyghtis. 
Now  hacz  Arthure  his  axe,  and  the  halme  ^^ 

grypez. 
And  sturnely  sturez  ^  hit  aboute,  that  stryke 

wyth  hit  thoght.  331 

The     stif     mon     hym     bifore     stod     upon 

hyght  2"  — 
Herre  "^^  then  ani  in  the  hous  by  the  hede  and 

more ; 
Wyth  sturne  chere  ^''  ther  he  stod,  he  stroked 

his  berde, 
And  wyth  a  countenaunce  dryye  ^'  he  drow 

doun  his  cote, 
No  more  mate  ^^  ne  dismayd  for  hys  mayn 

dintez  ^^ 

Miauj;htiness  ^fierceness  ^grimncss  ''overturned 
'  one  man's  ''  all  are  frightened  ^  stroke  *  laughs 
*  bright  ^^  cheek  "  as  one  bold  by  nature  '^  nearer 
^^  foolish     '■'  asked    '^  it    behooves    thee    to   find 


XV 

And  said,  "Horseman,  by  heaven  thy  asking 

is  foolish, 
And  as  thou  folly  hast  craved,  it  behooves  that 

thou  find  it. 
I  know  no  man  that  is  aghast  at  thy  great 

boasting. 
Give  me  now  thy  gisarme,  in  God's  name  be  it, 
And  I  will  bestow  the  boon  that  thou  hast 

bidden." 
Lightly  he  leaps  to  him  and  lays  hand  on  the 

weapon ; 
Then  fiercely  the  other  man  on  foot  alights 

there. 
Now  has  Arthur  his  axe,  and  by  the  handle 

holds  it. 
And  sternly  stirs  it  about,  to  strike  with  it 

thinks  he.  331 

The  stalwart  man  before  him  stood  at  his  full 

height  — 
Higher  than  any  in  the  house  by  a  head  and 

more ; 
With  stern  look  there  he  stood,  stroking  his 

beard. 
And  with  countenance  calm  he  drew  down  his 

collar,  335 

No  more  moved  nor  dismayed  for  the  king's 

mighty  blows 

'^  man  "  frightened  ^*  axe  ^'  in  God's  name  -"  grant 
thy  boon  ^'  grasped  ^  shaft  ^^  fiercely  moves  -■*  stood 
tall  ^^  taller  ^g  fierce  look  ^^  dry,  without  emotion 
^*  dispirited  ^^  strong  blows 


GAWAIN    AND    THE    GREEN    KNIGHT 


41 


Then  any  burne  ^   upon  bench  hade  broght 
hym  to  drynk 
Of  wyne. 
Gawan,  that  sate  bi  the  quene. 
To  the  kyng  he  can  -  cnclyne,  340 

"I  be-seche  now  with  sawez  sene,^ 
This  melly  mot  ^  be  myne. 

"Wolde  ye,  worthilych  =  lorde,"  quoth  Gawan 

to  the  kyng, 
"Bid  me  bowe  ®  fro  this  benche,  and  stonde  by 

yow  there, 
That  I  wyth-oute  vylanye  myght  voyde  '  this 

table. 
And  that  my  legge  *  lady  lyked  not  ille, 
I  wolde  com  to  your  cotmseyl,  bifore  your  cort 

ryche ; ^ 
For  me  think  hit  not  semly,^"  as  hit  is  soth 

knawen," 
Ther  ^^  such  an  askyng  is  hevened  ^^  so  hyghe 

in  your  sale,^^ 
Thagh  ye  your-self  be  talenttyf  ^^  to  take  hit 

to  your-selven,  350 

Whil  mony  so  bolde  yow  about e  upon  bench 

sytten. 
That  under  heven,  I  hope,'^  non  hagher  ^~  er  ^^ 

of  wylle, 
Ne  better  bodyes  on  bent,^^  ther  '-  baret  ^''  is 

rered. 
I  am  the  wakkest,-^  I  wot,  and  of  wyt  feblest. 
And  lest  lur  ~  of  my  lyf ,  quo  laytes  the  sothe  ;  "^ 
Bot  for  as  much  as  ye  ar  myn  em,-^  I  am 

only  to  prayse  — 
No  bounte  ^^  bot  your  blod  I  in  my  bode 

knowe  — 
And  sythen  this  note-''  is  so  nys  -"  that  noght 

hit  yow  falles,-* 
And  I  have  frayned  ^^  hit  at  yow  fyrst,  foldez  ^" 

hit  to  me ! 
And  if  I  carp  ^^  not  comlyly,  let  alle  this  cort 

rych  32 

Bout  33  blame."  361 

Ryche  ^  to-geder  con  roun,3^ 
And  sythen  thay  redden  alle  same,^^ 
To  ryd  the  kyng  wyth  croun,^" 
And  gif  Gawan  the  game. 

'  than  if  any  man  ^  did  ^  courteous  words 
■*  this  encounter  may  ^  worthy  ®  move  "  leave 
*  liege  ^  rich  (splendid)  court  '"  fitting  "  is  known 
for  truth  '-  where  ^^  raised  ^*  hall  ^^  desirous  ^^  think 
^'  apter,  fitter  ^*  are  ^^  in  field  -"  strife  ^^  weakest 
^  least  loss  ^  if  any  one  seeks  the  truth  ^  imcle 


Than  if  any  baron  on  the  bench  had  brought 
him  to  drink 

Of  wine. 
Gawain,  who  sat  by  the  queen, 
To  the  king  he  did  encline,  340 

"Let  bounty  now  be  seen. 
And  let  this  game  be  mine  ! 

X\'I 

"Would    you,    most    gracious    lord,"    quoth 

Gawain  to  the  king, 
"But  bid  me  leave  this  bench  and  bide  by 

you  there, 
So  that  I  without  rudeness  might  rise  from 

this  table. 
And  that  to  my  liege  lady  there  were  lacking 

no  courtesy, 
I  would  come  to  your  counsel,  before  your 

court  splendid ; 
For  methinks  it  is  unseemly,   as  sage  men 

weigh  things. 
When  such  an  asking  is  honoured  so  high  in 

your  hall  — 
Though  you  yourself  be  eager  for  all  under- 
takings —  _  350 
While  about  you  on  bench  sit  so  many  bold  ones, 
Than  whom  under  heaven,  I  think  none  hard- 
ier are  of  temper. 
Nor  better  bodies  in  battle  when  banners  are 

lifted. 
I  am  the  weakest,  I  wot,  and  of  wit  feeblest, 
And  least  the  loss  of  my  life,  if  no  lie  shall  be 

spoken ; 
But  forasrnuch  as  you  are  my  uncle  I  am  only 

of  merit  — 
No   desert   but   your   blood   I   in   my   body 

reckon  — 
And  since  this  affair  is  so  foolish  that  you  it 

befits  not. 
And  I  have  sued  for  it  first,  let  my  suit  be 

granted ! 
.\nd  if  my  conduct  is  not  comely,  let  all  this 

court  judge  me 

To  blame."  361 

Nobles  'gan  whispering ; 
Their  verdict  was  the  same, 
To  exempt  the  crowned  king 
And  give  Gawain  the  game. 


2»  goodness  ^^  affair  ^^  foolish  ^^  becomes  "^^  re- 
quested 30  grant  3i  if  I  speak  32  judge  33  without 
3^  the  great  ones  3^  did  whisper  36  and  afterwards 
they  decided  unanimously  3'  to  set  aside  the 
crowned  king 


42 


GAWAIN    AND    THE    GREEN    KNIGHT 


XVII 

Then  comaunded  the  kyng  the  knyght  for  to 

ryse ; 
And  he  ful  radly  ^  up  ros,  and  ruchched  hym 

fayre,- 
Kneled  doun   bifore  the  kyng,  and  cachez  ^ 

that  weppen ; 
And  he  luflyly  hit  hym  laft/  and  lyfte  up  his 

honde, 
And  gef  hym  Goddez  blessyng,  and  gladly 

hym  biddes  370 

That  his  hert  and  his  honde  schulde  hardi  be 

bothe. 
"Kepe  the,  cosyn,"  quoth  the  kyng,  "that 

thou  on  kyrf  sette,^ 
And  if  thou  redez  ^  hym  ryght,  redly  I  trowe 
That  thou  schal  byden  the  bur  ^  that  he  schal 

bede »  after." 
Gawan  gocz  *  to  the  gome,^''  with  giserne  ^^  in 

honde. 
And  he  baldly  hym  bydez,^-  he  bayst  never  the 

helder.i^ 
Then  carppez  to  Syr  Gawan  the  knyght  in  the 

grene : 
"Refourme  we  oure  forwardes,"  er  we  fyrre  "^ 

passe. 
Fyrst  I  ethe  ^^  the,  hathel,  how  that  thou 

hattes," 
That  thou  me  telle  truly,  as  I  tryst  ^^  may." 
"In  god  fayth,"   quoth  the  goode  knyght, 

"Gawan  I  hatte,"  381 

That  bede  *  the  this  buffet,  quat-so  bi-faUez 

after. 
And  at  this  tyme  twelmonyth  take  at  the  ^° 

another, 
Wyth  what  weppen  so  thou  wylt,  and  wyth 

no  wy  ellez  ^^ 

On  lyve."  "^ 
That  other  onswarez  -^  agayn, 
"  Sir  Gawan,  so  mot  -''  I  thryve, 
As  I  am  ferly  fayn,-^ 
This  dint  that  thou  schal  dryve.^^ 


XVII 

Then   kindly   the   king   commanded   him   to 

rise; 
And  he  came  forward  quickly  and  curtsied 

duly. 
Kneels  down  before  the  king  and  catches  the 

weapon ; 
And  he  releases  it  lovingly  and  lifts  up  his 

hand 
And  gives  him  God's  blessing  and  gladly  bids 

him  370 

That  his  heart  and  his  hand  should  both  be 

hardy. 
"Take  care,  cousin,"   said  the  king,   "that 

thou  carve  him  once, 
And  if  thou  touchest  him  tidily,  truly  I  trow 
That  thou  canst  endure  any  dint  that  he  will 

deal  thee." 
Gawain  goes  to  the  green  man,  with  gisarme 

in  hand ; 
And  he  boldly  abides  him,  abashed  was  he 

never. 
Then  calls  to  Sir  Gawain  the  champion  in 

green : 
"Let  us  canvass  our  compact  ere  we  carry 

this  further. 
First,  knight,  I  must  know  what  thy  name  is; 
That  tell  thou  me  truly  that  I  may  trust  to  it." 
"In   good   faith,"    quoth   the   good   knight, 

"  Gawain  men  call  me,  381 

Who  shall  bid  thee  this  buffet,  whate'er  be- 
falls after, 
And  at  this  time  twelve  month  take  from  thee 

another. 
With  what  weapon  so  thou  wilt,  and  from  no 

wight  else 

:\live." 
That  other  answers  again, 
"Sir  Gawain,  so  may  I  thrive 
As  I  am  wondrous  fain 
'Tis  thou  this  dint  shalt  drive.' 


XVIII 

"Bi  Gog,"  quoth  the  grene  knyght,  "Syr 
Gawan,  me  lykes,^^  390 

That  I  schal  fange  at  thy  fust  ^s  that  ^9  I  haf 
frayst  ^"  here ; 

^  quickly  ^  stooped  courteously  ^  seizes  ^  left, 
gave  *  take  care,  cousin,  that  thou  give  one  stroke 
•  treatest  ^  blow  *  offer  ^  goes  ^°  man  "  axe 
**  awaits  '^  he  quailed  never  the  more  '''  agree- 
ments ^^  further  ^''  ask  ^^  what  is  thy  name  ^*  be- 


XVIII 

"By  God,"  quoth  the  Green  Knight,  "Sir 
Gawain,  I  like  it  390 

That  I  shall  have  from  thy  hand  what  I  here 
sought  for ; 

lieve  '^  Gawain  is  my  name  ^^  from  thee  ^'  no  man 
else  ^2  alive  ^  answers  -*  may  ^^  wonderfully  glad 
2'^  that  thou  shalt  deliver  this  blow  2"  it  pleases 
me  "^^  take  from  thy  fist  -*  what  ^^  asked  for 


GAWAIN    AND    THE    GREEN   KNIGHT 


43 


And  thou  hacz  redily  rehersed,  bi  resoun  ful 

trwe, 
Clanly  ^  al  the  cove/iaunt  that  I  the  kynge 

asked, 
Saf  that  thou  schal  siker  ^  me,  segge,^  by  thi 

trawthe, 
That  thou  schal  seche  *  me  thi-self,  where-so 

thou  hopes  '" 
I  may  be  funde  upon  folde,*'  and  foch  '•  the 

such  wages 
As  thou  deles  me  to  day,  bifore  this  douthe  ® 

ryche." 
"Where  schulde  I  wale  ■*  the?"  quoth  Gauan, 

"Where  is  thy  place? 
I  wot  never  where  thou  wonyes,^  bi  Hym  that 

me  wroght, 
Ne  I  know  not  the,  kynght,  thy  cort,  ne  thi 

name. 
Bot  teche  me  truly  ther-to,  and  telle  me  howe 

thou  hattes,'''  401 

And  I  schal  ware  "  alle  my  wyt  to  w>Tine  me 

theder,^- 
And  that  I  swere  the  for  sothe,  and  by  my 

seker  ^  traweth." 
"That  is  innogh  in  Nwe  Yer,  hit  nedes  no 

more," 
Quoth  the  gome  in  the  grene  to  Gawan  the 

hende,^^ 
"  Gif  15 1  the  telle  trwly,  quen  I  the  tape^*^  have, 
And  thou  me  smothely  hacz  i'  smjlen,  smartly 

I  the  teche 
Of  my  hous,  and  my  home,  and  myn  owen 

nome,^^ 
Then  may  thou  frayst  my  fare,"  and  for- 

wardez  -''  holde. 
And  if  I  spende  no  speche,   thenne  spedez 

thou  the  better,  410 

For  thou  may  leng  -^  in  thy  londe,  and  layt  no 

fyrre,^ 

Bot  slokes.23 
Ta  ^*  now  thy  grymme  tole  ^^  to  the, 
And  let  se  how  thou  cnokez."  ^^ 
"Gladly,  syr,  for  sothe," 
Quoth  Gawan ;  his  ax  he  strokes. 

XIX 

The  grene  knyght  upon  grounde  graythely 

hym  dresses,^*^ 
A  littel  lut  2s  with  the  hede,   the  lere  ^^  he 

diskoverez, 

1  entirely  ^  promise  ^  man  •*  seek  ^  believest 
®  earth  ^  fetch  ^  nobility  ^  dwellest  ^°  what  is  thy 
name  ^^  use  ^  to  get  there  ^^  sure  ^^  courteous  ^^  if 


And  thou  hast  rightly  rehearsed,  as  reason 

was  truly. 
Clearly  all  the  covenant  that  of  the  king  I 

asked. 
Save  that  thou  must  assure  me,  sir,  by  thy 

honour, 
That  thou  wilt  seek  me  thyself  in  what  spot 

soever 
Thou  thinkst  to  find  me,  in  faith,  and  fetch 

thee  such  wages 
As    thou    dealest    me    to-day   before    these 

doughty  nobles." 
"In  what  climes  shall  I  seek  thee?     In  what 

country  is  thy  dwelling? 
Of  thy  habitation  have  I  ne'er  heard,  by  Him 

that  wrought  me ; 
Nor  know  I  thee,  knight,  thy  court,  nor  thy 

name ;  400 

But  direct  me  to  thy  dwelling  and  disclose 

how  men  call  thee, 
And  I  shall  strive  with  my  strength  to  steer 

my  steps  thither ; 
And  that  I  swear  thee  surely  and  by  my  sacred 

honour." 
"That  is  enough  at  New  Year;    no  more  is 

needful," 
Quoth  the  grim  man  in  green  to  Gawain  the 

courteous ; 
"If  I  tell  thee  truly,  when  I  the  tap  have  taken 
And    thou    hast    smoothly    smitten    me,    if 

smartly  I  teach  thee 
Of  my  house  and  my  home  and  how  men  call 

me, 
Then  mayst  thou  enqvure  my  country  and 

hold  our  covenant. 
And  if  I  spend  then  no  speech,  thou  shalt  speed 

the  better,  410 

For  thou  mayst  stop  in  this  stead  and  step  no 

further, 

But  stay. 
Take  now  thy  grim  tool  duly ; 
Let's  see  thee  hack  away  ! " 
"Yea,  sir,"  quoth  Gawain,  "truly;" 
His  axe  he  strokes  in  play. 

XIX 

The  Green  Knight  on  the  ground  goodly  pre- 
pares him ; 
Lightly  lowers  his  head  and  loosens  his  collar, 

1^  tap,  stroke  ^^  hast  ^^  name  ^^  ask  my  state, 
condition  2"  the  agreements  -^  remain  -  seek  no 
further  ^^  but  cease  ^'^  take  ^^  instrument  -^  knock- 
est   '^  readily  prepares  himself    ^^  bowed   ^^  cheek 


44 


GAWAIN   AND    THE    GREEN    KNIGHT 


His  longe  lovelych  lokkez  he  layd  over  his 

croun, 
Let  the  naked  nee  to  the  note  ^  schewe.       420 
Gauan  gripped  to  his  ax,  and  gederes  hit  on 

hyght,- 
The  kay  ^  fot  on  the  folde ''  he  be-fore  sette, 
Let  hit  doun  lyghtly  lyght  on  the  naked, 
That  the  scharp  of  the  schalk  ^  schyndered  ^ 

the  bones 
And  schrank  ^  thrugh  the  schyire  grece,*  and 

scade  ^  hit  in  twynne,^'' 
That  the  bit  of  the  broun  stel  bot  "  on  the 

grounde. 
The  fay  re  hede  fro  the  halce  '-^  hit  ^^  to  the 

erthe. 
That  fele  ^^  hit  foyned  ^^  wyth  her  fete,  there  ^^ 

hit  forth  roled. 
The  blod  brayd  ^'  fro  the  body,  that  blykked  i« 

on  the  grene ; 
And  nawther  ^^   faltered  ne   fel   the   freke  2" 

never-the-helder,-^  430 

Bot  stythly  22  he  start  forth  upon  styf  schonkes,^^ 
And  runyschly^'*  he  raght  ^^  out,  there-as  ^^ 

renkkez  -"  stoden, 
Laght  "^  to  his  lufly  ^^  hed,  and  lyf  t  hit  up  sone  f^ 
And  sythen  bowez  ^"  to  his  blonk,^i  the  brydel 

he  cachchez, 
Steppez  in  to  stel-bawe  ^'  and  strydez  alofte. 
And  his  hede  by  the  here  in  his  honde  haldez  ; 
And  as  sadly  ^^  the  segge  ^*  hym  in  his  sadel 

sette. 
As  ^^   non   unhap   had   hym   ayled,    thagh  ^^ 

hedlez  nowe, 

In  stedde.^" 
He  brayde  ^*  his  blunk  ^^  aboute,     440 
That  ugly  bodi  that  bledde ; . 
Moni  on  of  hym  had  doute,^^ 
Bi  that  his  resounz  were  redde.^" 


His  long  lovely  locks  he  lays  over  backward, 
Let  the  naked  neck  to  the  nape  glisten.      420 
Gawain  gripped  to  his  axe  and  gathered  it  on 

high, 
His  left  foot  on  the  floor  he  thrusts  before 

him. 
Let  the  axe  lightly  light  on  the  bare  neck. 
So  that  the  bright  blade  all  the  bones  severs 
And  slices  the  sinews  and  slits  them  asunder. 
So  that  the  edge  of  the  axe  entered  the  earth. 
The  bright  head  from  the  body  bounded  to 

the  floor. 
And  many  fifliped  it   with   their  feet   as  it 

rolled  forward. 
The  blood  gushed  from  the  body  and  glistened 

on  the  green ; 
But   neither   faltered   nor   fell   the   fearsome 

stranger,  430 

But  sturdily  strode  forth  on  his  stifT  shanks. 
And   roughly   he   reached   forth   among   the 

ranked  courtiers, 
Laid  hold  of  his  lovely  head,  and  lifted  it  up 

quickly ; 
And  then  strides  to  his  steed,  the  bridle  he 

seizes, 
Steps  into  the  stirrup  and  straddles  aloft, 
His  head  by  the  hair  in  his  hand  holding ; 
And  as  steadily  the  stranger  settled  him  in  his 

saddle 
As  if  no  harm  had  happened,  though  he  was 

headless 

I'  the  stead. 
He  turned  his  steed  about,  440 

That  ugly  body  that  bled  ; 
Many  had  dread  and  doubt 
Ere  all  his  words  were  said. 


XX 

For  the  hede  in  his  honde  he  haldez  up  even, 
To-ward  the  derrest  ""^  on  the  dece  ^  he  dres- 

sez  ^^  the  face  , 
And  hit  lyfte  up  the  yye-lyddez,"*^  and  loked 

ful  brode. 
And  meled  *^  thus  much  with  his  muthe,  as  ye 

may  now  here. 

^  head  ^  high  '  left  ^  ground  ''  edge  ^  sun- 
dered '  cut  *  pure  gristle  ^  divided  ^^  two  ^^  bit, 
cut  '^  neck  "  fell  "  many  ^•'  thrust  ^^  where 
"  spouted  ^*  shone  ^^  neither  ^°  man  ^^  never  the 
more    ^^  sturdily    ^^  shanks    ^''  roughly    ^^  reached 


XX 

For  the  head  in  his  hand  he  holds  up  even, 
Toward    the    most    daring   on   the   dais    he 

addresses  the  face ; 
And  it  lifted  up  its  eyelids  and  looked  about 

it, 
And  held  discourse  high,  as  you  shall  now 

hear. 


2^  where  ^'  men  ^*  lovely  ^^immediately  '"  goes 
^^  horse  ^^  stirrup  ^^  steadily  ^''  fellow  '^  as  if 
^^  though  ^^  in  the  place  ^^  turned  ^^  fear  *"  by 
the  time  his  remarks  were  made  ^  bravest 
^  dais  ^'  directs  **  eye-lids  *^  spoke 


GAWAIN    AND    THE    GREEN    KNIGHT 


45 


"Loke,  Gawan,  thou  be  graythe  ^  to  go  as 

thou  hettez,  - 
.\nd   layte  ^    as    lelly ''    til    thou    me,    lude,^ 

fynde, 
As  thou  hacz  hette  '^  in  this  halle,  herande  ^ 

thise  kxiyghtes.  45° 

To  the  grene  chapel  thou  chose, ^  I  charge  the, 

to  fotte ;  3 
Such  a  dunt "  as  thou  hacz  dalt  ^^  disserved 

thou  habbez,'^ 
To  be  yederly  yolden  ^^  on  Nw  Yeres  morn. 
The  Knyght  of  the  Grene  Chapel,  men  knowen 

me  mony ;  ^'^ 
For-thi  ^^  me  for  to  fynde,  if  thou  fraystez,^^ 

faylez  thou  never ; 
Ther-fore  com,  other  i'  recreaunt  be  calde  the 

be-hoves." 
With  a  runisch  route  ^'^  the  raynez  he  tornez, 
Hailed  "  out  at  the  hal-dor,  his  hed  in  his 

hande. 
That  the  fyr  of  the  flynt  flawe  -^  from  fole 

hoves.-^ 
To  quat  kyth  he  be-com,-  knewe  non  there. 
Never  more  then  thay  wyste  from  quethen  ^ 

he  wacz  wonnen.^^  461 

What  thenne? 
The  kyng  and  Gawen  thare, 
At  that  Grene  thay  lage  and  grenne, 
Yet  breved  ^^  wacz  hit  f  ul  bare  ^® 
A  mervayl  among  tho  ^'  menne. 


"See,  Gawain, that  thou  be  sedulous  to  seek 

as  thou  saidest. 
And  search  assiduously  till  thou,  sir,  dost  find 

me, 
As  thou  has  promised  in  this  presence  before 

these  proven  knights. 
To  the  Green  Chapel  do  thou  go,  I  charge 

thee  truly. 
Such  a  dint  as  thou  hast  dealt  deserved  hast 

thou,  452 

To  be  yarely  yielded  on  New  Year's  morning. 
As  the  Knight  of  the  Green   Chapel,  I  am 

known  to  many ; 
Thou  shalt  not  fail  to  find  me  if  faithfully 

thou  triest ; 
Therefore  come  or  coward  to  be  called  shall 

behoove  thee." 
With  reckless  roughness  the  reins  he  twitches, 
Hurls  out  of  the  hall-door,  his  head  in  his  hand, 
So  that  tire  from  the  flint  flew  from  his  steed's 

hoofs. 
To    what    region    he   rode    none    could    say 

rightly,  460 

Any  more  than  they  wist  by  what  way  he 

had  come. 

What  then? 
The  king  and  Gawain  there 
Did  laugh  at  the  Knight  in  Green. 
'Twas  counted  a  marvel  rare 
Such  as  men  had  never  seen. 


XXI 

Thagh^^  Arther  the  hende^^  kyng  at  hert  hade 

wonder. 
He  let  no  semblaunt  be  sene,  bot  sayde  ful 

hyghe  ^" 
To  the  comlych  Queue,  wyth  cortays  speche, 
"Dere  dame,  to-day  demay  ^^  yow  never  ;  470 
Wei    bycommes  ^-    such    craft    upon    Crist- 

masse,  ■ 
Laykyng  ^^   of   enterludez,   to   laghe   and   to 

syng 
Among  ^■^  thise  kynde  ^^  caroles  of  knyghtez 

and  ladyez. 
Never-the-lece  ^^  to  my  mete  ^'  I  may  me  wel 

dres,^* 
For    I    haf    sen    a   sellv,^^   I   may    not    for- 
sake." « 

^  ready  ^  didst  promise  '  seek  *  faithfully  ^  man 
^  promised  ^  hearing  *  go  'on  foot  ^^  blow  ^^  hast 
dealt  ^^  hast  ^^  promptly  paid  ^^  many  men  know 
me  ^^  therefore  ^^  enquirest  ^'  or  ^*  sudden  noise 
^'  rushed    ^^  flew    ^^  from   the   horse's   hoofs  ^  to 


XXI 

Though  Arthur  the  high  king  in  his  heart  had 

wonder. 
He  let  no  semblance  be  seen,  but  spoke  full 

gayly 
To  the  comely  Queen  with  courteous  phrases, 
"Dear  Lady,  to-day  dismay  you  never.      470 
Such  crafts  are  becoming  at  the  Christmas 

season. 
Listening  to  such  interludes  and  laughing  and 

singing. 
While  these  lords  and  ladies  lead  forth  their 

carols. 
But  now  have  I  license  and  leave  to  look  on  my 

food,  • 

For  strange  is  the  sight '  that  I   have  seen 

truly." 

what  land  he  went  ^^  whence  ^*  come  ^*  accounted 
^^  entirely  ^^  those  ^  though  ^  courteous  ^^  loud 
^^  dismay  ^  suits  ^^  playing  ^^  now  and  then 
^^  suitable  ^^  nevertheless  ^^  food  ^*  address  ^^  mar- 
vel ■''*  deny 


46 


PEARL 


He  glent  i  upon  Syr  Gawen,  and  gaynly  ^  he 

sayde, 
"Now,  syr,  heng  vip  thyn  ax,  that  hacz  innogh 

he  wen." 
And  hit  wacz  don  ^  abof  the  dece,  on  doser  "• 

to  henge, 
Ther  alle  men  for  mervayl  myght  on  hit  loke^ 
And  bi  trwe  tytel  ther-of  ^  to  telle  the  wonder. 
Thenne    thay    bowed  ^    to   a   borde,^    thise 
burnes  ^  to-geder,  481 

The  kyng  and  the  gode  knyght ;   and  kene  * 

men  hem  served 
Of  alle  dayntvez  double,  as  derrest  ^°  myght 

falle  — 
Wyth   alle  maner  of  mete  and  mynstralcie 

bothe ; 
Wyth  wele  wait  thay  that  day,  til  worthed  an 
ende  ^^ 

In  londe. 
Now  thenk  wel,  Syr  Gawan, 
For  wothe  ^^  that  thou  ne  wonde  ^^ 
This  aventure/orto  frayn  ^'^ 
That  thou  hacz  tan  ^^  on  honde        490 


He  glanced  at  Sir  Gawain  and  graciously  said 

he, 
"Now,  sir,  hang   up   thine  axe,  it   has   had 

enough  hewing." 
And  it  was  hung  on  high  behind  the  dais, 
Where    all    men    for    a    marvel  might  look 

upon  it 
And  take  it  as  true  witness  when  they  told 
of  the  wonder.  480 

Then  they  turned  to  the  table,  these  two  lords 

together. 
The  king  and  the  good  knight ;    and  gentle 

squires  served  them 
Of   all   dainties   double   that   were   to   them 

dearest  — ■ 
With  all  manner  of  meat  and  minstrelsy  also ; 
With  all  delights  did  they  deal  until  that  day 
ended 

In  land. 
Now  think  Avell,  Sir  Gawain, 
That  thou  hast  taken  in  hand 
The  adventure  to  maintain. 
Whatever  may  withstand.  490 


PEARL    (c.   1350) 
{Unknown  Author) 


Perle  plesaunte  to  prynces  paye  ^' 
To  clanly  clos  "  in  golde  so  clere ; 
Oute  of  oryent,  I  hardyly  saye, 
Ne  proved  I  never  her  precios  pere,^' 
So  roundc,  so  reken  in  uche  araye,^' 
So  smal,  so  smothe  her  sydez  were  ; 
Queresoever  I  jugged  gemmez  gaye, 
I  sette  hyr  sengeley  in  synglere.^" 

Alas  !  I  leste  ^^  hyr  in  on  erbere ;  ^^ 
Thurgh  gresse  to  grounde  hit  fro  me 

yot ;  2^ 
I  dewyne,  for-dolked  of  luf-daungere  ^' 
Of  that  pryvy  perle  withouten  spot.  12 


A  radiant  pearl  for  royal  array 
Clean  to  enclose  in  gold  so  clear ; 
Out  of  the  Orient,  I  boldly  say, 
Found  have  I  never  her  precious  peer, 
So  pure,  so  perfect  at  each  assay. 
So  small,  so  smooth  that  blissful  sphere ; 
Wherever  I  judged  of  jewels  gay, 
I  set  her  apart  as  the  prize  most  dear. 
Alas!   in  an  arbor  I  lost  her  here, 
Slipping  through  grass  to  earth,  I  wot ; 
I  pine,  cut  off  from  the  loying  cheer 
Of  my  own  pearl  without  a  spot.        12 


II 

Sythen  ^^  in  that  spote  hit  fro  me  sprange, 
Ofte  haf  I  wayted,  wyschand'e  -^  that  wele,^^ 
That    wont    wacz    whyle  ^    devoyde  ^'    my 
wrange 

^  glanced  ^  kindly  ^  put  *  tapestry  ^  and  on  the 
evidence  of  it  ^  went  ^  table  *  knights  *  brave 
^^  dearest  "  in  joy  they  spent  the  day,  till  it  came 
to  end  ^^  injury  ^^  hesitate  ^^  seek  '^  taken  ^^  de- 
light ^^  cleanly  to  enclose  ^*  equal  ^^  fit  in  every 


II 

There  where  I  lost  it,  since  have  I  long 
Waited  and  wished  for  return  of  the  weal 
That  whilom  made  me  forget  my  wrong 


respect  ^^  alone  in  uniqueness  ^^  lost  ^  an  ar- 
bor ^^  departed  ^^  I  pine  away,  deprived  of  the 
love-dominion  ^^  since  ^®  wishing  ^^  weal  ^  was 
formerly  '■^'■'  to  remove 


PEARL 


47 


And  heven  ^  my  happe  and  al  my  hele ;  ^ 
That  docz  bot  thrych  my  herte  thrange,^ 
My  breste  in  bale  *  bot  bolne  and  bele.^ 
Yet  thoght  me  never  so  swete  a  sange 
As  sty  lie  stounde  ^  let  to  me  stele ;  20 

Forsothe  ther  fleten  '  to  me  fele  ^  — 
To  thenke  hir  color  so  clad  in  clot !  ^ 
O  moul  ^°  thou  marrez  a  myry  juele," 
My  privy  perle  withouten  spotte. 


And  brought  me  comfort,  my  spirit  to  heal, 
That  now  is  oppressed  with  passions  strong 
Till  all  my  senses  whirl  and  reel. 
Yet  me-thought  was  never  so  sweet  a  song 
As  the  quiet  hour  to  me  let  steal ;  20 

Many  strange  fancies  did  it  reveal  — • 
To  think  that  her  fairness  earth  shoijd 

clot! 
O  grave,  the  rarestof  gems  thou  dost  seal, 
My  own  dear  pearl  without  a  spot. 


Bifore  that  spot  my  honde  I  spennd,^^ 
For  care  ful  colde  that  to  me  caght ;  ^^         50 
A  denely  dele  in  my  herte  denned,^^ 
Thagh  resoun  sette  my  selven  saght.^^ 
I  playned  ^"^  my  perle  that  ther  wacz  spenned,^' 
Wyth  fyrte  skyllez  ^^  that  faste  faght ;  " 
Thagh  kynde  of  Kryst  me  comfort  kenned,^" 
My  wreched  wylle  in  wo  ay  wraghte.''^ 
I  felle  upon  that  floury  flaght ;  -^ 
Suche  odour  to  my  hernez  "^  schot, 
I  slode  upon  a  slepyng-slaghte  ^^ 
On  that  precios  perle  withouten  spot. 


V 

Before  that  spot  my  hands  I  spread, 

For  care  full  cold  that  me  had  caught ;         50 

In  my  heart  dark  sorrow  made  its  bed. 

Though  reason  reconciled  my  thought. 

I  prayed  for  my  pearl  that  thence  had  sped, 

With  timid  pleas,  and  fast  they  fought ; 

Though  the  godhead  of  Christ  me  comforted, 

My  wretched  will  in  woe  still  wrought. 

A  bed  among  the  flowers  I  sought ; 
Such  fragrance  pierced  my  brain,  I  wot, 
Me  into  a  sleep  of  dreams  it  brought 
Of  that  precious  pearl  without  a  spot. 


XIV 

More  mervayle  con  my  dom  adaunt ;  ^ 

I  segh  ^^  by-yonde  that  myry  mere  ^^ 

A  crystal  clyffe  ful  relusaunt,^ 

IVIony  ryal  ray  con  fro  hit  rere ;  ^  160 

At  the  fote  thereof  ther  sete  a  faimt,^" 

A  mayden  of  menske,^^  ful  debonere, 

Blysnande  whyte  wacz  hyr  bleaunt ;  ^^ 

I  knew  hyr  wel,  I  hade  sen  hyr  ere.^^ 

As   glysnande    golde    that    man    con 
schere  ^* 

So  schon  that  schene  anunder  schore ;  ^ 

On  lenghe  ^^  I  looked  to  hyr  there ; 

The  lenger,  I  knew  hyr  more  and  more.^^ 

XV 

The  more  I  frayste  ^*  hyr  fayre  face, 

Her  tigure  fyn  quen  I  had  fonte,"^^  170 

Suche  gladande  glory  con  to  me  glace  ^ 

Mift  up  2  prosperity  ^does  but  oppress  my 
heart  grievously  *  distress  *  swell  and  burn  ^  the 
quiet  hour  ^  float  *  many  things  ^  clod  ^"^  earth 
"  jewel  ^2  stretched  out  ^^  that  seized  upon  me 
^^  a  secret  sorrow  lay  in  mj^  heart  ^^  though  rea- 
son reconciled  all  difficulties  ^^  lamented  ^^  was 
taken  away  ^^  timid  reasons  *'  fought  hard 
^  though  Christ's  nature  taught  me  comfort 
^^  wrought    22  bed  of   flowers  ^  brains  ^'*  I  slided 


XIV 

More  wonder  my  judgment  stole  away ; 

I  saw  beyond  that'  river  fair 

A  crystal  cliff  as  clear  as  day. 

Its  royal  rays  gleamed  through  the  air ;     160 

At  its  foot  there  sat  a  child  full  gay, 

A  mannerly  maiden,  debonair, 

All  argent  white  was  her  array ; 

I  knew  her  well,  I  had  seen  her  ere. 

As  glistening  gold,  refined  and  rare, 

So  sheen  she  shone  upon  the  shore ; 

Long  while  I  looked  upon  her  there ; 

The  longer,  I  knew  her  more  and  more. 


XV 

The  more  I  questioned  her  fair  face 

And  came  to  know  her  figure  bright,         170 

Such  joy  shed  over  me  its  grace 

into  a  dream  ^  a  greater*  wonder  daunted  my 
judgment  ^  saw  ^  pleasant  water  ^  gleaming 
^  many  a  royal  gleam  arose  from  it  ^^  child 
^^  grace  ^^  gleaming  white  was  her  attire  ^^  before 
^*  that  one  has  refined  ^^  so  shone  that  beautiful 
one  beneath  the  cliff  ^^  a  long  time  ^^  the  longer 
I  looked  the  more  certainly  I  knew  her  ^^  ques- 
tioned ^^  when  I  had  examined  *'  such  delight 
came  to  me 


48 


PEARL 


As  lyttel  byfore  therto  wacz  wonte ; 

To  calle  hyr  lyste  con  me  enchace/ 

Bot  baysment  ^  gef  myn  hert  a  brunt  ; ' 

I  segh  hyr  in  so  strange  a  place^ 

Such  a  burre  myght  make  myn  herte  blunt. '' 
Thenne  verez  ho  up  her  fay  re  frount,^ 
Hyr  vysayge  whyt  as  playn  yvore,®  178 
That     stonge     myn     hert     ful     stray 

atount/ 
And   ever   the   lenger,   the   more   and 
more. 


That  scarce  before  I  had  known  dehght ; 

Desire  to  address  her  grew  apace, 

But  abashment  filled  my  heart  with  fright ; 

Seeing  her  in  so  strange  a  place 

Full  well  my  heart  astonish  might. 

Then  lifts  she  up  her  forehead  white, 
Her  visage  fairer  than  e'er  before;  178 
Bewildered  my  heart  was  at  the  sight 
And   ever   the  longer,   the  more  and 
more. 


XX 

Pyght  ^  in  perle,  that  precios  pyece 

On  wyther-half  water  ^  com  doun  the  schore  ;  ^° 

No  gladder  gome  hethen  "  into  Grece         231 

Then  I  quen  ho  on  brymme  wore.^^ 

Ho  wacz  me  nerre  ^^  then  aunte  or  nece, 

My  joy  forthy  wacz  ^*  much  the  more. 

Ho  profered  me  speche,  that  special  spece,i^ 

Enclynande  lowe  in  wommon  lore,^^ 

Caghte  of  her  coroun  of  grete  tresore, 
And  haylsed  me  wyth  a  lote  lyghte.^^ 
Wei  wacz  me  that  ever  I  wacz  bore, 
To     sware  ^^     that     swete     in     perlez 
pyghte. 


XX 

All  decked  with  pearls  that  precious  piece 
Beyond  the  water  came  down  the  shore; 
None  gladder  than  I  hence  unto  Greece      231 
When  she  stood  on  the  bank  there  me  before. 
She  was  nearer  to  me  than  aunt  or  niece, 
And  my  joy  was  therefore  much  the  more. 
That  special  treasure  spoke  words  of  peace, 
With  womanly  grace  herself  she  bore. 

Took  off  the  wondrous  crown  she  wore, 
And  greeted  me  with  look  full  bright. 
What  happy  fortune  for  me  in  store  — ■ 
To  answer  that  sweet  with  pearls  be- 
dight. 


XXI 

"O  Perle,"  quoth  I,  "in  perlez  pyght,         241 
Art  thou  my  perle  that  I  haf  playned,^' 
Regretted  by  myn  one,  on  nyghte?  -° 
Much  longeyng  haf  I  for  the  layned,^^ 
Sythen  in-to  gresse  thou  me  aglyghte ;  ^^ 
Pensyf,  payred,^^  I  am  for-payned,^'' 
And  thou  in  a  lyf  of  lykyng  lyghte  ^^ 
In  paradys  erde,^^  of  stryf  unstrayned. 

What    wyrde    hacz    hyder    my    juel 
vayned,^'' 

And  don  me  in  thys  del  ^^  and  gret 
daunger  ? 

Fro   we  in   twynne   wern   towen   and 
twayned  ^^ 

I  haf  ben  a  joylez  jueler."  ^^  252 

^  desire  to  speak  to  her  seized  me  ^  timidity 
'  attack  ^  such  a  surprise  might  well  astound 
me  ^  then  she  lifts  her  fair  face  ^  ivory  ^  that 
struck  me  into  bewilderment  ^  set  ®  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  water  ^°  cliff  "  person  from 
hence  ^^  than  I  when  she  was  at  the  bank  ^^  she 
was  nearer  to  me  ^'*  on  that  account  was  '^  she 
spoke  to  me,  that  rare  one  ^®  bowing  low  as  women 


XXI 

"0  Pearl,"  quoth  I,  "with  pearls  bedight,  241 
Art  thou  my  pearl  that  I  still  mourn, 
Regretted  by  me  alone  at  night? 
With  longing  for  thee  am  I  outworn ; 
Since  in  the  grass  thou  wert  lost  to  sight, 
Pensive  and  pining  am  I  forlorn. 
And  thou,  in  a  life  of  glad  delight, 
Strife-free,  dost  Paradise  adorn. 

What   Weird    hath    hither   my    jewel 
borne. 

Me  here  in  sorrow  and  stress  to  find  ? 

I    have    been,   since    we    apart    were 
torn, 

A  joyless  jeweler  'mid  my  kind."      252 


are  taught  ^^  greeted  me  pleasantly  ^*  answer 
^^  lamented  ^  alone  by  night  ^^  suffered  secretly 
^"  since  thou  didst  slip  away  from  me  into  the 
grass  ^'^  weakened  ^*  worn  with  grief  -*  and  thou 
in  a  life  of  delightful  pleasure  "^  land  "^  what  fate 
has  brought  my  jewel  hither  ^*  put  me  in  this 
grief  ^'  since  we  were  drawn  apart  and  separated 
^°  possessor  of  jewels 


PEARL 


49 


xxn 

That  juel  thenne  in  gemmez  gente  ^ 
\'ered  up  her  vyse  ^  with  yghen  ^  graye. 
Set  on  hyr  coroun  of  perle  orient, 
And  soberly  after  thenne  con  ho  say : '' 
"  Syr,  ye  haf  your  tale  myse-tente,* 
To  say  your  perle  is  al  awaye. 
That  is  in  cofer,  so  comly  clente,^ 
As  in  this  gardyn  gracios  gaye,  260 

Here-inne  to  lenge  '  for-ever  and  play, 
Ther  mys   nee  mornyng  ^  com  never 

nere; 
Her  were  a  forser  ^  for  the,  in  faye, 
If  thou  were  a  gentyl  jueler. 


XXII 

That  jewel  in  gems  so  wondrous  wrought 
Up  lifted  her  face  with  eyes  of  grey. 
Set  on  her  crown  of  pearls  far-sought, 
And  soberly  after  began  to  say : 
"Oh,  sir,  your  mind  is  all  distraught 
To  say  that  your  pearl  hath  passed  away, 
That  into  so  comely  a  coffer  is  brought 
As  in  this  garden  gracious-gay,  260 

Herein  to  dwell  for  ever  and  play, 
Where  moan  or  mourning  none  shall 

find; 
Here  were  a  casket  for  thee,  in  fay, 
If  thou,  my  jeweller,  wert  kind. 


XXIII 

"Bot,  jueler  gente,  if  thou  schal  lose 
Thy  joy  for  a  gemme  that  the  wacz  lef,^" 
]Me  thynk  the  put  "  in  a  mad  porpose, 
And  busyez  the  aboute  a  raysoun  bref ;  ^^ 
For  that  thou  lestez  ^^  wacz  bot  a  rose, 
That  fiowred  and  fayled  as  kynde  "  hit  gef ; 
Now  thurgh  kynde  "  of  the  kyste  ^^  that  hyt 
con  ^^  close,  271 

To  a  perle  of  prys  hit  is  put  in  pref ;  ^'^ 

And  thou  hacz  called  thy  wyrde^^  a  thef. 
That  oght  of  noght  hacz  mad  the  cler  ;  ^^ 
Thou  blamez  the  bote  '"  of  thy  meschef, 
Thou  art  no  kynde  jueler." 


XXIII 

"But,  jeweller  gentle,  if  thus  is  crossed 
Thy  joy  for  a  gem  that  was  dear  to  thee, 
Methinks  thou  art  by  madness  tossed, 
O'er  a  trifle  to  fret  so  busily ; 
It  was  only  a  rose  that  thou  hast  lost. 
Which  flowered  and  faded  naturally;         270 
By  charm  of  the  chest  that  it  embossed 
It  was  changed  to  a  pearl  of  price,  dost  see? 

Thou  callest  a  thief  thy  destiny. 

That  aught  of  naught  has  made  thee. 
Blind, 

Thou  blam'st  of  thy  hurt  the  remedy ; 

My  jeweller,  thou  art  not  kind !" 


LXIII 

"O  maskelez  ^i  perle,  in  perlez  pure, 
That  berez,"  quod  I,  "the  perle  of  prys, 
Quo  ^  formed  the  thy  fa>Te  fygure? 
That  wroght  thy  wede,^  he  wacz  f ul  wys ; 
Thy  beaut  e  com  never  of  nature ; 
Pymalyon  pajmted  never  thy  vys ;  -^  750 

Ne  Arystotel  nawther  by  hys  lettrure 
Of  carped  the  kynde  these  propertez.-^ 

Thy  colour  passez  the  flour-de-lys, 
Thyn  angel-ha\'ymge  so  clene"  cortez ;  ^^ 
Breve  -^  me,  brj^ght,  quat-kyn  offys  -^ 
Berez  the  perle  so  maskellez." 

^  beautiful  ^  lifted  her  face  ^  e^-es  *  she  said 
^  distorted  ^  set  ^  remain  *  where  lack  nor  mourning 
*  jewel-box  ^'^  was  dear  to  thee  ^^  I  regard  thee  as 
put  ^^  small  affair  ^^  didst  lose  ^*  nature  ^^  chest 
^*  did   ^"  put  in  proof  =  turned  ^^  fate   ^^  that  has 


LXIII 

"O  spotless  pearl,  in  pearls  so  pure. 
That  the  priceless  pearl,"  quoth  I,  "dost  bear, 
Who  formed  for  thee  thy  beauty's  lure, 
Or  wrought  thee  the  weeds  that  thou  dost  wear  ? 
Nature  was  never  so  cunning,  sure ; 
Pygmalion  to  paint  thee  would  never  dare ; 
Aristotle,  for  all  his  literature,  751 

Could  never  recount  thy  virtues  rare ; 

Than  the^^^r  de  lys  thou  art  more  fair, 
In  gracious  bearing  the  angels'  mate. 
TeU  me  what  troth  in  heaven  there 
Is  pledged  to  the  pearl  immaculate?" 


clearly   made    for   thee    something    of    nothing 
-'remedy    -^spotless    ^  who    -^garment     -^far^ 
**  described  thy  beauties  of  nature 
^'  inform  ^^  what  office  or  position 


face 
■^  courteous 


50 


PEARL 


LXIV, 

"M)'  maskelez  Lambe  that  al  may  bete," 

Quod  scho,2  "my  dere  destyne, 

Me  ches  ^  to  hys  make,^  al-thagh  unmete. 

Sum  tyme  semed  that  assemble, 

When  I  wente  fro  yor  worlde  wete ;  ^ 

He  calde  me  to  hys  bonerte :  ® 

'  Cum  hyder  to  me,  my  lemman  ^  swete. 

For  mote  ne  spot  is  non  in  the.' 

He  yef  *  me  myght  and  als  ^  bewte ; 

In  hys  blod  he  wesch   my  wede  ^^ 
dese," 

And  coronde  clene  in  vergynte, 

And  pyght  me  in  perlez  maskellez.' 


LXIV 

^  "My  spotless  Lamb,  who  far  and  wide 

Heals  all  —  my  Master  dear,"  quoth  she, 
"Me  all  unworthy  chose  for  his  bride ; 
760      Oh!  long  that  waiting  seemed  to  me,  760 

When  I  from  your  damp  world  did  glide! 
He  called  me  to  his  charity : 
'  Come  hither,  sweetheart,  to  my  side. 
For  mote  or  spot  is  none  in  thee.' 

Beauty  and  strength  he  gave  to  me, 
In  his  blood  he  washed  me,  with  sin 

bespate, 
He  crowned  me  clean  in  virginity. 
And  decked  me  with  pearls  immacu- 
late." 


LXXXI 
"Motelez  ^^  may,  so  meke  and  mylde," 
Then  sayde  I  to  that  lufly  flor,^^  962 

"Bryng  me  to  that  bygly  bylde,^^ 
And  let  me  se  thy  blysful  bor."  ^^ 
That     schene  ^*^    sayde,     that  ^^     God     wyl 

schylde, 
"Thou  may  not  enter  with-inne  hys  tor,!^ 
Bot  of  the  Lombe  I  have  the  "  aquylde  ^° 
For  a  syght  ther-of  thurgh  gret  favor. 

Ut-wyth  21  to  se  that  clene  cloystor. 
Thou  may ;  bot  in-wyth  '^  not  a  fote, 
To  strech  in  the  strete  thou  hacz  no 
vygour,  .  971 

Bot  thou  wer  dene  with-outen  mote." 


LXXXI 

"Spotless  maid,  so  mild  and  meek," 

Then  said  I  to  that  flower  bright,  962 

"Me  to  thy  palace  bring,  and  eke 

Of  thy  blissful  bower  give  me  sight." 

Sweetly  —  God  shield  her !  —  did  she  speak : 

"That  tower  may  enter  no  earthly  wight; 

But  of  the  Lamb  did  I  favour  seek 

That  thou  from  afar  shouldst  see  its  light ; 

From  without  that  cloister  see  aright 

Thou    mayest    indeed;     but    within, 
step  not ; 

To  walk  in  the  street   thou   hast   no 
might. 

Unless    thou    wert    clean,    without    a 
spot."  972 


XCVT 

The  Lombe  delyt  non  lyste  to  wene ;  ^^ 
Thagh  he  were  hurt  and  wounde  hade. 
In  his  sembelaunt  ^^  wacz  never  sene ; 
So  worn  his  glentez  '^■'  gloryous  glade. 
I  loked  among  his  meyny  schene,^^ 
How  thay  wyth  lyf  wern  laste  and  lade," 
Then  sagh  I  thcr  my  lyttcl  quene. 
That  I  wende  ^*  had  standen  by  me  in  sclade.^^ 
Lorde  !  much  of  mirtbe  wacz  that  ho  ^° 

made, 
Among  her  ferez  ^^  that  wacz  so  quyt !  ^^ 
That  syght  me  gart  •'•''  to  think  to  wade. 
For  luf-longyng  in  gret  delyt.         1152 

.ijiend  ■^  said  she  '  chose  *  mate  ^  wet  ^  good- 
ness '  sweetheart  •*  gave  ^  also  '*^  Rarment  ^^  dais 
'-  spotless  *^  flower  ^*  great  building  ^^  bower 
-^  beautiful  one  "  whom  ^*  tower  ^'•*  for  thee  ^^  ob- 


■  ame 


XCVI 

The  Lamb  lacked  no  delight,  I  ween  ;       1141 
Hurt  though  he  was,  by  wounds  betrayed, 
In  his  semblance  this  was  no  whit  seen ; 
So  did  his  glorious  looks  persuade. 
I  looked  among  his  comrades  clean. 
How  brimming  life  upon  them  he  laid. 
Then  saw  I  there  my  little  queen. 
That  I  thought  stood  near  me  in  the  glade. 

Lord  !    much  of  mirth  was  that  she 
made. 

Among  her  sisters  all  so  white  ! 

That  vision  moved  me  to  think  to  wade. 

For  love-longing  in  great  delight.    1152 

tained  ^'  from  without  "^  within  ^^  wished  to  doubt 
^■^  appearance  ^^  looks  ^"^  beautiful  company  ^^  sup- 
plied and  laden  ^  thought  ^*  valley  ^"  she  ^^  com- 
panions ^^  white  ^^  caused 


CONFESSIO    A^IANTIS 


51 


xc\ai 

Delyt  me  drof  in  yghe  ^  and  ere ; 

]\Iy  manez  -  mynde  to  madd}^lg  make.' 

Quen  I  segh  ■*  my  frely,^  I  wolde  be  there, 

By-yonde  the  water  thagh  ho  ^  were  waited 

I  thoght  that  no-thyng  myght  me  dare,* 

To  fech  me  bur  and  take  me  hake;  ^ 

And  to  start  m  the  strem  schulde  non  me 

St  ere/" 
To   swymme    the   remnaunt,   thagh    I    ther 
swake ;  ^^ 
Bot  of  that  munt  ^- 1  wacz  bi-tak  ;  ^'  1 1 6 1 
When   I   schulde   start   in  the   strem 

astraye, 
Out  of  that  caste  "  I  wacz  by-cak  ;  ^' 
Hit  wacz  not  at  my  prjmcez  paye.^® 

XC\TII 

Hit  payed  ^"  hym  not  that  I  so  flonc  *^ 
Over  mervelous  merez,"  so  mad  arayde ; 
Of  raas  -°  thagh  I  were  rasch  and  ronk,-i 
Yet  rapely  -  ther-inne  I  wacz  resta^^ed ; 
For  ryght  as  I  sparred  un-to  the  bone, 
That  brat  the  -'  out  of  my  drem  me  brayde ;  -* 
Then  wakned  I  in  that  erber  wlonk,^       11 71 
My  hede  upon  that  hylle  wacz  layde 

Ther  as  my  perle  to  grounde  strayd ; 
I  raxled  ^  and  fel  in  gret  affray,^ 
And  sykyng  ^*  to  myself  I  sayd : 
"Now  al  be  to  that  pryncez  paye."  ^^ 


xcvn 

Delight  me  drove  in  eye  and  ear ; 
My  earthly  mind  was  maddened  nigh. 
When  I  saw  my  darling,  I  would  be  near, 
Beyond  the  water  that  she  stood  by : 
"Nothing,"  methought,  "can  harm  me  here, 
Deal  me  a  blow  and  low  make  lie ; 
To  wade  the  stream  have  I  no  fear. 
Or    to    swim    the    deeps,   though  I  should 
die."  ii6o 

But  from  that  purpose  withheld  was  I ; 

As  unto  the  stream  I  started  still, 

Clean   from  that   plan  I  was  turned 
awr}^ ; 

It  was  not  at  my  Prince's  will. 


XCV1II 

It  pleased  him  not  I  should  pass  quite, 
O'er  marvellous  meres,  so  mad  arrayed ; 
Though  in  my  rush  I  had  strength  and  might, 
Yet  hastily  therein  I  was  stayed; 
For  as  I  strove  to  the  bank  aright, 
j\Iy  haste  me  of  my  dream  betrayed ;        1 1 70 
Then  waked  I  in  that  arbor  bright, 
My  head  upon  that  mound  was  laid 

Where  my  own  pearl  to  ground  had 

strayed. 
I  roused  me,  with  many  a  fear  a-thrUl, 
And  sighing  to  myself  I  said : 
"Now  all  be  at  that  Prince's  will." 


JOHN   GOWER    (i325?-i4o8) 
From  CONFESSIO  AMANTIS  Bk.   V 


Jason,  which  sih  *  his  fader  old. 

Upon  Medea  made  him  bold 

Of  art  magique,  which  sche  couthe,^ 

And  preith  hire  that  his  fader  '°  youthe 

Sche  wolde  make  ayeinward  '^  newe. 

And  sche,  that  was  toward  him  trewe,      3950 

Behihte  '-  him  that  sche  wolde  it  do 

Whan  that  sche  time  sawh  ■•  therto. 

Bot ''  what  sche  dede  in  that  matiere 

It  is  a  wonder  thing  to  hiere, 

Bot  yit  for  the  noveUerie  ^* 

I  thenke  tellen  a  partie.'^ 

^  eye  -  man's  '  meked  ^  saw  ^  gracious  one  ^  she 
'  kept  ^  injure  ^  to  fetch  me  an  assauk  and  take 
me  lame  ^"  prevent  ^^  perished  ^'  purpose  '^  shaken 
^*  intention      ^^  recalled      ^®  pleasure      ^^  pleased 


Jason,  who  saw  his  father  old, 

Upon  jNIedea  made  so  bold  — 

Of  magic  art  she  knew,  in  sooth  — 

And  prays  her  that  his  father's  youth 

She  would  bring  back  again  as  new. 

And  she,  that  was  to  him  fuU  true,  3950 

Promised  him  that  she  would  it  do 

When  that  she  saw  her  time  thereto. 

But  how  she  wrought  this  for  his  cheer 

It  is  a  wondrous  thing  to  hear, 

Yet  for  the  novelty  of  it 

I  think  to  tell  you  just  a  bit. 

^^  should  fling  ^'  waters  ^  onset  -^  strong  "  quickly 
^'  haste  "■*  moved  ^*  fair  -®  roused  -"  fear  -*  sighing 
^^  knew  '"  father's  *^  again  ^  promised  ^^  but 
^  novelty  '^  part 


52 


JOHN    GOWER 


Thus  it  befell  upon  a  nyht 
Whan  ther  was  noght  bot  sterreliht,^ 
Sche  was  vanyssht  riht  as  hir  liste,^ 
That  no  wyht  bot  hirself  it  wiste,  3960 

And  that  was  ate  ^  mydnyht  tyde. 
The  world  was  stille  on  every  side ; 
With  open  ■*  hed  and  fot  al  bare, 
Hir  her  tosprad,^  sche  gan  to  fare; 
Upon  hir  clothes  gert  ^  sche  was ; 
Al  specheles  and  ^  on  the  gras 
Sche  glod  ^  forth  as  an  addre  doth  — 
Non  otherwise  sche  ne  goth  — 
Til  sche  cam  to  the  freisshe  flod, 
And  there  a  while  sche  withstod.^  3970 

Thries  sche  torned  hire  aboute, 
And  thries  ek  sche  gan  doun  loute  ^" 
And  in  the  flod  sche  wette  hir  her, 
And  thries  on  the  water  ther 
Sche  gaspeth  with  a  drecchinge  "  onde/^ 
And  tho  ^^  sche  tok  hir  speche  on  honde. 
Ferst  sche  began  to  clepe  ^'^  and  calle 
Upward  unto  the  sterres  alle, 
To  Wynd,  to  Air,  to  See,  to  Lond 
Sche  preide,  and  ek  hield  up  hir  hond       3980 
To  Echates  ^^  and  gan  to  crie, 
Which  is  godesse  of  sorcerie. 
Sche  seide,  "Helpeth  at  this  nede, 
And  as  ye  maden  me  to  spede,^*^ 
Whan  Jason  cam  the  Flees  ^''  to  seche, 
So  help  me  nou,  I  you  beseche." 
With  that  sche  loketh  and  was  war,  ^^ 
Doun  fro  the  sky  ther  cam  a  char,^^ 
The  which  dragouns  aboute  drowe. 
And  tho  i'^  sche  gan  hir  hed  doun  bowe. 
And  up  sche  styh,-°  and  faire  and  wel       3991 
Sche  drof  forth  bothe  char  and  whel 
Above  in  thair  -^  among  the  skyes.-^ 
The  lond  of  Crete  and  tho  parties  ^^ 
Sche  soughte,  and  faste  gan  hire  hye,^^ 
And  there  upon  the  hulles  ^^  hyhe 
Of  Othrin  and  Olimpe  also. 
And  ek  of  othre  hulles  mo, 
Sche  fond  and  gadreth  herbes  suote.^^ 
Sche  pullcth  up  som  be  the  rote,  4000 

And  manye  with  a  knyf  sche  scherth,^^ 
And  alle  into  hir  char  sche  berth. ^ 
Thus  whan  sche  hath  the  hulles  sought, 
The  flodes  ^  ther  forgat  '^  sche  nought, 
Eridian  and  Amphrisos, 


Thus  it  befell  upon  a  night. 
When  there  was  nought  but  starry  light, 
She  stole  away  right  as  she  list, 
So  that  none  but  herself  it  wist,  3960 

And  that  was  at  the  midnight  tide, 
The  world  was  still  on  every  side. 
With  head  uncovered,  feet  all  bare. 
Her  hair  unbound,  she  gan  to  fare ; 
High  up  her  clqthes  she  girded  has ; 
And,  speechless,  forth  upon  the  grass 
She  glided  as  an  adder  does  — 
And  in  no  other  wise  she  goes  — 
Till  she  came  to  the  flowing  flood. 
And  there  a  while  full  still  she  stood.         3970 
Three  times  about  she  turned  her  now. 
And  thrice  also  she  low  did  bow, 
And  in  the  flood  she  wet  her  hair. 
And  thrice  upon  the  water  there 
She  with  a  troubling  breath  blew  fast, 
And  then  unto  her  speech  she  passed. 
First  she  began  to  cry  and  call 
Unto  the  stars  of  heaven  all ; 
To  Windj'vto  Air,  to  Sea,  to  Land 
She  prayed  there,  holding  up  her  hand,     3980 
And  unto  Hecate  did  she  cry. 
Who  goddess  is  of  sorcery. 
She  said :   "Oh,  help  me  in  this  need, 
And  as  ye  once  made  me  to  speed, 
W^hen  Jason  came,  the  Fleece  to  seek, 
So  now  your  aid  I  do  bespeak." 
With  that  she  looked  and  saw  on  high 
A  chariot  gliding  from  the  sky. 
Which,  dragons  drawing,  downward  sped. 
And  then  she  bowed  adown  her  head,        3990 
And  up  she  rose,  drove  well  and  fair 
Both  car  and  wheel  on  through  the  air, 
Above  and  through  the  clouds  of  sky. 
The  land  of  Crete  and  parts  near  by 
She  sought,  and  fast  began  her  hie ; 
And  there  upon  the  mountains  high 
Of  Othrim  and  Olympus  too, 
And  other  mountains  eke  thereto. 
She  found  and  gathers  herbs  of  boot. 
She  pulleth  some  up  by  the  root,  4000 

And  many  with  a  knife  she  shears. 
And  all  unto  her  car  she  bears. 
Thus  when  she  hath  the  mountains  sought, 
The  rivers  there  forgot  she  not ; 
Eridian  and  Amphrisos, 


*  starlight   ^  as   it    pleased   her   ''  at   the    *  un-       ^^  bow  "  troubling  ^^  breath  ^^  then  '^  cry  '^  Hec 
vered     ^  her     hair    unbound    ''  irirded    ^  Gower       ate   ^^  succeed    '^  fleece   ^^  aware   ^^  chariot  "^^  ros( 


covered     ^  her    hair    unbound    ''  girded 


iier  iiair  uiiuouiiu  girucu  \juwer 
often  gives  and  a  strange  position  in  the  sentence; 
we  should  place  it  before  al.  **  gUded  ^  stood  still 


ate  ^''  succeed  "  fleece  ^^  aware  ^^  chariot  ^'^  rose 
^^  the  air  ^-  clouds  '^^  those  parts  -'  hasten  -'"  hills 
26  sweet  ^^  cuts  -*  bears,  carries   ^^  rivers  ^°  forgot 


CONFESSIO    AMANTIS 


S3 


Peneie  and  ek  Spercheidos. 

To  hem  sche  wente  and  ther  sche  nom  ^ 

Bothe  of  the  water  and  the  fom, 

The  sond  and  ek  the  smale  stones, 

Whiche-as  sche  ches  -  out  for  the  nones ;  ^ 

And  of  the  Rede  See  a  part  401 1 

That  was  behovelich  to  hire  art 

Sche  tok,  and  after  that  aboute 

Sche  soughte  sondri  sedes  oute 

In  feldes  and  in  many  greves,^ 

And  ek  a  part  sche  tok  of  leves ; 

Bot  thing  which  mihte  hire  most  availe 

Sche  fond  in  Crete  and  in  Thessaile. 

In  daies  and  in  nyhtes  nyne. 
With  gret  travaile  and  with  gret  pyne,     4020 
Sche  was  pourveid  of  every  piece, 
And  torneth  homward  into  Grece. 
Before  the  gates  of  Eson 
Hir  char  sche  let  awai  to  gon, 
And  tok  out  ferst  that  was  therinne ; 
For  tho  sche  thoghte  to  beginne 
Suche  thing  as  semeth  impossible, 
And  made  hirselven  invisible. 
As  sche  that  was  with  air  enclosed 
And  mihte  of  noman  be  desclosed.  4030 

Sche  tok  up  tur\'es  of  the  lond 
Withoute  helpe  of  mannes  hond, 
Al  heled  ^  with  the  grene  gras. 
Of  which  an  alter  mad  ther  was 
Unto  Echates,  the  goddesse 
Of  art  magique  and  the  maistresse, 
And  eft  ^  an  other  to  Juvente, 
As  sche  which  dede  hir  hole  entente.' 
Tho  tok  sche  fieldwode  and  verveyne  — 
Of  herbes  ben  noght  betre  tueine ;  ^  4040 

Of  which  anon  withoute  let 
These  alters  ben  aboute  set. 
Tvio  sondri  puttes  ®  faste  by 
Sche  made,  and  with  that  hastely 
A  wether  which  was  blak  sche  slouh,^" 
And  out  ther-of  the  blod  sche  drouh  ^^ 
And  dede  ^-  into  the  pettes  ^  tuo  ; 
Warm  melk  sche  putte  also  ther  to 
With  hony  meynd ;  ^^  and  in  such  wise 
Sche  gan  to  make  hir  sacrifice.  4050 

And  cride  and  preide  forth  withal 
To  Pluto,  the  god  infernal, 
And  to  the  queene  Proserpine. 
And  so  sche  soghte  out  al  the  line 
Of  hem  that  longen  to  that  craft, 
Behinde  was  no  name  laft,^'* 


Peneie  and  eke  Spercheidos. 

To  them  she  went  and  there  took  some 

Both  of  the  water  and  the  foam, 

The  sand  and  eke  the  little  stones, 

Whereof  she  chose  out  special  ones ;  4010 

And  of  the  Red  Sea  too  a  part 

That  was  behooveful  for  her  art 

She  took,  and,  after  that,  about 

She  sought  there  sundry  seeds  then  out 

In  many  a  wood  and  many  a  field ; 

Their  leaves  she  made  the  trees  to  yield ; 

But  that  which  best  her  need  did  meet 

She  found  in  Thessaly  and  Crete. 

Nine  days  and  nights  had  passed  before, 
With  labour  great  and  pain  full  sore,         4020 
She  was  purveyed  with  every  piece, 
And  turneth  homeward  unto  Greece. 
At  Eson's  gates  then  did  she  stay, 
And  let  her  chariot  go  away ; 
But  took  out  first  what  was  therein, 
For  then  her  plan  was  to  begin 
Such  things  as  seemed  impossible, 
And  made  herself  invisible. 
As  she  that  was  with  air  enclosed 
And  might  to  no  man  be  disclosed.  4030 

She  took  up  turfs  from  off  the  land, 
Without  the  help  of  human  hand, 
All  covered  with  the  growing  grass, 
Of  which  an  altar  made  she  has 
To  Hecate,  who  was  the  goddess 
Of  magic  art  and  the  mistress. 
And  still  another  to  Juvente, 
As  one  fulfilling  her  intent. 
Then  took  she  wormwood  and  vervain  — 
Of  herbs  there  be  no  better  twain  ;  4040 

With  which  anon,  without  delay, 
She  set  these  altars  in  array. 
Two  sundry  pits  quite  near  thereby 
She  made,  and  with  that  hastily, 
A  wether  which  was  black  she  slew, 
.And  out  thereof  the  blood  she  drew, 
.\nd  cast  in  the  pits  without  ado ; 
And  warm  milk  added  she  thereto 
W^th  honey  mixed ;  and  in  such  wise 
Began  to  make  her  sacrifice.  4050 

And  cried  and  prayed  aloud  also 
To  Pluto,  god  of  all  below. 
And  to  the  queen's  self,  Proserpine. 
And  so  she  sought  out  all  the  line 
Of  those  that  to  that  craft  belong  — 
Forgot  she  none  of  all  the  throng  — 


^  took  "^  chose  ^  for  the  purpose  *  groves 
ered   ^  again   ^  entire  purpose  *  twain,    two 

AE 


'  pits 


'  slew  "  drew  ^^  put  ^^  mixed  ^^  left 


54 


JOHN    GOWER 


And  preide  hem  alle,  as  sche  wel  couthe,^ 
To  grante  Eson  his  ferste  youthe. 

This  olde  Eson  broght  forth  was  the ;  ^ 
Awei  sche  bad  alle  othre  go,  4060 

Upon  peril  that  mihte  falle  ; 
And  with  that  word  thei  wenten  alle, 
And  leften  there  hem  tuo  al-one. 
And  tho  sche  gan  to  gaspe  and  gone,^ 
And  made  signes  many-on. 
And  seide  hir  wordes  therupon ; 
So  that  with  spellinge  of  hir  charmes 
Sche  took  Eson  in  both  hire  armes, 
And  made  him  forto  slepe  faste, 
And  him  upon  hire  herbes  caste.  4070 

The  blake  wether  tho  sche  tok, 
And  hiewh  *  the  fleissh,  as  doth  a  cok ; 
On  either  alter  part  sche  leide. 
And  with  the  charmes  that  sche  seide 
A  fyr  doun  fro  the  sky  alyhte 
And  made  it  forto  brenne  lyhte. 
Bot  whan  Medea  sawh  it  brenne, 
Anon  sche  gan  to  sterte  and  renne  ^ 
The  fyri  aulters  al  aboute. 
Ther  was  no  beste  which  goth  oute  4080 

More  wylde  than  sche  semeth  ther  : 
Aboute  hir  schuldres  hyng  ^  hir  her, 
As  thogh  sche  were  oute  of  hir  mynde 
And  torned  in  an  other  kynde.'^ 
Tho  2  lay  ther  certein  wode  cleft, 
Of  which  the  pieces  nou  and  eft  ^ 
Sche  made  hem  in  the  pettes  wete, 
And  put  hem  in  the  fyri  hete. 
And  tok  the  brond  with  al  the  blase, 
And  thries  sche  began  to  rase  4090 

Aboute  Eson,  ther-as  ^  he  slepte ; 
And  eft  with  water,  which  sche  kepte, 
Sche  made  a  cercle  aboute  him  thries, 
And  eft  with  fyr  of  sulphre  twyes. 
Ful  many  an  other  thing  sche  dede. 
Which  is  noght  writen  in  this  stede.^** 
Bot  tho  ^  sche  ran  so  up  and  doun, 
Sche  made  many  a  wonder  soun, 
Somtime  lich  "  unto  the  cock, 
Somtime  unto  the  laverock,^^  4100 

Somtime  kacleth  as  a  hen, 
Somtime  spekth  as  don  the  men ; 
And  riht  so  as  hir  jargoun  strangeth,^' 
In  sondri  wise  hir  forme  changeth, 
Sche  semeth  faie  "  and  no  womman ; 
For  with  the  craftes  that  sche  can 
Sche  was,  as  who  seith,  a  goddesse. 


^  could    ^  then    ^  walk     ''  hewed     ^  run    *  hung 
''  nature  **  now   and  again  ^  where  ^°  place  ^^  I'tp 


like 


And  prayed  them  all,  as  she  well  could. 
To  grant  Eson  his  young  manhood. 

This  old  Eson  was  brought  forth,  lo  ! 
Away  she  bade  all  others  go,  4060 

On  peril  of  what  might  befaU ; 
And  with  that  word  then  went  in  all, 
And  left  out  there  alone  those  two. 
Gasping  and  pacing,  with  much  ado, 
She  made  her  signs  full  many  a  one. 
And  said  her  magic  words  thereon ; 
So  that  with  spelling  of  her  charms 
She  took  Eson  in  both  her  arms. 
And  caused  him  to  sleep  full  fast, 
And  on  the  herbs  him  sleeping  cast.  4070 

The  wether  black  then  next  she  took. 
And  hewed  the  flesh  as  doth  a  cook ; 
On  either  altar  part  she  laid. 
And  with  the  charms  that  she  hath  said 
A  fire  down  from  the  sky  did  light 
And  made  the  flesh  to  burn  full  bright. 
But  when  JNledea  saw  it  burn. 
Anon  she  leaped  and  ran  in  turn 
The  fiery  altars  all  about. 
There  was  no  beast  which  goeth  out         4080 
More  wild  than  she  herself  seemed  there ; 
About  her  shoulders  hung  her  hair. 
As  though  she  were  out  of  her  mind 
And  turned  into  another  kind. 
There  certain  wood  lay  cleft  in  twain. 
Of  which  the  sticks,  now  and  again, 
She  made  them  in  the  pits  full  wet. 
And  in  the  fiery  heat  them  set ; 
And  took  the  brand  with  all  the  blaze, 
And  thrice  with  it,  as  in  a  race,  4090 

Ran  about  Eson  as  he  slept. 
And  then  with  water  which  she  kept 
She  made  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 
And  then  with  fire  of  sulphur  twice. 
And  other  things  she  did,  I  wot. 
Which  in  this  place  are  written  not. 
But,  running  up  and  down  the  ground, 
She  made  full  many  a  wondrous  sound ; 
Sometimes  like  unto  the  cock, 
Sometimes  like  the  laverock,  4100 

Sometimes  cackleth  as  a  hen. 
Sometimes  speaketh  as  do  men. 
And  as  she  made  her  jargon  strange. 
Her  form  in  sundry  wise  did  change, 
She  seemed  no  woman  but  a  fay ; 
For  with  the  crafts  she  did  assay 
She  was,  ,as  one  might  say,  goddess. 

^^  lark  ^^  becomes  strange  '''  fairy 


CONFESSIO   AMANTIS 


55 


And  what  hir  liste,  more  or  lesse, 

Sche  dede,  in  bokes  as  we  finde, 

That  passeth  over  manneskinde.^  41  lo 

Bot  who  that  wole  of  wondres  hiere, 

What  thing  sche  wroghte  in  this  matiere, 

To  make  an  ende  of  that  sche  gan,^ 

Such  merveile  herde  nevere  man. 

Apointed  in  the  newe  mone, 
Whan  it  was  time  forto  done, 
Sche  sette  a  caldron  on  the  f>T, 
In  which  was  al  the  hole  atir,^ 
Whereon  the  medicine  stod, 
Of  jus,  of  water,  and  of  blod,  4120 

And  let  it  buile  *  in  such  a  plit, 
Til  that  sche  sawh  the  spume  whyt ; 
And  tho  sche  caste  in  rynde  ^  and  rote, 
And  sed  and  ilour  that  was  for  bote,^ 
With  many  an  herbe  and  many  a  ston, 
Whereof  sche  hath  ther  many  on. 
And  ek  Cimpheius  fhe  serpent 
To  hire  hath  alle  his  scales  lent, 
Chelidre  hire  yaf  his  addres  skin, 
And  sche  to  buUen  caste  hem  in ;  413c 

A  part  ek  of  the  horned  oule, 
The  which  men  hiere  on  nyhtes  houle ; 
And  of  a  raven,  which  was  told 
Of  nyne  hundred  wynter  old, 
Sche  tok  the  hed  with  al  the  bQe ;  ' 
And  as  the  medicme  it  wile, 
Sche  tok  therafter  the  bouele  * 
Of  the  seewolf ,  and  for  the  hele  ^ 
Of  Eson,  with  a  thousand  mo 
Of  thinges  that  sche  hadde  tho,  4140 

In  that  caldroun  togedre  as  blyve  ^'* 
Sche  putte ;   and  tok  thanne  of  olyve 
A  drie  branche  hem  with  to  stere," 
The  which  anon  gan  floure  and  bere 
And  waxe  al  freissh  and  grene  ayein. 
WTian  sche  this  vertu  hadde  sein, 
Sche  let  the  leste  drope  of  alle 
Upon  the  bare  flor  doun  falle ; 
Anon  ther  sprong  up  flour  and  gras, 
WTiere-as  the  drope  falle  was,  4150 

And  wox  anon  al  medwe  ^^  grene. 
So  that  it  mihte  wel  be  sene. 
Medea  thanne  knew  and  wiste 
Hir  medicine  is  forto  triste,^^ 
And  goth  to  Eson  ther  ^^  he  lay, 
And  tok  a  swcrd  was  of  assaj'  ^^ 
With  which  a  wounde  upon  his  side 
Sche  made,  that  therout  mai  slyde 


And  whatso  pleased  her,  more  or  less, 

She  did.  as  we  in  books  may  find. 

Deeds  that  pass  skill  of  human  kind.         41 10 

But  whoso  will  of  wonders  hear, 

WTiat  things  she  wrought  by  magic  clear 

To  make  an  end  of  aU  her  spell, 

Of  crafts  like  hers  heard  no  man  tell. 

Just  as  the  moon  had  changed  to  new. 
When  it  was  time  her  task  to  do. 
She  laid  a  cauldron  on  the  fire. 
In  which  was  placed  the  mass  entire 
WTierein  the  magic  virtues  stood 
Of  juice,  of  water,  and  of  blood,  4120 

And  let  it  boil  therein  aright 
Till  she  could  see  the  bubbles  white ; 
And  then  she  cast  in  bark  and  root, 
And  seed  and  flovver  both  to  boot. 
With  man}'  a  herb  and  many  a  stone, 
Whereof  she  hath  there  many  a  one. 
And  eke  Cimpheius,  the  serpent, 
To  her  hath  all  his  scales  now  lent, 
Chelidre,  the  adder,  gave  his  skin. 
And  she  to  the  boiling  cast  them  in ;         4130 
A  part  too  of  the  horned  owl. 
The  which  men  hear  at  night-time  howl ; 
And  of  a  raven  which  had  told 
His  full  nine  hundred  winters  old 
She  took  the  head  with  all  the  bill; 
And  as  the  medicine  it  wUl, 
Of  sea  wolf  she  the  bowel  took. 
And  for  the  healing  did  it  cook 
Of  Eson  ;  —  and  a  thousand  more 
Of  things  that  she  had  still  in  store  4140 

Within  that  cauldron  cast  full  quick. 
Of  olive  then  a  withered  stick 
She  took,  to  stir  that  mixture  rare. 
And  lo,  the  stick  did  flower  and  bear, 
And  waxed  again  all  fresh  and  green  ! 
When  she  this  virtue  weU  had  seen, 
She  let  the  smallest  drop  of  all 
Upon  the  barren  earth  down  fall ; 
At  once  there  sprang  up  flower  and  grass. 
Just  where  the  falling  drop  did  pass,         4150 
And  waxed  at  once  all  meadow-green. 
So  that  it  clearly  might  be  seen. 
Medea  then  full  surel}-  knew 
Her  medicine  was  strong  and  true ; 
And  goes  to  Eson  Vv-here  he  lay, 
And  took  a  sword  of  good  assay, 
With  which  a  wound  within  his  side 
She  made,  that  so  thereout  may  slide 


^  that  surpasses  human  nature  ^  began  ^  equip-       ®  healing    ^^  quickly    "  stir      ^  meadow     ^^  trust 
ment    ^  boil     ^  bark    ®  remedy    '^  bill    *  intestine       ^*  where  ^^  proof 


56 


GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 


The  blod  withinne,  which  was  old  4159 

And  sek  and  trouble  and  fieble  and  cold. 

And  tho  sche  tok  unto  his  us  * 

Of  herbes  al  the  beste  jus, 

And  poured  it  into  his  wounde ; 

That  made  his  veynes  fuUe  and  sounde. 

And  tho  sche  made  his  wounde  clos, 

And  tok  his  hand,  and  up  he  ros. 

And  tho  sche  yaf  ^  him  drinke  a  drauhte, 

Of  which  his  youthe  ayein  he  cauhte. 

His  hed,  his  herte  and  his  visage 

Lich  ^  unto  twenty  w}aiter  age  ;  4170 

Hise  hore  heres  were  away. 

And  lich  unto  the  freisshe  Maii, 

Whan  passed  ben  the  colde  schoures, 

Riht  so  recovereth  he  his  fioures. 


The  blood  within  him,  which  was  old 

And  sicls.  and  troubled  and  feeble  and  cold. 

And  then  she  took  unto  his  use  4161 

Of  all  the  herbs  the  potent  juice, 

And  poured  it  all  into  his  wound, 

That  made  his  veins  all  full  and  sound ; 

And  then  she  made  his  wound  to  close ; 

And  took  his  hand,  and  up  he  rose. 

A  draught  to  drink  she  gave  him  then, 

From  which  his  youth  he  caught  again, 

His  head,  his  heart,  and  his  visage, 

Like  unto  twenty  winters'  age;  4170 

His  hoary  hairs  vanished  away ; 

And  like  unto  the  lusty  May, 

When  passed  are  all  the  chilling  showers, 

Right  so  recovereth  he  his  flowers. 


GEOFFREY   CHAUCER  (1340  ?-i4oo) 
TROILUS  AND    CRISEYDE 


'From  BOOK  I 

And  so  bifel,*  whan  comen  was  the  tyme 
Of  A'peril,  whan  clothed  is  the  mede  ^ 
With  newe  grene,  of  lusty  Ver  ^  the  pryme, 
And  swote  ^  smellen  floures  whyte  and  rede,  , 
In  sondry  wyses  shewede,  as  I  rede. 
The  folk  of  Troye  hir  *  observaunces  olde, 
Palladiones  ^  feste  for  to  holde.  161 

And  to  the  temple,  in  al  hir  *  beste  wyse, 
In  general,  ther  wente  many  a  wight, 
To  herknen  of  Palladion  the  servyse ; 
And  namely,^"  so  many  a  lusty  knight,        165 
So  many  a  lady  fresh  and  mayden  bright, 
Ful  wel  arayed,  bothe  moste  "  and  leste, 
Ye,^^  bothe  for  the  seson  and  the  feste. 


170 


Among  thise  othere  folk  was  Criseyda, 
In  widewes  habite  blak ;   but  Jiathelees, 
Right  as  our  iirste  lettre  is  now  an  A, 
In  beautee  first  so  stood  she,  makelees  ;  ^' 
Hir  goodly  looking  gladede  al  the  prees.'* 
Nas  ^^  never  seyn  thing  to  ben  preysed  derre,^® 
Nor  under  cloude  blak  so  bright  a  sterre    175 

As  was  Criseyde,  as  folk  seyde  everichoon  ^^ 
That  hir  bihelden  in  hir  blake  wede ;  ^* 
And  yet  she  stood  ful  lowe  and  stille  alloon, 
Bihinden  othere  folk,  in  litel  brede,'^ 

^  use  ^  gave  ■''  like  ''  it  happened  ^  meadow 
®  spring  ^  sweet  ^  their  ^  of  the  Palladium  ^^  espe- 
cially "  greatest  '^  yea  "  peerless  ^*  crowd  ^^  was 
not  ^®  more  dearly  ^^  every  one  "^  garment  ^^  space 


And  neigh  the  dore,  ay  under  shames  drede, 
Simple  of  atyr,  and  debonaire  of  chere,       181 
With  ful  assured  loking  and  manere. 

This  Troilus,  as  he  was  wont  to  gyde 
His  yonge  knightes,  ladde  hem  up  and  doun 
In  thilke  ^  large  temple  on  every  syde,        185 
Biholding  ay  the  ladyes  of  the  toun. 
Now  here,  now  there,  for  no  devocioun 
Hadde  he  to  noon,  to  reven  ^  him  his  reste. 
But  gan  to  preyse  and  lakken '  whom  him 
leste.* 

And  in  his  walk  full  fast  he  gan  to  wayten  ^ 
If  knight  or  squyer  of  his  companye  191 

Gan  for  to  syke,®  or  lete  his  eyen  bayten  ^ 
On  any  woman  that  he  coude  aspye ; 
He  wolde  smyle,  and  holden  it  folye,  194 

And  seye  him  thus,  "  God  wot,  she  slepeth  softe 
For  love  of  thee,  whan  thou  tornest  ful  ofte. 

"I  have  herd  told,  pardieux,  of  your  livinge, 
Ye  lovers,  and  your  lewede  ^  observaunces. 
And  which  ^  a  labour  folk  han  ^°  in  winninge 
Of    love,   and   in    the    keping   which  ^   dou- 

taunces ;  " 
And  whan  your  preye  is  lost,  wo  and  pen- 

aunces ; 
O  verrey  foles  !  nyce  ^^  and  blinde  be  ye ;   202 
Ther  nis  ^'  not  oon  can  war  ^''  by  other  be." 

*  that  same    ^  take  away    ^  blame    *  it  pleased 
was       ^  observe  ®  sigh   ^  feast  *  silly  ^  what  sort  of  ^^  have 
*'  perplexities  *^  foolish  ^^  is  not  ^*  cautious 


TROILUS    AND    CRISEYDE 


57 


And  with  that  word  he  gan  cast  up  the  browe, 
Ascaunces,^     "Lo !    is    this    nought    wysly 

spoken?" 
At  which  the  god  of  love  gan  loken  rowe  ^ 
Right   for   despyt,   and   shoop  ^    for  to  ben 

wroken ;  ■*  207 

He  kidde  ^  anoon  his  bowe  nas  not  broken ; 
For  sodeynly  he  hit  him  at  the  f ulle ;  — ■ 
And  yet  as  proud  a  pekok  can  he  puUe  !  ® 

0  bhnde  world,  O  blinde  entencioun  !  ^        211 
How  ofte  falleth  al  theffect  ^  contraire 

Of  surquidrye  ^  and  foul  presumpcioun ; 
For  caught  is  proud,  and  caught  is  debonaire. 
This  Troilus  is  clomben  on  the  staire,  215 

And  litel  weneth  that  he  moot  descenden. 
But    al-day '"    falleth    thing    that    foles    ne 
wen  den.  11 

As  proude  Bayard  ginneth  for  to  skippe 
Out  of  the  wey,  so  priketh  him  his  corn,^^ 
Til  he  a  lash  have  of  the  longe  whippe,       220 
Than   thenketh   he,   "Though  I  praunce  al 

biforn, 
First  in  the  trays,  ful  fat  and  newe  shorn, 
Yet  am  I  but  an  hors,  and  horses  lawe 

1  moot  endure,  and  with  my  feres  ^^  drawe." 


From   BOOK  II 
******* 

With  this  he  ^*  took  his  leve,  and  hoom  he 

wente ; 
And  lord,  how  he  was  glad  and  wel  bigoon  !  ^* 
Criseyde  aroos,  no  lenger  she  ne  stente,^^ 
But  straught  in-to  hir  closet  wente  anoon, 
And  sette  here  ^^  doun  as  stille  as  any  stoon. 
And  every  word  gan  up  and  doun  to  winde, 
That  he  hadde  seyd,  as  it  com  hir  to  minde; 

And  wex  somdel  ^*  astonied  in  hir  thought. 
Right  for  the  newe  cas ;  but  whan  that  she 
Was  ful  avysed,!*  tho  2°  fond  she  right  nought 
Of  peril,  why  she  oughte  afered  be.  606 

For  man  may  love,  of  possibilitee, 
A  womman  so  his  herte  may  to-breste,^^ 
And  she  nought  love  ayein,  but-if  hir  leste.^^ 

^  as  if  to  say  ^  cruel  ^  planned  *  avenged  ^  made 
known  ^  pluck  "  purpose  *  result  ^  overweening 
^^  constantly  ^^  did  not  expect  ^^  food  ^^  fellows 
"  i.e.  Pandarus  ^^  happy  '^  delayed  ^^  her  ^*  some- 
what ^'  had  considered  thoroughly  ^^  then  ^^  burst 
^  unless  it  please  her 


But  as  she  sat  allone  and  thoughte  thus,    610 
Thascry  ^  aroos  at  skarmish  al  with-oute, 
And  men  cryde  in  the  strete,  "See,  Troilus 
Hath   right   now    put    to   flight   the    Grekes 

route  !"  ^ 
With  that  gan  al  hir  meynee  ^  for  to  shoute, 
"  A  !  go  we  see,  caste  up  the  latis  ''  wyde ;  615 
For  thurgh  this  strete  he  moot  ^  to  palays 

ryde; 

"For  other  wey  is  fro  the  yate  ^  noon 

Of  Dardanus,  ther  "  open  is  the  cheyne."  ^ 

With  that  come  he  and  al  his  folk  anoon 

An  esy  pas  rydinge,  in  routes  ^  tweyne,       620 

Right  as  his  happy  day  was,  sooth  to  seyne, 

For  which  men  say,  may  nought  disturbed  be 

That  shal  bityden  of  necessitee. 

This  Troilus  sat  on  his  baye  stede, 

Al  armed,  save  his  heed,  ful  richely,  625 

And  wounded  was  his  hors,  and  gan  to  blede, 

On  whiche  he  rood  a  pas,  ful  softely ; 

But  swych  a  knightly  sighte,  trewely. 

As  was  on  him,  was  nought,  with-outen  faile, 

To  loke  on  Mars,  that  god  is  of  batayle.    630 

So  lyk  a  man  of  armes  and  a  knight 
He  was  to  seen,  fuliild  of  heigh  prowesse ; 
For  bothe  he  hadde  a  body  and  a  might 
To  doon  that  thing,  as  wel  as  hardinesse ; 
And  eek  to  seen  him  in  his  gere  ^^  him  dresse, 
So  fresh,  so  yong,  so  weldy  '^  semed  he,      636 
It  was  an  heven  up-on  him  for  to  see. 

His  helm  to-hewen  ^^  was  in  twenty  places, 

That  by  a  tissew  heng,  his  bak  bihinde, 

His  sheld  to-dasshed  was  with  swerdes  and 

maces,  640 

In  which  men  mighte  many  an  arwe  finde 
That   thirled  "  hadde  horn  and  nerf "  and 

rinde ;  ^* 
And  ay  the  peple  cryde,  "Here  cometh  our 

joye. 
And,  next  his  brother,  holdere  up  of  Troye  ! " 

For  which  he  wex  a  litel  reed  for  shame,     645 
When  he  the  peple  up-on  him  herde  cryen, 
That  to  biholde  it  was  a  noble  game, 
How  sobreliche  he  caste  doun  his  yen. 
Cryseyda  gan  al  his  chere  aspyen, 


^  the  shout  ^  crowd  '  household  ^  lattice  ^  must 
;ate  '  where  *  chain  *  companies  '"  gear,  equip- 
ent   "  active    ^  cut  through   ^^  pierced    "  sinew 


58 


GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 


And  leet  ^  so  softe  it  in  hir  herte  sinke,      650 
That  to  hir-self  she  seyde,    "Who   yaf  ^  me 
drinke?"  '' 

For  of  hir  owene  thought  she  wex  al  reed, 
Remembringe  hir  right  thus,  "Lo,  this  is  he 
Which  that  myn  uncle  swereth  he  moot  be 

deed,"* 
But  ^  I  on  him  have  mercy  and  pitee ;"      655 
And  with  that  thought,  for  pure  a-shamed," 

she 
Gan  in  hir  heed  to  pulle,  and  that  as  faste, 
Whyl  he  and  al  the  peple  for-by  paste. 

And  gan  to  caste  and  rolen  up  and  doun 
With-inne  hir  thought  his  excellent  prowesse. 
And  his  est  at,  and  also  his  renoun,  66i 

His  wit,  his  shap,  and  cek  his  gentillesse; 
But  most  hir  favour  was  for  '  his  distresse 
Was  al  for  hir,  and  thoughte  it  was  a  routhe  * 
To  sleen  ^  swich  oon,  if  that  he  mente  trouthe. 

Now  mighte  some  envyous  jangle  thus,       666 
"  This  was  a  sodeyn  love,  how  mighte  it  be 
That  she  so  lightly  lovede  Troilus 
Right  for  the  firste  sighte;  ye,  pardee?" 
Now    who-so    seyeth    so,    mote  ^^  he    never 
thee !  "  670 

For  everything,  a  ginning  ^^  hath  it  nede 
Er  al  be  wrought,  with-outen  any  drede. 

For  I  sey  nought  that  she  so  sodeynly 
Yaf  ^  him  her  love,  but  that  she  gan  enclyne 
To  lyk  him  first,  and  I  have  told  yow  why ; 
And  after  that,  his  manhood  and  his  pyne  676 
Made  love  with-inne  hir  herte  for  to  myne. 
For  which,  by  proces  and  by  good  servyse, 
He  gat  hir  love,  and  in  no  sodeyn  wyse. 


From   BOOK  V 
******* 

The  morwe  '^  com,  and  goostly  ^*  for  to  speke, 
This  Diomede  is  come  un-to  Criseyde,      1031 
And  shortly,  lest  that  ye  my  tale  breke, 
So  wel  he  for  him-selve  spak  and  seyde, 
That  alle  hir  sykes  ^-^  sore  adoun  he  leyde. 
And  fynally,  the  sothe  for  to  scyne,  1035 

He  refte  ^'^  hir  of  the  grete  ^^  of  al  hir  payne. 

*  let  ^  gave  ^  a  potion  "•  must  die  ^  unless  •*  for 
very  shame  '  because  **  pity  '  slay  ^"^  may  '^  thrive 
^^  beginning  ^^  morrow  ^■'spiritually  '''sighs  '®  de- 
prived '^  great  (most) 


And  after  this  the  story  telleth  us, 
That  she  him  yaf  ^  the  faire  baye  stede, 
The  which  she  ones  wan  of  Troilus ; 
And  eek  ^  a  broche  (and  that  was  litel  nede) 
That  TroUus  was,  she  yaf  ^  this  Diomede. 
And  eek,  the  bet "  from  sorwe  him  to  releve, 
She  made  him  were  ^  a  pencel  ^  of  hir  sieve. 

1043 
I  finde  eek  in  the  stories  elles-where. 
Whan  through  the  body  hurt  was  Diomede 
Of  ®  Troilus,  tho  weep  ^  she  many  a  tere. 
Whan    that    she   saugh    his   wyde    woundes 
blede ;  1047 

And  that  she  took  to  kepen  him  good  hede ; 
And  for  to  hele  him  of  his  sorv/es  smerte. 
Men  seyn,  I  not,*  that  she  yaf  him  hir  herte. 

But  trewely,  the  story  telleth  us,  1051 

Ther  made  never  womman  more  wo 
Than  she,  whan  that  she  falsed  Troilus. 
She  seyde,  "Alias  !  for  now  is  clene  a-go  ^ 
My  name  of  trouthe  in  love,  for  ever-mo  ! 
For  I  have  falsed  oon  the  gentileste  1056 

That  ever  was,  and  oon  the  worthieste ! 

"Alias,  of  me,  un-to  the  worldes  ende, 
Shal  neither  been  y-writen  nor  y-songe 
No  good  word,  for  thise  bokes  wol  me  shende.^" 
O,  rolled  shal  I  been  on  many  a  tonge ;     1061 
Through-out  the  world  my  belle  shal  be  ronge ; 
And  wommen  most  wol  hate  me  of  alle. 
Alias,  that  swich  a  cas  me  sholde  faUe  ! 

"They  wol  seyn,  in  as  muche  as  in  me  is 

I  have  hem  "  don  dishonour,  weylawey  !  1066 

Al  be  I  not  the  firste  that  dide  amis, 

What  helpeth  that  to  do  ^^  my  blame  awey  ? 

But  sin  '^  I  see  there  is  no  bettre  way, 

And  that  to  late  is  now  for  me  to  rewe,'^  1070 

To  Diomede  algate  '^  I  wol  be  trewe. 

"But,  Troilus,  sin  "  I  no  better  may, 

And  sin  *'  that  thus  departen  ye  and  I, 

Yet  preye  I  God,  so  yeve  ^'^  yow  right  good 

day  • 
As  for  the  gentileste,  trewely,  1075 

That  ever  I  say,"  to  serven  feithfully. 
And  best  can  ay  his  lady  '*  honour  kepe  : "  — 
And  with  that  word  she  brast  '^  anon  -"  to 

wepe. 

small  flag 


wepe. 

'gave  ^  also  ^better  *  wear  ^pencil,  small  flag 
'  by  ^  then  wept  *  know  not  ^  gone  ^"  shame 
'^  them  '^  put  '^  since  ''*  repent  '^  at  an}''  rate 
^6  givg  17  gg^^  18  lady's  '^  burst  ^^  at  once 


THE    CANTERBURY   TALES 


59 


"And  certes,  yow  ne  haten  shal  I  never, 
And  freendes  love,  that  shal  ye  han  of  me, 
And  my  good  word,  al  ^  mighte  I  liven  ever. 
And  trewely,  I  wolde  sory  be  1082 

For  to  seen  yow  in  adversitee. 
And  giltelees,  I  woot  -  wel,  I  yow  leve ; ' 
But  al  shal  passe;     and   thus   take   I  my 
leve."  1085 

But  trewely,  how  longe  it  was  bitwene, 
That  she  for-sook  him  for  this  Diomede, 
Ther  is  non  auctor  telleth  it,  I  wene.^ 
Take  every  man  now  to  his  bokes  hede ; 
He  shal  no  terme  finden,  out  of  drede.^     1090 
For  though  that  he  bigan  to  wo  we  hir  sone, 
Er  he  hir  wan,  yet  was  ther  more  to  done.'' 

THE   CANTERBURY  T.ALES 
From  THE   PROLOGUE 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  hise  shoures  soote  ' 
The  droghte  of  Marche  hath  perced  to  the 

roote 
And  bathed  every  veyne  ^  in  swich  ^  licour 
Of  which  vertu  engendred  is  the  flour ; 
Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breeth      5 
Inspired  hath  in  every  holt  ^**  and  heeth 
The  tendre  croppes,^^  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  ^-  y-ronne, 
And  smale  foweles  ^^  maken  melodye 
That  slepen  al  the  nyght  with  open  eye,  — 
So  priketh  hem  Nature  in  hir  corages,"  — ^11 
Thanne  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages, 
And  palmeres  for  to  seken  straunge  strondes,^^ 
To  feme  halwes/®  kowthe  ^^  in  sondry  londes ; 
And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende  15 

Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende. 
The  hooly  blisful  martir  for  to  seke. 
That  hem  hath  holpen  whan  that  they  were 
seeke. 

Bifil  ^*  that  in  that  seson  on  a  day. 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay,  20 

;  Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrymage 
To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage,^* 
At  nyght  was  come  into  that  hostelrye 
Wel  ^°  nyne-and-twenty  in  a  compaignye. 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  ^^  y-falle  25 

^  although  2  know  ^  abandon  *  think  ^  without 
doubt  ^  do  ^  showers  sweet  ^  vein  ^  such  ^'^  forest 
*^  twigs  ^-  In  April  the  sun's  course  lies  partly  in  the 
zodiacal  sign  of  the  Ram  atid  partly  in  that  of  the  Bull. 
^  birds  "  in  their  hearts  ^^  foreign  strands  ^^  dis- 
tant shrines  ^^  known  ^*  it  happened  *^  heart  ^^  full 
"^  chance 


In  felaweshipe,  and  pilgrimes  were  they  alle, 

That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde. 

The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde, 

And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste.^ 

And,  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  to  reste,  30 

So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everychon, 

That  I  was  of  hir  felaweshipe  anon. 

And  made  forward  ^  erly  for  to  ryse, 

To  take  oure  wey,  ther-as  I  yow  devyse.^ 

But  nathelees,  whil  I  have  tyme  and  space, 
Er  that  I  ferther  in  this  tale  pace,  36 

Me  thynketh  it  accordaunt  to  resoun 
To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun  * 
Of  ech  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me, 
And  whiche  ^  they  weren  and  of  what  degree, 
And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  were  inne ; 
And  at  a  knyght  than  wol  I  first  bigynne.    42 

A  Knyght  ther  was  and  that  a  worthy  man, 
That  fro  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 
To  riden  out,  he  lovede  chivalr-ie,  45 

Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  curteisie. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre. 
And  thereto  ^  hadde  he  riden,  no  man  ferre,' 
As  wel  in  Cristendom  as  in  hethenesse. 
And  ever  honoured  for  his  worthynesse.       50 
At  Alisaundre  he  was  whan  it  was  wonne ; 
Ful  ofte  tyme  he  hadde  the  bord  bigonne  * 
Aboven  alle  nacions  in  Pruce.^ 
In  Lettow  1°  hadde  he  reysed  "  and  in  Ruce,'^ 
No  Cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degree.^*         55 
In  Gernade  ^^  at  the  seege  eek  hadde  he  be 
Of  Algezir,  and  riden  in  Belmarye.^^ 
At  Lyeys  ^^  was  he,  and  at  Satalye,^^ 
Whan  they  were  wonne;    and  in  the  Crete 

Seei^ 
At  many  a  noble  armee  ^*  hadde  he  be.         60 

At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  been  fiftene. 
And  foughten  for  ovire  feith  at  Tramyssene  '® 
In  lystes  thries,  and  ay  slayn  his  foo. 
This  ilke  ^^  worthy  knyght  hadde  been  also 
Somtyme  with  the  lord  of  Palatye  ^^  65 

Agayn  ^°  another  hethen  in  Turkye  ; 
And  evermoore  he  hadde  a  sovereyn  prys.^^ 
And  though  that  he  were  worthy,  he  was  wys, 
And  of  his  port  ^^  as  meeke  as  is  a  mayde. 
He  never  yet  no  vile3mye  ^  ne  sayde  70 

^  made  comfortable  ^  agreement  ^  describe 
■*  character  ^  what  sort  *"  besides  ""  farther  *  begun 
the  board  (sat  at  the  head  of  the  table)  ^  Prussia 
^^  Lithuania  ^*  made  expeditions  ^^  Russia  '^  rank 
1"*  Granada  ^^  A  district  in  Africa.  ^^  Places  in 
Asia  Minor.  ^''  Mediterranean  ^^  armed  expedition 
^^  same  -^  against  '^^  high  esteem  ^^  bearing  ^  dis- 
courtesy 


6o 


GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 


In  al  his  lyf  unto  no  maner  wight. 
He  was  a  verray,  parfit,  gentil  knyght. 

But  for  to  tellen  yow  of  his  array, 
His  hors  were  goode,  but  he  was  nat  gay ; 
Of  fustian  ^  he  wered  a  gypon  ^  75 

Al  bismotered  ^  with  his  habergeon  ;  "* 
For  he  was  late  y-come  from  his  viage,* 
And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrymage. 

With  hym  ther  was  his  sone,  a  yong  Squier, 
A  lovyere  and  a  lusty  bacheler,  80 

With  lokkes  cruUe,^  as  ^  they  were  leyd  in 

presse. 
Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  evene  lengthe,* 
And     wonderly     delyvere  ^     and     greet     of 

strengthe ; 
And  he  hadde  been  somtyme  in  chyvachye,i° 
In  Flaundres,  in  Artoys  and  Pycardye,         86 
And  born  hym  weel,  as  of  so  litel  space. 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  lady  "  grace. 
Embrouded  was  he,  as  it  were  a  meede  ^^ 
Al  ful  of  fresshe  floures  whyte  and  reede ;     90 
Syngynge  he  was  or  floytynge  ^^  al  the  day ; 
He  was  as  fressh  as  is  the  monthe  of  May. 
Short  was  his  gowne,  with  sieves  longe  and 

wyde; 
Wei  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  faire  ryde ; 
He  coude  songes  make  and  wel  endite,"       95 
Juste  and  eek  daunce  and  weel  purtreye  and 

write. 
So  hoote  he  lovede  that  by  nyghtertale  ^^ 
He  sleep  namoore  than  dooth  a  nyghtyngale. 
Curteis  he  was,  lowely  and  servysable, 
And  carf  ^^  biforn  his  fader  at  the  table.     100 
A  Yeman  "  hadde  he,^^  and  servants  namo  " 
At  that  tyme,  for  hym  liste  ride  soo ; 
And  he  was  clad  in  cote  and  hood  of  grene ; 
A  sheef  ^°  of  pocok  ^^  arwes  bright  and  kene 
Under  his  belt  he  bar  ful  thriftily  —  105 

Wel  coude  he  dresse  ^^  his  takel  ^^  yemanly ; 
His    arwes    drouped    noght    with    fetheres 

lowe  2*  — 
And  in  his  hand  he  bar  a  myghty  bowe. 
A  not-heed  '^^  hadde  he  with  a  broun  visage. 
Of  woodecraft  wel  koude  he  al  the  usage,  no 
Upon  his  arm  he  bar  a  gay  bracer. 
And  by  his  syde  a  swerd  and  a  bokeler,^^ 

^  coarse  cloth  ^  shirt  '  soiled  *  coat  of  mail 
^  voyage  ^  curly  '  as  if  *  medium  height  '  active 
*"  cavalry  expeditions  "  lady's  '^  meadow  ^^  whis- 
tling ^^  compose  ^^  night-time  ^''  carved  ^'  yeoman 
^^  the  knight  ''•'no  more  ^°  bundle  of  twenty-four 
"  peacock  ^^  take  care  of  ^^  equipment  ^'*  worn  and 
clipped  short  ^^  closely  cut  hair    ^''  small  shield 


And  on  that  oother  syde  a  gay  daggere 
Harneised  wel  and  sharpe  as  point  of  spere ; 
A  Cristofre  ^  on  his  brest  of  silver  sheene ; 
An  horn  he  bar,  the  bawdryk  ^  was  of  grene. 
A  forster  was  he  soothly,  as  I  gesse.  ii> 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That   of   hir   smylyng   was   ful   symple   and 

coy ;  ^ 
Hire  gretteste  00th  was  but  by  Seiint  Loy,* 
And  she  was  cleped  ^  madame  Eglentyne.  121 
Ful  weel  she  songe  the  service  dyvyne, 
Entuned  in  hir  nose  ful  semely ; 
And  Frenssh  she  spak  ful  faire  and  fetisly  ^ 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford-atte-Bowe,^      125 
For  Frenssh  of  Parys  was  to  hire  unknowe. 
At  mete  wel  y-taught  was  she  with-alle, 
She  leet  no  morsel  from  hir  lippes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hir  fyngres  in  hir  sauce  depe ; 
Wel  coude  she  carie  a  morsel  and  wel  kepe 
That  no  drope  ne  fiUe  upon  hire  breste.      131 
In  curteisie  was  set  ful  muchel  hir  leste.* 
Hire  over-lippe  wyped  she  so  clene. 
That  in  hir  coppe  ther  was  no  ferthyng  sene 
Of    grece,    whan    she    dronken    hadde    hir 

draughte. 
Ful  semely  after  hir  mete  she  raughte,'      136 
And  sikerly  1°  she  was  of  greet  desport,^^ 
And  ful  plesaunt  and.  amyable  of  port  ,'^ 
And  peyned  hire  ^^  to  countrefete  i"*  cheere  '^ 
Of  court,  and  been  estathch  ^^  of  manere,  140 
And  to  ben  holden  digne  "  of  reverence. 
But,  for  to  speken  of  hire  conscience. 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous 
She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  saugh  '*  a  mous 
Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  ^^  hadde  she,  that  she  fedde 
With  rosted  flessh,  or  milk  and  wastel-breed ;  ^^ 
But  sore  wepte  she,  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed,^^ 
Or  if  men  ^^  smoot  it  with  a  yerde  ^^  smerte ;  ^^ 
And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte.     150 
Ful  semyly  '^^  hir  wympul  ^'^  pynched  ^'^  was ; 
Hire  nose  tretys,^*  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas, 
Hir  mouth  ful  smal  and  ther-to  softe  and  reed; 
But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fair  forheed ; 
It  was  almoost  a  spanne  brood  I  trowe,      155 
For,  hardily,-^  she  was  nat  undergrowe. 

^  an  image  of  his  patron  saint  ^  cord  '  quiet 
^  By  St.  Eligius,  a  very  mild  oath  ^  named 
®  skilfully  ^  A  convent  near  London.  *  pleasure 
'  reached  '"  certainly  "  good  humour  ^^  bearing 
^^  exerted  herself  ^''  imitate  '^  fashions  ^^  dignified 
'^  worthy  ^^  saw  ^^  little  dogs  ^°  cake  bread  ^'  died 
"^  any  one  ^^  stick  ^"^  sharply  ^^  neatly  ^^  face-cloth 
^'  pinched,  plaited  ^'^  well-formed  ^^  certainly 


THE    CANTERBURY   TALES 


6x 


Ful  fetys  ^  was  hir  cloke,  as  I  was  war ;  - 
Of  smal  coral  aboute  hire  arm  she  bar       ^ 
A  peire  ^  of  bedes  gauded  *  al  with  grene, 
And  ther-on  heng  a  brooch  of  gold  ful  sheene,^ 
On  which  ther  was  first  write  a  crowned  A, 
And  after  Amor  vine  it  omnia.  162 

Another  Nonne  with  hire  hadde  she. 
That  was  hire  chapeleyne  ;  and  Preestes  thre. 
A  Monk  ther  was,  a  fair  for  the  maistrie,'' 
An  outridere  that  lovede  venerie/  166 

A  manly  man,  to  been  an  abbot  able. 
Ful  many  a  deyntee  ^  hors  hadde  he  in  stable. 
And  whan  he  rood,  men  myghte  his  brydel 

heere 
Gynglen  in  a  whistlynge  wynd  as  cleere      1 70 
And  eek  as  loude  as  dooth  the  chapel-belle 
Ther-as  this  lord  was  kepere  of  the  celle.^ 
The  reule  of  Seint  Maure  or  of  Seint  Beneit, 
By-cause  that  it  was.old  and  som-del  streit '"  — 
This  ilke  monk  leet  olde  thynges  pace         175 
And  heeld  after  the  newe  world  the  space. 
He  yaf  nat  of  that  text  a  pulled  ^^  hen 
That  seith  that  hunters  beth  nat  hooly  men, 
Ne  that  a  monk  when  he  is  recchelees  ^' 
Is  likned  til  a  fissh  that  is  waterlees ;  180 

This  is  to  seyn,  a  monk  out  of  his  cloystre. 
But  thilke  text  heeld  he  nat  worth  an  oystre ; 
And  I  seyde  his  opinioun  was  good ; 
What  sholde  he  studie  and  make  hym-selven 

wood,^^ 
Upon  a  book  in  cloystre  alwey  to  poure,     185 
Or  swynken  1*  with  his  handes  and  laboure 
As  Austyn  bit  ?  ^^     How  shal  the  world  be 

served  ? 
Lat  Austyn  have  his  swynk  ^^  to  him  reserved. 
Therfore  he  was  a  pricasour  ^'''  aright ; 
Grehoundes  he  hadde,  as  swift  as  fowel  in  flight : 
Of  prikyng  ^'  and  of  huntyng  for  the  hare  191 
Was  al  his  lust,^^  for  no  cost  wolde  he  spare. 
I  seigh  '^  his  sieves  purfiled  -"  at  the  bond 
With  grys,^^  and  that  the  fyneste  of  a  lond; 
And  for  to  festne  his  hood  under  his  chyn  195 
He  hadde  of  gold  y-wroght  a  curious  pyn ; 
A  love-knotte  in  the  gretter  ende  ther  was. 
His  heed  was  balled,  that  shoon  as  any  glas. 
And  eek  his  face  as  it  hadde  been  enoynt. 
He  was  a  lord  ful  fat  and  in  good  poynt ;  "^^ 

^  well-made  ^  as  I  perceived  ^  set  *  Every 
eleventh  bead  was  a  large  green  one.  ^  beautiful 
^  an  extremely  fine  one  "  hunting  ^  fine  ^  A 
cell  is  a  branch  monastery.  '"  strkrt  ^'  plucked 
^^  vagabond  '^  crazy  "  work  ^^  bids  ^^  hunter 
^^  tracking  ^^  pleasure*^' saw  2"  edged  ^^  grey  fur 
.^  en  ban  point,  fleshy 


Hise  eyen  stepe  ^  and  rollynge  in  his  heed, 

That  stemed  ^  as  a  forneys  of  a  leed ; ' 

His  bootes  souple,  his  hors  in  greet  estaat. 

Now  certeinly  he  was  a  fair  prelaat. 

He  was  nat  pale,  as  a  forpyned  ■*  goost ;      205 

A  fat  swan  loved  he  best  of  any  roost. 

His  palfrey  was  as  broun  as  is  a  berye. 

A  Frere  ther  was,  a  wantown  and  a  merye, 
A  lymytour,^  a  ful  solempne  ''  man. 
In  alle  the  ordres  foure  '  is  noon  that  can  * 
So  muchel  of  daliaunce  and  fair  langage;    211 
He  hadde  maad  ful  many  a  mariage 
Of  yonge  wommen  at  his  owene  cost. 
Unto  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post ; 
Ful  wel  biloved  and  famulier  was  he  215 

With  frankeleyns  ^  over-al  in  his  contree ; 
And  eek  with  worthy  wommen  of  the  toun, 
For  he  hadde  power  of  confessioun, 
As  seyde  hym-self,  moore  than  a  curat, 
For  of  his  ordre  he  was  licenciat.  220 

Ful  swetely  herde  he  confessioun, 
And  plesaunt  was  his  absolucioun. 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  yeve  penaunce 
Ther-as  ^^    he   wiste "    to   have   a  good  pit- 

aunce ;  ^' 
For  unto  a  povre  ordre  for  to  yive  225 

Is  signe  that  a  man  is  wel  y-shryve. 
For,  if  he  ^^  yaf,  he  ^*  dorste  make  avaunt 
He  wiste  that  a  man  was  repentaunt ; 
For  many  a  man  so  harde  is  of  his  herte 
He  may  nat  wepe  al-thogh  hym  soore  smerte. 
Therfore  instede  of  wepynge  and  preyeres 
Men  moote  yeve  silver  to  the  povre  freres. 
His  typet  was  ay  farsed  ^^  full  of  knyves     233 
And  pynnes,  for  to  yeven  faire  wyves. 
And  certeinly  he  hadde  a  murye  ^^  note  ;     235 
Wel  coude  he  synge  and  pleyen  on  a  rote ;  ^^ 
Of  yeddynges  ^^  he  bar  outrely  the  pris. 
His  nekke  whit  was  as  the  flour-de-lys ; 
Ther-to  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun. 
He  knew  the  tavernes  well  in  every  toun    240 
And  everich  hostiler  and  tappestere  ^^ 
Bet  2"  than  a  lazar  ^^  or  a  beggestere ;  ^^ 
For  unto  swich  a  worthy  man  as  he 
Acorded  nat,  as  by  his  facultee, 
To  have  with  sike  lazars  aqueyntaunce ;     245 
It  is  nat  honeste,^^  it  may  nat  avaunce 

^  large  ^  gleamed  ^  cauldron  *  tortured  to  death 
^  licensed  to  beg  in  a  certain  district  ®  imposing 
"  Dominican,  Franciscan,  Carmelite  and  Austin 
friars.  *  knows  ^  rich  farmers  ^'^  where  '^  knew 
^^  pittance,  gift  ^^  the  man  ^^  the  friar  '^  stuffed 
^^  merry  ^^  fiddle  ^*  popular  songs  ^*  bar-maid 
^^  better    ^^  beggar    ^  female   beggar    ^^  becoming 


62 


GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 


For  to  deelen  with  no  swiche  poraille,* 
But  al  with  riche  and  selleres  of  vitaille, 
And  over-al,^  ther-as  ^  profit  sholde  arise 
Curteis  he  was  and  lowely  of  servyse.         250 
Ther  nas  no  man  nowher  so  vertuous ;  ■* 
He  was  the  beste  beggere  in  his  hous, 
For  thogh  a  wydwe  hadde  noght  a  sho,* 
So  plesaunt  was  his  hi  principio,^ 
Yet  wolde  he' have  a  ferthyng  '  er  he  wente : 
His  purchas  *  was  wel  bettre  than  his  rente.' 
And  rage  he  koude,  as  it  were  right  a  whelpe.^" 
In  love-dayes  "  ther  coude  he  muchel  helpe, 
For  there  he  was  nat  lyk  a  cloysterer 
With  a  thredbare  cope,  as  is  a  povre  scoler, 
But  he  was  lyk  a  maister,  or  a  pope ;  261 

Of  double  worstede  was  his  semi-cope, ^^ 
That  rounded  as  a  belle,  out  of  the  presse.'^ 
Somwhat  he  lipsed  for  his  wantownesse," 
To  make  his  Englissh  swete  upon  his  tonge ; 
And  in  his  harpyng,   whan   that    he  hadde 
songe,  266 

Hise  eyen  twynkled  in  his  heed  aryght 
As  doon  the  sterres  in  the  frosty  nyght. 
This  worthy  lymytour  was  cleped  Huberd. 

A  Marchant  was  ther  with  a  forked  berd, 
In  mottelee,^^  and  hye  on  horse  he  sat ;       271 
Upon  his  heed  a  Flaundrish  bever  hat, 
His  botes  clasped  faire  and  fetisly.^® 
His  resons  ^^  spak  he  ful  solempnely,^* 
Souning  ^^  alway  thencrees  '^°  of  his  winning. 
He  wolde  the  see  were  kept  for  anything  ^^ 
Betwixe  Middelburgh  and  Orewelle. 
Wel  coude  he  in  eschaunge  ^'  sheeldes  ^  seUe. 
This  worthy  man  ful  well  his  wit  bisette ;  ^* 
Ther  wiste  -''  no  wight  that  he  was  in  dette. 
So  estatly  was  he  of  his  governaunce  281 

With  his  bargaynes  and  with  his  chevisaunce.^^ 
For  sothe  he  was  a  worthy  man  withalle. 
But  sooth  to  seyn,^'  I  noot  ^^  how  men  him 
calle. 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also  285 

That  unto  logyk  hadde  longe  y-go. 
As  leene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake. 
And  he  nas  nat  right  fat,  I  undertake, 

^  poor  folk  ^  everywhere  ^  where  ■*  full  of  good 
qualities  ^  shoe  ^  St.  John  i,  i,  used  as  a  greeting. 
''  bit  *  gettings  ^  what  he  paid  for  his  begging  privi- 
leges or  his  regular  income  '"  puppy  ^^  arbitration 
days  ^"^  short  cape  ^'  the  press  in  which  the  semi-cope 
was  kept.  ^^  jollity  ^^  a  sober  grey  ^^  neatly  ^^  re- 
marks, declarations  ^*  pompously  ^'  sounding, 
proclaiming  ^^  the  increase  ^^  at  any  cost  ^  ex- 
change ^^  French  coins,  ecus  ^'*  employed  ^^  knew 
**  borrowing  ''■''  say  ^*  don't  know 


But  looked  holwe  *  and  ther-to  ^  sobrely. 

Ful  thredbare  was  his  overeste  courtepy,^  290 

For  he  hadde  geten  hym  yet  no  benefice, 

Ne  was  so  worldly  for  to  have  office ; 

For  hym  was  levere  *  have  at  his  beddes  heed 

Twenty  bookes  clad  in  blak  or  reed 

Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophie  295 

Than  robes  riche,  or  fithele,^  or  gay  sautrie.^ 

But  al  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre, 

Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre ; 

But  al  that  he  myghte  of  his  freendes  hente 

On  bookes  and  his  lernynge  he  it  spente,    300 

And  bisily  gan  for  the  soules  preye 

Of  hem  that  gaf  hym  wher-with  to  scoleye.® 

Of  studie  took  he  moost  cure  ^   and   moost 

heede ; 
Noght  o  word  spak  he  moore  than  was  neede, 
And  that  was  seyd  in  forme  and  reverence. 
And  short  and  quyk  and  iul  of  by  sentence.^ 
Sownynge  in  ^  moral  vertu  was  his  speche, 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne  and  gladly  teche. 

A  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe,  war  ^^  and  wys, 
That  often  hadde  been  at  the  parvys,^^       310 
Ther  was  also,  ful  riche  of  excellence. 
Discreet  he  was,  and  of  greet  reverence  — 
He  semed  swich,  his  wordes  weren  so  wyse. 
Justice  he  was  ful  often  in  assyse,^^ 
By  patente,  and  by  pleyn  ^^  commissioun  ;  315 
For  his  science,  and  for  his  heigh  renoun, 
Of  fees  and  robes  hadde  he  many  oon. 
So  greet  a  piu'chasour  ^^  was  nowher  noon  ; 
Al  was  fee  simple  to  him  in  effect. 
His  purchasing  mighte  nat  been  infect. ^^    320 
Nowher  so  bisy  a  man  as  he  ther  nas,^'' 
And  yet  he  semed  bisier  than  he  was. 
In  termes  hadde  he  caas  "  and  domes  ^*  alle 
That  from  the  tyme  of   king  William  were 

falle. 
Therto  he  coude  endyte  and  make  a  thing,^' 
Ther  coude  no  wight  pinche  at  ^^  his  wryting ; 
And  every  statut  coude  he  pleyn  -^  by  rote.^ 
He  rood  but  hoomly  in  a  medlee  ^^  cote 
Girt  with  a  ceint  ^  of  silk,  with  barres  smale ; 
Of  his  array  telle  I  no  lenger  tale.  330 

A  Frankeleyn  ^^  was  in  his  compaignye ; 
Whit  was  his  berd  as  is  the  dayesye ; 

^  hollow  "^  besides  ^  outer  short  coat  *  he  had 
rather  *  musical  instrument  ®  go  to  school  ^  care 
*  meaning  ^  tending  to  ^°  cautious  '^  the  porch  of 
St.  Paul's,  where  lawyers  met  clients  ^^  court  of 
assize  ^^full  ^*conveyancer  ^^invalidated  ^^  was  not 
^^  cases  '^decisions  ^^ compose  and  draw  up  a  docu- 
ment ^^  find  a  defect  in  ^^  fully  ^^  by  heart  -^  sober 
grey  *■*  girdle  ^^  rich  landowner 


THE    CANTERBURY    TALES 


63 


Of  his  complexioun  ^  he  was  sangwyn. 

Wei  loved  he  by  the  morwe  -    a  sope '    in 

wyn ; 
To  lyven  in  delit  was  evere  his  wone,^        335 
For  he  was  Epicurus  owne  sone, 
That  heeld  opinioun  that  pleyn  delit 
Was  verraUy  fehcitee  pariit. 
An  housholdere,  and  that  a  greet,  was  he ; 
Seint  Julian  ^  he  was  in  his  contree ;  340 

His  breed,  his  ale,  was  alwey  after  oon ;  * 
A  bettre  envyned  "  man  was  no-wher  noon. 
Withoute  bake-mete  *  was  nevere  his  hous. 
Of  fissh  and  flessh,  and  that  so  plentevous 
It  snewed  ^  in  his  hous  of  mete  and  drynke. 
Of  alio  deyntees  that  men  coude  th>'nke.    346 
After  the  sondry  sesons  of  the  yeer, 
So  chaunged  he  his  mete  and  his  soper. 
Ful  many  a  fat  partrich  hadde  he  in  muwe,^" 
And  many  a  breem  "  and  many  a  luce  "  in 
stuwe.^^  350 

Wo  was  his  cook  but-if  ^^  his  sauce  were 
Po>Tiaunt  and  sharpe,  and  redy  al  his  geere. 
His  table  dormant  ^■^  in  his  halle  alway 
Stood  redy  covered  al  the  longe  day. 
At  sessiouns  ther  was  he  lord  and  sire;       355 
Ful  ofte  tyme  he  was  knyght  of  the  shire. 
An  anlaas,^^  and  a  gipser  ^^  al  of  silk 
Heeng  at  his  girdel  whit  as  mome  milk. 
A  shirreve  hadde  he  been  and  a  countour ;  ^" 
Was  no-wher  such  a  worthy  vavasour.^*     360 

An  haberdassher  ^^  and  a  carpenter, 
A  webbe,2"  a  dyere,  and  a  tapicer,-i 
And  they  were  clothed  alle  in  o  liveree,^ 
Of  a  solempne  and  greet  fraternitee. 
Ful  fresh  and  newe  hir  gere  ^^  apyked  ^*  was ; 
Hir  knyves  were  y-chaped  ^^  noght  with  bras, 
But  al  with  silver;  wroght  ful  clene  and  weel 
Hir  girdles  and  hir  pouches  everydeel. 
Wei  semed  ech  of  hem  a  fair  burgeys. 
To  sitten  in  a  yeldhalle  ^^  on  a  deys.^^         370 
Everich,  for  the  wisdom  that  he  can,^* 
Was  shaply  for  to  been  an  alderman ; 
For  catel  -^  hadde  they  ynogh  and  rente,-^** 
And  eek  hir  wy ves  wolde  it  wel  assente ; 


And  elles  certein  were  they  to  blame.         375 
It  is  ful  fair  to  been  y-clept  ^  tna  dame, 
And  goon  to  vigilyes  '  al  bifore. 
And  have  a  mantel  roialliche  y-bore. 

A    Cook   they   hadde  with   hem,^  for  the 

nones  * 
To  boille  chiknes  with  the  mary-bones       380 
And  poudre-marchant  tart  ^  and  galingale.® 
Wel  coude  he  knowe  a  draughte  of  London 

ale. 
He  coude  roste,  and  sethe,^  and  broiUe,  and 

frye, 
Maken  mortreux,^  and  wel  bake  a  pye. 
But  greet  harm  was  it,  as  it  thoughte  me,  385 
That  on  his  shine  ^  a  mormal  ^^  hadde  he. 
For  blankmanger,"  that  made  he  with  the 

beste. 
A   Shipman  was   ther,  wonynge  ^^  fer   by 

weste ; 
For  aught  I  woot  "  he  was  of  Dertemouthe. 
He  rood  upon  a  rouncy  "  as  he  couthe,^^    390 
In  a  gowne  of  faldyng  ^'^  to  the  knee. 
A  daggere  hang^mge  on  a  laas  ^^  hadde  he 
Aboute  his  nekke  under  his  arm  adoun. 
The  hoote  somer  hadde  maad  his   hewe  al 

broun. 
And  certeinly  he  was  a  good  felawe ;  ^^       395 
Ful  many  a  draughte  of   wyn  hadde  he  i- 

drawe 
Fro  Burdeuxward,  whil  that  the  chapman  ^^ 

sleep. 
Of  nyce  conscience  took  he  no  keep. 2" 
If  that  he  f aught,  and  hadde  the  hyer  hond. 
By    water    he    sente    hem    hoom    to    every 


lond. 


400 


But  of  his  craft  to  rekene  wel  his  tydes, 
His  stremes  ^-  and  his  daungers  hym  bisides, 
His  herberwe  and  his  m-oone,  his  lodemenage,^^ 
Ther  nas  noon  swich  from  HuUe  to  Cartage. 
Hardy  he  was,  and  wys  to  undertake ;  ^     405 
With  many  a  tempest  hadde  his  herd  been 

shake ; 
He  knew  wel  alle  the  havenes,  as  they  were. 
From  Gootlond  ^^  to  the  Cape  of  Fynystere, 


^  temperament  ^  in  the  morning  *  sop  ^  custom 
^  patron  saint  of  hospitality  ^  always  of  the  same 
quality  ^  provided  with  wines  *  pasties  ^  snowed 
^°  coop  1^  a  kind  of  fish  ^-  pond  ^^  unless  "  a  per- 
manent table  ^^  knife  ^®  pouch  ^"  treasurer  ^*  land- 
holder ^^  keeper  of  a  shop  for  hats  or  furnishings 
^  weaver  ^^  upholsterer  ^-  one  uniform  ^  apparel 
**  trimmed  ^°  sheathed  -®  guild-hall  ^^  dais  ^?  knows 
^'  property  ^^  income 


^  called  2  meetings  on  the  eve  of  saints'  daj^s 
^  them  *  of  the  right  sort,  ver>^  skilful  *  a  tart 
flavouring  powder  ^  a  root  for  flavoiiring  '  boil 
*  chowders  ^  shin  ^^  sore  "  minced  capon  with 
sugar,  cream,  and  flour  ^^  dwelling  ^'  know  ^^  hack- 
ney ^°  as  well  as  he  could  ^^  cheap  cloth  ^'  lace, 
cord  ^*  goodfellow  =  rascal  ^^  merchant  ^°  heed 
^  threw  them  into  the  sea  *^  currents  -^  steersman- 
ship   ^^  skilful  in  his  plans  '^  Denmark 


64 


GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 


And     every    cryke  *    in    Britaigne     and     in 

Spayne. 
His  barge  y-cleped  was  the  Maudelayne.    410 

With  us  ther  was  a  Doctour  of  Phisyk, 
In  al  this  world  ne  was  ther  noon  him  lyk 
To  speke  of  ^  phisik  and  of  surgerye ; 
For  he  was  grounded  in  astronomye. 
He  kepte  his  pacient  a  ful  greet  del  415 

In  houres,  by  his  magik  naturel. 
Wei  coude  he  fortunen  the  ascendent 
Of  his  images  for  his  pacient.^ 
He  knew  the  cause  of  everich  maladye, 
Were  it  of  hoot  or  cold,  or  moiste,  or  drye, 
And  where  engendred,  and  of  what  humour ;  ^ 
He  was  a  verrey/  partit  practisour. 
The  cause  y-knowe,  and  of  his  harm  the  rote,® 
Anon  he  yaf  the  seke  man  his  bote.' 
Ful  redy  hadde  he  his  apothecaries,  425 

To  sende  him  drogges  and  his  letuaries,^ 
For  ech  of  hem  made  other  for  to  winne ; 
Hir  frendschipe  nas  nat  newe  to  biginne. 
Wei  knew  he  the  olde  Esculapius,^ 
And  Deiscorides,  and  eek  Rufus ;  430 

Old  Ypocras,  Haly,  and  Galien ; 
Serapion,  Razis,  and  Avicen  ; 
Averrois,  Damascien,  and  Constantyn; 
Bernard,  and  Gatesden,  and  Gilbertyn. 
Of  his  diete  mesurable  was  he,  435 

For  it  was  of  no  superlluitee, 
But  of  greet  norissing  and  digestible. 
His  studie  was  but  litel  on  the  Bible. 
In  sangwin  ^°  and  in  pers  "  he  clad  was  al, 
Lyned  with  taffata  ^-  and  with  sendal ;  ^^    440 
And  yet  he  was  but  esy  ^^  of  dispence ;  ^^ 
He  kepte  that  he  wan  in  pestilence.^^ 
For  gold  in  phisik  is  a  cordial,^® 
Therfor  he  lovede  gold  in  special. 

A  Good-wif  was  ther  of  biside  Bathe,  445 
But    she    was    som-del    deef    and    that    was 

scathe.^' 
Of  cloolh-makyng  she  hadde  swich  an  haunt  ^* 
She  passed  hem  of  Ypres  and  of  Gaunt. 
In  al  the  parisshe,  wif  ne  was  ther  noon 
That  to  the  offrynge  bifore  hire  sholde  goon ; 

^  creek,  inlet  ^  in  regard  to,  if  one  is  speaking  of 
*  For  II.  415-18,  on  the  use  of  astrology  in  treating 
patients,  see  the  Notes.  ■*  For  the  humours  as 
related  to  diseases,  see  the  Notes.  *  true  ®  root, 
cause  ^  remedy  **  medicinal  syrups  ^  The  men 
named  in  II.  420-J4  were  famous  writers  on  medi- 
cine, ancient  and  modern.  ^^  red  '^  blue  ^'^  light  silk 
^^  moderate  ^^  expenditure  ^^  the  plague  *®  remedy 
for  heart-disease  ^"  harni  '^  skill 


And  if  ther  dide,  certeyn  so  wrooth  was  she 
That  she  was  out  of  alle  charitee.  452 

Hir  coverchiefs  ful  fyne  weren  of  ground ; 
I  dorste  swere  they  weyeden  ten  pound. 
That  on  a  Sonday  weren  upon  hir  heed.     455 
Hir  hosen  weren  of  fyn'scarlet  reed, 
Ful    streite  y-teyd,  and  shoes    ful    moyste  ^ 

and  newe. 
Boold  was  hir  face  and  fair  and  reed  of  hewe. 
She  was  a  worthy  womman  al  hir  lyve ; 
Housbondes  at  chirche  dore  she  hadde  fyve, 
Withouten  oother  compaignye  in  youthe,   461 
But  ther-of  nedeth  nat  to  speke  as  nowthe.^ 
And  thries  hadde  she  been  at  Jerusalem ; 
She  hadde  passed  many  a  straunge  strem ; 
At  Rome  she  hadde  been  and  at  Boloigne, 
In  Galice  at  Seint  Jame,  and  at  Coloigne  ;466 
She    coude  ^   muche   of    wandrynge    by   the 

weye : 
Gat-tothed  ^  was  she,  soothly  for  to  seye. 
Upon  an  amblere  esily  she  sat, 
Y-wympled  ^  wel,  and  on  her  heed  an  hat  470 
As  brood  as  is  a  bokeler  or  a  targe ;  ® 
A  foot-mantel  ^  aboute  hir  hipes  large, 
And  on  hire  feet  a  paire  of  spores  sharpe. 
In   felaweshipe  wel   coude   she    laughe   and 

carpe ;  474 

Of  remedies  of  love  she  knew  per  chaunce,^ 
For  she  coude  of  that  art  the  olde  daunce.* 

A  good  man  was  ther  of  religioun. 
And  was  a  povre  Persoun  of  a  toun ; 
But  riche  he  vvas  of  hooly  thoght  and  werk ; 
Fie  was  also  a  Icrned  man,  a  clerk,  480 

That  Cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche. 
Hise  parisshens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche ; 
Benygne  he  was  and  wonder  diligent. 
And  in  adversitee  ful  pacient ; 
And  swich  he  was  y-preved  ^"^  ofte  sithes."  485 
Ful  looth  were  hym  to  cursen  ^^  for  hise  tithes, 
But  rather  wolde  he  yeven,  out  of  doute, 
Unto  his  povre  parisshens  aboute. 
Of  his  offryng  and  eek  of  his  substaunce. 
He  coude  in  litel  thyng  have  sufifisaunce.    490 
W^yd  was  his  parisshe,  and  houses  fer  asonder, 
But  he  ne  lafte  ^^  nat  for  reyn  ne  thonder 
In  siknesse  nor  in  meschief  to  visite 
The  ferreste "  in  his  parisshe,  muche    and 

lite,i* 

*  soft  2  at  present  ^  knew  ^  teeth  set  wide  apart, 
a  sign  that  one  will  travel.  ^  with  a  wimple  about 
her  face  ^  shield  '''  riding-skirt  *  doubtless  ^  This 
is  a  slang  phrase.  ^^  proved  ''  times  '"  excommuni- 
cate ^^  neglected  '^^  farthest  ^^  rich  and  poor 


THE    CANTERBURY    TALES 


65 


Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf.         495 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheepe  he  gaf, 
That   firste   he   wroghte   and   afterward   he 

taughte. 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  ^  wordes  caughte, 
And  this  figure  he  added  eek  ^  therto, 
That  if  gold  ruste,  what  shal  iren  doo  ?       500 
For  if  a  preest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  truste, 
No  wonder  is  a  lewed  ^  man  to  ruste ; 
And  shame  it  is,  if  a  prest  take  keep/ 
A  [filthy]  shepherde  and  a  clene  sheep. 
Wei  oghte  a  preest  ensample  for  to  yeve    505 
By  his  clennesse,  how  that  his  sheepe  sholde 

lyve. 
He  sette  nat  his  benefice  to  hyre 
And  leet  his  sheep  encombred  in  the  myre, 
And  ran  to  London  unto  Seint  Poules 
To  seken  hym  a  chaunterie  for  soules,        510 
Or  with  a  bretherhed  to  been  withholde ;  ^ 
But  dwelte  at  hoom  and  kepte  wel  his  folde, 
So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  nat  myscarie ; 
He  was  a  shepherde,  and  noght  a  mercenarie. 
And  though  he  hooly  were  and  vertuous,   515 
He  was  to  synfid  man  nat  despitous,^ 
Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous  '  ne  digne,^ 
But  in  his  techyng  descreet  and  benygne ; 
To  drawen  folk  to  hevene  by  fairnesse, 
By  good  ensample,  this  was  his  bisynesse. 
But  it  were  any  persone  obsttnat,  521 

What  so  he  were,  of  heigh  or  lowe  estat, 
Hym   wolde   he   snybben  ^   sharply   for   the 

nonys.^" 
A  bettre  preest  I  trowe  that  no-wher  noon  ys ; 
He  waited  after  no  pompe  and  reverence,  525 
Ne  maked  him  a  spiced  conscience, 
But  Cristes  loore,  and  his  apostles  twelve, 
He  taughte,  but  first  he  folwed  it  hym-selve. 
With  him  ther  was  a  Plowman,  was  ^^  his 

brother. 
That    hadde    y-lad  ^-  of    dong    ful    many    a 

fother,^^  530 

A  trewe  swinkere  ^^  and  a  good  was  he, 
Livinge  in  pees  and  parfit  ^^  charitee. 
God  loved  he  best  with  al  his  hole  herte 
At  alle  tymes,  thogh  him  gamed  or  smerte,^^ 
And   thanne    his   neighebour   right   as   him- 

selve.  535 

He   wolde    thresshe,    and    ther-to   dyke  and 

delve, 

^  those  ^  also  ^  ignorant  ••  heed  ^  maintained 
*  pitiless  ^  overbearing  *  haughty  ^  snub,  rebuke 
^^  for  the  nonys  means  very,  extremely  "  who  was 
'^  carried  ^^  load  ^*  labourer  ^^  perfect  ^^  whether  he 
was  happy  or  unhappy 


For  Cristes  sake,  for  every  povre  wight, 
Withouten  hyre,  if  it  lay  in  his  might. 
His  tythes  payed  he  ful  faire  and  wel, 
Bothe  of  his  propre  ^  swink  ^  and  his  catel.^ 
In  a  tabard  "*  he  rood  upon  a  mere.  541 

Ther  was  also  a  Reve  ^  and  a  Millere, 
A  Somnour  ®  and  a  Pardoner  also, 
A  Maunciple,'  and  my-self ;  ther  were  namo. 

The  Millere  was  a  stout  carl  for  the  nones,^ 
Fid  byg  he  was  of  brawn  and  eek  of  bones ; 
That  proved  wel,  for  over-al  ^  ther  he  cam. 
At  wrastlynge  he  wolde  have  alwey  the  ram.^" 
He    was     short-sholdred,    brood,    a    thikke 

knarre,^^ 
Ther   nas   no   dore   that   he    nolde   heve   of 

harre  ^- 
Or  breke  it  at  a  renn3mg  with  his  heed.      551 
His  herd,  as  any  sowe  or  fo.x,  was  reed, 
-And  therto  brood,  as  though  it  were  a  spade. 
Upon  the  cop  ^^  right  of  his  nose  he  hade 
A  werte,  and  theron  stood  a  tuft  of  herys,555 
Reed  as  the  bristles  of  a  sowes  erys ;  ^" 
His  nosethirles  ^*  blake  were  and  wyde. 
A  swerd  and  a  bokeler  bar  he  by  his  syde. 
His  mouth  as  wyde  was  as  a  greet  forneys  ; 
He  was  a  janglere  ^^  and  a  goliardeys,"       560 
And  that  was  moost  of  synne  and  harlotries. 
Wel  coude  he  stelen  corn  and  tollen  thries. 
And  yet  he  hadde  a  thombe  of  gold,^^  pardee  ! 
A  whit  cote  and  a  blew  hood  wered  he ; 
A  baggepipe  wel  coude  he  blowe  and  sowne. 
And  therwithal  he  broghte  us  out  of  towne. 

A  gentU  JMaunciple  was  ther  of  a  temple,'' 
Of  which  achat  ours  -'^  mighte  take  exemple 
For  to  be  wyse  in  bying  of  vitaille.  569 

For  whether  that  he  payde,  or  took  by  taille,^^ 
Algate  he  wayted  -  so  in  his  achat  ^ 
That  he  was  ay  bifom  -^  and  in  good  stat. 
Now  is  nat  that  of  God  a  ful  fair  grace. 
That  swich  a  lewed  -^  mannes  wit  shal  pace  ^ 
The  wisdom  of  an  heep  of  lerned  men?       575 
Of  maistres  hadde  he  mo  -''  than  thryes  ten, 
That  were  of  lawe  expert  and  curious ; 
Of  which  ther  were  a  doseyn  in  that  hous, 
Worthy  to  been  stiwardes  of  rente  and  lond 
Of  any  lord  that  is  in  Engelond,  580 

'  own  ^  labour  '  property  ^  short  sleeveless  jacket 
^  foreman  of  the  laborers  on  a  manor  ®  bailiff  of 
an  ecclesiastical  court  "  steward  of  a  college  or  inn 
of  court  ^  for  the  nones  means  very,  extremely 
^everywhere  ^'^  the  prize  ''knot  '^  heave  off  its 
hinges  '^  end  '■*  ears  '^  nostrils  ^^  loud  talker 
''  jester  '^.4^  all  honest  millers  have,  '^inn  of  court 
-"  buyers  ^'  tally,  i.e.  on  credit  ^  alwaj's  he  watched 
^■'  purchase   ''■*  ahead  •"  ignorant  ^®  surpass  -•  more 


66 


GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 


To  make  him  live  by  his  propre  good, 

In  honour  dettelees,  but  he  were  wood/ 

Or  Hve  as  scarsly  ^  as  him  Ust  desire ; 

And  able  for  to  helpen  al  a  shire  5^5 

In  any  cas  that  mighte  falle  or  happe ; 

And  yit  this  maunciple  sette  hir  alJer  cappe.^ 

The  Reeve  was  a  sclendre  colerik  *  man. 
His  berd  was  shave  as  ny  as  ever  he  can,; 
His  heer  was  by  his  eres  round  y-shorn ; 
His  top  was  dokked  ^  lyk  a  preest  biforn. 
I'ul  longe  were  his  legges,  and  ful  lene,       591 
Y-lyk  a  staf,  ther  was  no  calf  y-sene. 
Wei  coude  he  kepe  a  gerner  *^  and  a  binne ; 
Ther  was  noon  auditour  coude  on  him  winne. 
Wei  wiste  he,  by  the  droghte,  and  by  the  reyn, 
The  yeldyng  of  his  seed,  and  of  his  greyn.  596 
His  lordes  sheep,  his  neet,*"  his  dayerye. 
His  swyn,  his  hors,  his  stoor,^  and  his  pultrye, 
Was  hooly  in  this  reves  governing ; 
And  by  his  covenaunt  yaf  the  rekening  ^    600 
Sin  ^°  that  his  lord  was  twenty  yeer  of  age ; 
Ther  coude  no  man  bringe  him  in  arrerage." 
Ther  nas  baillif,  ne  herde,^^  ne  other  hyne,^^ 
That  he  ne  knew  his  sleighte  and  his  covyne ; " 
They  were  adrad  of  him,  as  of  the  deeth.  605 
His  woning  ^^  was  ful  fair  up-on  an  heeth ; 
With  grene  trees  shadwed  was  his  place ; 
He  coude  bettre  than  his  lord  purchace. 
Ful  riche  he  was  astored  prively  ; 
His  lord  wel  coude  he  plesen  subtilly,         610 
To  yeve  and  lene  him  of  his  owne  good, 
And  have  a  thank,  and  yet  a  cote,  and  hood.^^ 
In  youthe  he  lerned  hadde  a  good  mister ;  " 
He  was  a  wel  good  wrighte,  a  carpenter. 
This  reve  sat  up-on  a  ful  good  stot,^^  615 

That  was  al  pomely  ^^  grey,  and  highte  Scot. 
A  long  surcote  of  pers  -'^  up-on  he  hade. 
And  by  his  syde  he  bar  a  rusty  blade. 
Of  Northfolk  was  this  reve  of  which  I  telle, 
Bisyde  a  toun  rnen  clepen  Baldeswelle..      620 
Tukked  ^^  he  was,  as  is  a  frere,  aboute, 
And  evere  he  rood  the  hindreste  of  our  route. 

A  Somnour  was  ther  with  us  in  that  place, 
That  hadde  a  fyr-reed  cherubmnes  face. 
For  sawceflem  ^^  he  was,  with  eyen  narwe, 

******  4: 

*  crazy  ^  economically  *  cheated  them  all  (slang) 
^  irascible  ^  cut  short  ®  granary  ^  cattle  ^  stock 
of  tools,  etc.  '  rendered  account  ^^  since  ^^  find 
him  in  arrears  ^^  herdsman  ^^  servant  ^*  whose 
craft  and  deceit  he  did  not  know  ^^  dwelling 
^''  lend  his  lord's  own  property  to  him  and  receive 
thanks  and  gifts  ^^  trade  ^^  cob  ^"  dappled  ^^  blue 
"^  his  coat  was  tucked  up  with  a  girdle  ^^  pimpled 


With    scalled  ^    browes    blake,    and    piled  ^ 

berd ; 
Of  his  visage  children  were  aferd. 
Ther  nas  quik-silver,  litarge,"  ne  brimstoon, 
Boras,"*  certice,-*  ne  oille  of  tartre  noon,       630 
Ne  oynement  that  wolde  dense  and  byte, 
That  him   mighte    helpen  of    his  whelkes  * 

whyte, 
Ne  of  the  knobbes  sittinge  on  his  chekes. 
Wel  loved  he  garleek,  oynons,  and  eek  lekes, 
And  for  to  drinken  strong  wyn,  reed  as  blood. 
Thanne  wolde  he  speke  and  crye,  as  he  were 

wood.^ 
And  whan  that  he  wel  dronken  hadde  the 

wyn, 
Than  wolde  he  speke  no  word  but  Latyn. 
A  fewe  termes  hadde  he,,  two  or  thre. 
That  he  had  lerned  out  of  some  decree ;     640 
No  wonder  is,  he  herde  it  al  the  day ; 
And  eek  ye  knowen  wel,  how  that  a  Jay 
Can  clepen  'Watte,'  ^  as  well  as  can  the  pope. 
But  who-so  coude  in  other  thing  him  grope,^ 
Thanne  hadde  he  spent  al  his  philosophye ; 
Ay  "Qiiestio  quid  iuris"  ^  wolde  he  crye.     646 
He  was  a  gen  til  harlot  ^^  and  a  kynde ; 
A  bettre  felawe  "  sholde  men  noght  fynde ; 
He  wolde  suffre  for  a  quart  of  wyn 
A  good  felawe  to  have  his  [wikked  sin]       650 
A  twelf-month,  and  excuse  him  atte  fuUe ; 
And  prively  a  finch  eek  coude  he  puUe.^^ 
And  if  he  fond  owher  ^^  a  good  felawe,* 
He  wolde  techen  him  to  have  non  awe, 
In  swich  cas,  of  the  erchedeknes  curs,i*       655 
But-if  '^  a  mannes  soule  were  in  his  purs ;  ^'' 
For  in  his  purs  he  sholde  y-punisshed  be. 
"Purs  is  the  erchedeknes  helle,"  seyde  he. 
But  wel*!  woot  he  lyed  right  in  dede ;         659 
Of  cursing  oghte  ech  gidty  man  him  drede  "  — ■ 
For  curs  wol  slee,  right  as  assoilling  ^^  saveth  — 
And  also  war  him  of  a  signijicavit}^ 
In  daunger  2°  hadde  he  at  his  owne  gyse  ^^ 
The  yonge  girles  -^  of  the  diocyse. 
And  knew  hir  counseil,^^  and  was  al  hir  reed.^^ 
A  gerland  hadde  he  set  up-on  his  heed,       666 

*  scurfy  ^  scraggy  ^  a  lead  ointment  *  borax 
*  bumps  ^  mad  '  call  "Walter,"  as  a  parrot  calls 
"Poll"  ^  test  ^"The  question  is  what  is  the 
law"  ^°  rascal  ^^  good  fellow  ivas  slang  for  a  "dis- 
reputable person."  ^^  slang  for  "rob  a  greenhorn." 
^^  anywhere  ^'*  excommunication  ^^  unless  ^®  purse 
*^  be  afraid  ^*  absolving  ^^  writ  for  arresting  an 
excommunicated   person      ^^  under   his   influence 


^*  adviser 


Liiiicaniu    perbuii  uiiuci    lua    muuciiLc 

^  young  people  of  either  sex     ^  secrets 


THE    CANTERBURY    TALES 


67 


As  greet  as  it  were  for  an  ale-stake ;  ^ 
A  bokeier  hadde  he  maad  him  of  a  cake. 
With  him  ther  rood  a  gentU  Pardoner 
Of  Rouncivale,  his  frend  and  his  compeer,67o 
That  straight  was  comen  fro    the  court  of 

Rome. 
Fill  loude  he  song,  'Com  hider.  love,  to  me.' 
This  somnour  bar  to  him  a  stif  burdoun,^ 
Was  nevere  trompe  ^  of  half  so  greet  a  soun. 
This  pardoner  hadde  heer  as  yelow  as  wex. 
But  smothe  it  heng,  as  doth  a  strike  of  flex ;  ^ 
By  ounces  ^  henge  his  lokkes  that  he  hadde. 
And  ther-with  he  his  shuldres  overspradde ; 
But  thinne  it  lay,  by  colpons  *"  oon  and  oon ; 
But  hood,  for  johtee,"  ne  wered  he  noon,    680 
For  it  was  trussed  up  in  his  walet. 
Him  thoughte  ^  he  rood  al  of  the  newe  jet ;  ^ 
Dischevele,  save  his  cappe,  he  rood  al  bare. 
S\\"iche  glaringe  eyen  hadde  he  as  an  hare. 
A  vernicle  ^"  hadde  he  sowed  on  his  cappe.  685 
His  walet  lay  biforn  him  in  his  lappe, 
Bret-ful "  of  pardoun  come  from  Rome  al 

hoot. 
A  voys  he  hadde  as  smal  as  hath  a  goot. 
No  herd  hadde  he,  ne  nevere  sholde  have. 
As  smothe  it  was  as  it  were  late  y-shave ;  690 

^  *****  :(: 

But  of  his  craft,  fro  Berwik  imto  Ware," 
Ne  was  ther  swich  another  pardoner ; 
For  in  his  male  ^^  he  hadde  a  pUwe-beer," 
Which  that,  he  seyde,  was  our  lady  veyl ;  ^^ 
He  seyde,  he  hadde  a  gobet  ^'^  of  the  seyl  ^^ 
That  Seynt  Peter  hadde,  whan  that  he  wente 
Up-on  the  see,  tU  lesu  Crist  him  hente ;  ^^ 
He  hadde  a  croys  ^^  of  latoun,^  fid  of  stones. 
And  in  a  glas  he  hadde  pigges  bones.  700 

But  with  thise  relilies,  whan  that  he  fond 
A  povre  person  dwelling  up-on  lond,^ 
Up-on  a  day  he  gat  him  more  moneye 
Than  that  the  person  gat  in  monthes  tweye. 
And  thus  with  feyned  flaterye  and  japes, ^^  705 
He  made  the  person  and  the  peple  his  apes.^^ 
But  trewely  to  tellen,  atte  laste, 
He  was  in  chirche  a  noble  ecclesiaste. 

^  a  pole  projecting  from  the  wall  of  an  inn 
and  usually  bearing  a  garland  ^  accompani- 
ment ^  trumpet  "*  hank  of  flax  "  small  portions 
*  handfuls  '  for  sport  ^  it  seemed  to  him  ^  new 
fashion  ^^  a  duplicate  of  the  handkerchief  of  St. 
Veronica,  on  which  the  face  of  Jesus  was  im- 
printed. ^^  brimful  ^^  from  one  end  of  England  to 
the  other  "  bag  "  pillow-case  ^^  Our  Lady's  veil 
'^  bit  ^~  sail  ^^  seized  ^^  cross  ^^  brass  ^^  in  the  coun- 
try "  tricks    -^  fools 


Wei  coude  he  rede  a  lessoim  or  a  storie. 
But  alderbest  ^  he  song  an  offer torie ;  710 

For  wel  he  wiste,  whan  that  song  was  songe, 
He  moste  preche,  and  wel  affyle  ^  his  tonge, 
To  winne  silver,  as  he  ful  wel  coude  ; 
Therfore  he  song  so  raeriely  and  loude. 

Now  have  I  toold  you  shortly,  in  a  clause, 
Thestaat,  tharray,  the  nombre,  and  eek  the 
cause  716 

Why  that  assembled  was  this  compaignye 
In  Southwerk  at  this  gentil  hostelrye. 
That  highte  ^  the  Tabard,  faste  by  the  Belle. 
But  now  is  tyme  to  you  for  to  telle  720 

How  that  we  baren  us  that  Uke  nyght, 
Whan  we  were  hi  that  hostelrie  alyght  ; 
And  after  wol  I  telle  of  our  viage  * 
And  al  the  remenaunt  of  oure  pilgrimage. 

But  first,  I  pray  yow  of  youre  curteisye, 
That  ye  narette  it  nat  ^  my  vileynye,^        726 
Thogh  that  I  pleynly  speke  in  this  mateere 
To  telle  yow  hir  wordes  and  hir  cheere, 
Ne  thogh  I  speke  hir  wordes  proprely ;  ^ 
For  this  ye  knowen  al-so  wel  as  I,  730 

Whoso  shal  telle  a  tale  after  a  man, 
He  moote  reherce,  as  ny  as  evere  he  can, 
Everich  a  word,  if  it  be  in  his  charge, 
Al  *  speke  he  never  so  rudeliche  and  large,' 
Or  elhs  he  moot  telle  his  tale  untrewe         735 
Or  feyne  thyng,  or  fynde  wordes  newe ; 
He    may   nat    spare,    althogh    he    were   his 

brother, 
He  moot  as  wel  seye  o  word  as  another. 
Crist  spak  hymself  ful  brode  in  hooly  writ, 
And  wel  ye  woot  no  vileynye  i"  is  it.  740 

Eek  Plato  seith,  v.'hoso  that  can  hym  rede, 
"The  Avordes  moote  be  cosyn  "  to  the  dede." 

Also  I  prey  yow  to  foryeve  it  me 
Al  *  have  I  nat  set  folk  in  hir  degree 
Heere  in  this  tale,  as  that  they  sholde  stonde; 
My  wit  is  short,  ye  may  wel  understonde.  746 

Greet  chiere  made  oure  hoste  us  everichon,^^ 
And  to  the  soper  sette  he  us  anon, 
And  served  us  with  vitaille  at  the  beste ; 
Strong  >vas  the  wyn,  and   wel  to  drynke  us 
leste.^^  750 

A  semely  man  oure  Hooste  was  with-alle 
For  to  han  been  a  marshal  in  an  halle. 
A  large  man  he  was.  with  eyen  stepe,^'* 
A  fairer  burgeys  was  ther  noon  in  Chepe ;  ^^ 

^  best  of  all  ^  polish,  smooth  ^  was  called  *  jour- 
ney *  do  not  ascribe  it  to  ^  lack  of  breeding 
''  accurately  *  although  ^  coarsely  ^^  vulgarity 
^^  cousin  ^  every  one  ^^  it  pleased  us  ^^  big 
^*  Cheapside 


68 


GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 


Boold  of  his  speche,  and  wys  and  wel  y-taught, 
And  of  manhod  hym  lakkede  right  naught. 
Eek  therto  ^  he  was  right  a  myrie  man,       757 
And  after  soper  pleyen  he  bigan, 
And  spak  of  myrthe  amonges  othere  thynges, 
Whan  that  we  hadde  maad  our  rekenynges ; 
And  seyde  thus:    "Now,  lordynges,  trewely, 
Ye  been  to  me  right  welcome,  hertely ;       762 
For  by  my  trouthe,  if  that  I  shal  nat  lye, 
I  ne  saugh  this  yeer  so  myrie  a  compaignye 
At  ones  in  this  herberwe  -  as  is  now ;  765 

Fayn  wolde  I  doon  yow  myrthe,  wiste  I  how.^ 
And  of  a  myrthe  I  am  right  now  bythoght, 
To  doon  yow  ese,  and  it  shal  coste  noght. 

"Ye  goon  to  Canterbury;  God  yow  speede, 
The  blisful  martir  quite  yow  youre  meede  !  '^ 
And,  wel  I  woot,^  as  ye  goon  by  the  weye, 
Ye  shapen  yow  to  talen  ''  and  to  pleye ;       772 
For  trewely  comfort  ne  myrthe  is  noon 
To  ride  by  the  weye  doumb  as  a  stoon ; 
And  therfore  wol  I  maken  yow  disport,      775 
As  I  seyde  erst,^  and  doon  yow  som  comfort. 
And  if  you  liketh  alle,  by  oon  assent, 
Now  for  to  stonden  at  my  juggement, 
And  for  to  werken  as  I  shal  yow  seye, 
To-morwe,  whan  ye  riden  by  the  weye,       780 
Now  by  my  fader  soule  that  is  deed. 
But  *  ye  be  myrie,  I  wol  yeve  yow  myn  heed  ! 
Hoold    up    youre    hond     withouten    moore 

speche." 
Oure  conseil  was  nat  longe  for  to  seche ; 
Us  thoughte  it  was  noght  worth  to  make  it 

wys,  785 

And  graunted  hym  withouten  moore  avys,^ 
And  bad  him  seye  his  verdit,  as  hym  leste.^" 
"Lordynges,""   quod  he,   "now   herkneth 

for  the  beste. 
But  taak  it  nought,  I  prey  yow,  in  desdeyn ; 
This  is  the  poynt,  to  speken  short  and  pleyn, 
That  ech  of  yow,  to  shorte  with  your  weye, 
In  this  viage  shal  telle  tales  tweye  792 

To  Caunterburyward,  —  I  mean  it  so,  — 
And  homward  he  shal  tellen  othere  two, 
Of  aventures  that  whilom  ^^  han  bifaUe.      795 
And  which  of  yow  that  bereth  hym  beste  of 

alle. 
That  is  to  seyn,  that  telleth  in  this  caas 
Tales  of  best  sentence  '"'  and  moost  solaas, 
Shal  have  a  soper  at  oure  aller  cost,^'' 
Heere  in  this  place,  sittynge  by  this  post,  800 

^  besides  '^  inn  ^  if  T  knew  how  *  give  you  your 
reward  ^  know  ^  tell  tales  ^  before  *  unless  *  con- 
sideration '"  pleased  him  "  gentlemen  ^^  formerly 
^  meaning  '''  cost  of  us  all 


Whan  that  we  come  agayn  fro  Caunterbury. 
And,  for  to  make  yow  the  moore  mury,' 
I  wol  myselven  gladly  with  yow  ryde 
Right  at  myn  owne  cost,  and  be  youre  gyde. 
And  whoso  wole  my  juggement  withseye  ^   805 
Shal  paye  al  that  we  spenden  by  the  weye. 
And  if  ye  vouche-sauf  that  it  be  so, 
Tel  me  anon,  withouten  wordes  mo, 
And  I  wol  erly  shape  me  *  therfore." 

This  thyng  was  graunted,  and  oure  othes 

swore  810 

With  ful  glad  herte,  and  preyden  hym  also 
That  he  would  vouche-sauf  for  to  do  so, 
And  that  he  wolde  been  oure  governour. 
And  of  our  tales  juge  and  reportour. 
And  sette  a  soper  at  a  certeyn  pris,  815 

And  we  wol  reuled  been  at  his  devys 
In  heigh  and  lowe ;   and  thus  by  oon  assent 
We  been  acorded  to  his  juggement. 
And  therupon  the  wyn  was  fet  ■*  anon ; 
We  dronken  and  to  reste  wente  echon         820 
Withouten  any  lenger  taryynge. 

Amorwe,  whan  that  day  bigan  to  sprynge. 
Up  roos  oure  Hoost  and  was  oure  aller  cok,^ 
And  gadrede  us  togidre  alle  in  a  flok, 
And  forth  we  riden,  a  litel  moore  than  paas,^ 
Unto  the  Wateryng  of  Seint  Thomas  ;         826 
And  there  oure  Hoost  bigan  his  hors  areste, 
And   seyde,    "Lordynges,    herkneth,    if   yow 

leste ! 
Ye  woot  youre  forward,^   and  I  it  yow  re- 

corde. 
If  even-song  and  morwe-song  accorde,        830 
Lat  se  now  who  shal  telle  the  firste  tale. 
As  evere  mote  I  drynke  wyn  or  ale, 
Whoso  be  rebel  to  my  juggement 
Shal  paye  for  all  that  by  the  wey  is  spent ! 
Now  draweth  cut,  er  that  we  ferrer  twynne.' 
He  which  that  hath   the   shorteste  shal  bi- 

gynne.  836 

Sire  Knyght,"  quod  he,  "my  mayster  and  my 

lord. 
Now  draweth  cut,  for  that  is  myn  accord. 
Cometh  neer,"  ^  quod  he,  "  my  lady  Prioresse, 
And  ye,  sire  Clerk,  lat  be  your  shamefast- 

nesse,  840 

Ne  studieth  noght ;  ley  hond  to,  every  man." 

Anon  to  drawen  every  wight  bigan, 
And,  shortly  for  to  tellen,  as  it  was. 
Were  it  by  aventure,  or  sort,^°  or  cas," 

^  merry  *  gainsay  '  prepare  myself  *  fetched 
*  cock  — •  waked  us  all.  *  a  little  faster  than  a 
walk  ''  agreement  **  farther  depart  ^  come  nearer 
^" fate  "  chance 


THE    COMPLEINT    OF    CHAUCER    TO    HIS    EMPTY    PURSE 


69 


The  sothe  is  this,  the  cut  lil  to  the  knyght, 
Of    which    ful    bhthe    and    glad    was    every 

wyght :  846 

And  telle  he  moste  his  tale,  as  was  resoun, 
By  forward  '  and  by  composicioun,^ 
As  ye  han  herd  ;   what  nedeth  wordes  mo  ? 
And  whan  this  goode  man  saugh  that  it  was 

so,  850 

As  he  that  wys  was  and  obedient 
To  kepe  his  forward  ^  by  his  free  assent, 
He  seyde,  ''Syn  ^  I  shal  bigynne  the  game, 
What,  welcome  be  the  cut  a  ^  Goddes  name  ! 
Now  lat  us  ryde,  and  herkneth  what  I  seye." 
And  with   that  word,   we  ryden  forth   oure 

weye; 
And  he  bigan  with  right  a  myrie  cheere      857 
His  tale  anon,  and  seyde  in  this  manere. 


Tempest  ^  thee  noght  al  croked  to  redresse, 
In  trust  of  hir  2  that  turneth  as  a  bal ; 
Gret  reste  stant  ^  in  litel  besinesse.  10 

And  eek  be  war  ^  to  sporne  ^  ageyn  an  al ;  ^ 
Strive  noght,  as  doth  the  crokke  ^  with  the 

wal. 
Daunte  thy-self ,  that  dauntest  otheres  dede ; 
And  trouthe  shal  delivere,  hit  is  no  drede. 

That  thee  is  sent,  receyve  in  buxumnesse,^  15 
The  wrastiing  for  this  worlde  axeth  a  fal. 
Her  nis  non  hom,  her  nis  but  wildernesse : 
Forth,  pilgrim,  forth  !     Forth,  beste,^  out  of 

thy  stal ! 
Know  thy  contree ;   lok  up,  thank  God  of  al ; 
Hold  the  hye-wey,^°  and  lat  thy  gost  "  thee 

lede !  20 

And  trouthe  shal  delivere,  hit  is  no  drede. 


A  ROUNDEL 

From  THE   PARLEMENT  OF   FOULES 

"Now  welcom,  somer,  with  thy  sonne  softe, 
That  hast  this  wintres  weders  "  over-shake,^ 
And  driven  awey  the  longe  nightes  Make!  " 

Seynt  Valentyn,  that  art  ful  hy  on-lofte,^ 
Thus  singen  smale  foules  ^  for  thy  sake :  5 

"Now  welcom,  somer,  with  thy  sonne  softe, 
That  hast  this  wintres  weders  over-shake." 

Wei  han  ^  they  cause  for  to  gladen  ofte, 

Sith  ^  ech  of  hem  recovered  hath  his  make ; '" 

Ful  blisful  may  they  singen  whan  they  wake : 

"Now  welcom,  somer,  with  thy  sonne  softe. 

That  hast  this  wintres  weders  over-shake, 

And  driven  awey  the  longe  nightes  blake!" 


BALADE   DE   BON   CONSEYL 

Fie  fro  the  prees,"  and  dwelle  with  sothfast- 

nesse,^ 
Sufifyce  unto  thy  good,  though  hit  be  smal ; 
For  hord  hath  hate,  and  clymbing  tikelnesse,''' 
Frees  "  hath  envye,  and  wele  blent  overal ;  " 
Savour  no  more  than  thee  bihove  shal ;  5 

Werk  wel  thy-self,  that  other  folk  canst  rede ;  ^^ 
And  trouthe  shal  delivere,  hit  is  no  drede.^*" 


^  agreement  ^  compact  ^  since  *  in  ^  storms 
avertumed  ^  above  *  little  birds  ^  have  ^"^  mate 
the    crowd    ^^  truth    ^^  insecurity    ^*  prosperity 


®  overturned  '  aoove  ^  nttie  Diras  ' 
"  the  crowd  ^^  truth  ^^  insecurity 
blinds  everywhere  ^*  advise  ^^  doubt 

AE 


Envoy 

Therfore,  thou  Vache,'^  leve  thyn  old  wrecch- 

ednesse ; 
Unto  the  worlde  leve  ^'  now  to  be  thral ; 
Crye  Him  mercy  that  i"*  of  His  hy  goodnesse 
Made  thee  of  noght,  and  in  especial  25 

Draw  unto  Him,  and  pray  in  general 
For  thee,  and  eek  for  other,  hevenlich  mede ;  ^^ 
And  trouthe  shal  delivere,  hit  is  no  drede.    28 

Explicit  Le  bon  counseill  de  G.  Chaucer 

THE   COMPLEINT  OF  CHAUCER  TO 
HIS  EMPTY   PURSE 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  non  other  wight  ^^ 

Compleyne  I,  for  ye  be  my  lady  dere  ! 

I  am  so  sory,  now  that  ye  be  light ; 

For  certes,  but  "  ye  make  me  hevy  chere,^^ 

Me  were  as  leef  be  leyd  up-on  my  bere ;  '^      5 

For  whiche  un-to  your  mercy  thus  I  crye : 

Beth  -^  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  mot  I  dye  ! 

Now  voucheth  sauf  this  day,  or  -^  hit  be  night, 
That  I  of  you  the  blisful  soun  may  here. 
Or  see  your  colour  lyk  the  sonne  bright,       10 
That  of  yelownesse  hadde  never  pere. 
Ye  be  my  lyf ,  ye  be  myn  hertes  stere,^ 


^  disturb  ^  i.e.  Fortune  ^  stands,  resides  *  cau- 
tious ^  kick  ^  awl  ^  crock,  earthen  pot  *  willing 
obedience  *  beast  ^^  highway  "  spirit  ^  Sir  Philip 
la  Vache  ^^  cease  ^*  thank  him  who  ^^  reward 
prosperity  ^^  creature  ^^  unless  ^*  cheer  ^*  bier  ^^  be  ^  '"'•p 
^  guide 


ere 


70 


GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 


Quene  of  comfort  and  of  good  companye, 
Beth  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  mot  I  dye  ! 

Now  purs,  that  be  to  me  my  lyves  light,     15 
And  saveour,  as  doun  in  this  worlde  here, 
Out  of  this  toune  help  me  through  your  might. 
Sin  that  ye  wole  nat  ben  my  tresorere ; 
For  I  am  shave  as  nye  ^  as  any  frere."-^ 
But  yit  I  pray  un-to  your  curtesye :  20 

Beth  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  mot  I  dye  ! 

Lenvoy  de   Chaucer 

O  conquerour  of  Brutes  Albioun  ! 
Which  that  by  lyne  and  free  eleccioun 
Ben  ^  verray  kmg,  this  song  to  you  I  sende ; 
And  ye,  that  mowen  ■*  al  myn  harm  amende, 
Have  mynde  up-on  my  supplicacioun  !  26 

A  TREATISE    ON   THE    ASTROLABE  ^ 

PROLOGUS 

Lit  el  Lowis  ®  my  sone,  I  have  perceived  wel 
by  certeyne  evidences  thyn  abilite  to  leme 
sciencez  touchinge  noumbres  and  propor- 
ciouns ;  and  as  wel  considere  I  thy  bisy  ^ 
preyere  ^  in  special  to  lerne  the  Tretis  of  the 
Astrolabie.  Than,^  for  as  mechel  ^*  as  a  phil- 
osof re  seith ,  "  he  wrappet h  him  in  his  f rend,  that 
condescendeth  to  the  rightful  preyers  of  his 
frend,"  therfor  have  I  yeven  ^^  thee  a  sufifisaunt 
Astrolabie  as  for  oure  orizonte,^-  compowned  ^^ 
after  the  latitude  of  Oxenford;  upon  which, 
by  mediacion  ^'*  of  this  litel  tretis,  I  purpose  to 
teche  thee  a  certein  nombre  of  conclusions  ^^ 
apertening  ^^  to  the  same  mstrument.  I  seye 
a  certein  of  conclusiouns,  for  three  causes. 
The  furste  cause  is  this :  truste  wel  that  alle 
the  conclusiouns  that  han  "  ben  founde,  or 
elles  ^*  possibly  mighten  be  founde  in  so  noble 
an  instrument  as  an  Astrolabie,  ben  ^  un- 
knowe  perfitly  to  any  mortal  man  in  this 
regioun,  as  I  suppose.  Another  cause  is  this : 
that  sothly,^^  in  any  tretis  of  the  Astrolabie 
that  I  have  seyn,^°  there  ben  •''  some  conclu- 
sions that  wole  ^^  nat  in  alle  thinges  performen 
hir  ^^  bihestes ;  ^^  and  some  of  hem  ben  ^  to  ^'* 

^  shaven  as  close  ^  friar  ^  are  *  may  ^  astro- 
nomical instrument;  consult  the  dictionary  ^  Lewis 
''  eager  *  prayer,  request  ^  then  ■"*  much  '^  given 
'^  horizon  '•''  composed  '■*  means  ^^  problems  and 
their  solutions  "^  pertaining  '^  have  ^'*else  ^^  truly 
*"  seen  ^^  will  ^  their  ^^  promises  ^  too 


harde  to  thy  tendre  age  of  ten  yeer  to  con- 
seyve.^  This  tretis,  divided  in  fyve  parties  ^ 
wole  ^  I  shewe  thee  under  ful  lighte  *  rewles  ^ 
and  naked  wordes  m  English ;  for  Latin  ne 
canstow  ^  yit  but  smal,  my  lyte  '  sone.  But 
natheles,*  sufifyse  to  thee  thise  trewe  con- 
clusiouns in  English,  as  wel  as  suffyseth  to 
thise  noble  clerkes  Grekes  thise  same  conclu- 
siouns in  Greek,  and  to  Arabiens  in  Arabik, 
and  to  Jewes  in  Ebrev/,  and  to  the  Latin  folk 
in  Latin ;  whiche  Latin  folk  han  ^  hem  ^°  furst 
out  of  othre  diverse  langages,  and  writen  in 
hir  ^^  owne  tonge,  that  is  to  sein,^^  in  Latin. 
And  God  wot,^^  that  in  alle  thise  langages, 
and  in  many  mo,^**  han  ^  thise  conclusiouns 
ben  ^^  suffisantly  lerned  and  taught,  and  yit 
by  diverse  rewles,^  right  as  diverse  pathes 
leden  diverse  folk  the  righte  wey  to  Rome. 
Now  wol  I  prey  meekly  every  discret  persone 
that  redeth  or  hereth  this  litel  tretis,  to  have 
my  rewde  ^^  endyting  ^^  for  excused,  and  my 
superfiuite  of  wordes,  for  two  causes.  The 
firste  cause  is,  for-that  ^*  curious  ^^  endyting  '' 
and  hard  sentence  ^^  is  ful  hevy  -^  atones  ^^ 
for  swich  ^^  a  child  to  lerne.  And  the  seconde 
cause  is  this,  that  sothly  -^  mesemeth  ^^  betre 
to  wryten  unto  a  child  twyes  -®  a  good  sentence, 
than  he  forgete  it  ones. 2'  And,  Lowis,  yif  ^* 
so  be  that  I  shewe  thee  in  my  lighte  ^^  English 
as  trewe  conclusiouns  touching  this  matere, 
and  naught  ^°  only  as  trewe  but  as  many  and 
as  subtil  conclusiouns  as  ben  ^^  shewed  in 
Latin  in  any  commune  tretis  of  the  Astrolabie, 
con  me  the  more  thank ;  ^^  and  preye  God  save 
the  king,  that  is  lord  of  this  langage,  and  alle 
that  him  feyth  bereth  ^^  and  obeyeth,  everech  ^* 
in  his  degree,  the  more  ^^  and  the  lasse.^*^  But 
considere  wel,  that  I  ne  usurpe  nat  to  have 
founde  this  werk  of  my  labour  or  of  myn 
engin.^".  I  nam  ^^  but  a  lewd  ^^  compilatour  ^^ 
of  the  labour  of  olde  Astrologiens,  and  have  hit 
translated  in  myn  English  only  for  thy  doc- 
trine ;  and  with  this  swerd  *^  shal  I  sleen  *^ 
envye. 

^  understand  ^  parts  ^  will  ^  easy  ^  rules  *  know- 

5t  thou     ^  little     *  nevertheless     ®  have    ^^  them 

their    ^  say    ^^  knows    ^'*  more    ^^  been    ^^  rude 

sense 


est  thou  ^  little  *  nevertheless  ®  have  ^^  them 
^^  their  ^  say  ^^  knows  ^'*  more  ^^  been  ^^  rude 
''composition  ^*  because  ^^  elaborate  *"  meaning, 
sense    ^^  difficult    ^'  at  once    ^^  such    ^^  truly    ^^  it 

-  _     •)l\  -    _   •  97  _  9S  T       M Sll i 


Liicir         s>uy         K.11UWS)         luuic     — uccu  luuc 

''composition  ^*  because  ^^  elaborate  *"  meaning, 
sense  ^^  difficult  ^'  at  once  ^^  such  ^^  truly  ^^  it 
seems  to  me  ^'''  twice  ^'  once  "■^*  if  ^®  easy  *"  not 
^^  are  ^  con  thank  means  thank,  be  gratefiil  ^  bear 
^■'  every  one  ^^  greater  ^''  less  ^'^  ingenuity  ^^  am  "ot. 
'^  ignorant  •"*  compiler  ^  sword  ^  slay 

m 


not 


HIGDEN'S    POLYCHRONICON 


71 


JOHN   DE   TREVISA  (1326-1412) 

HIGDEN'S   POLYCHRONICON 

BOOK  I.     CHAPTER  LIX 


This  apajnynge  ^  of  the  burthe  of  the  tunge 
is  bycause  of  tweie  thinges ;  oon  is  for  children 
in  scole  ayenst  the  usage  and  manere  of  alle 
othere  naciouns  beeth  compelled  for  to  leve  - 
hire  ^  owne  langage,  and  for  to  construe  hir  ^ 
lessouns  and  here  ^  thynges  in  Frensche,  and 
so  they  haveth ''  seth  '  the  Normans  come  ^ 
first  in-to  Engelond.  Also  gentil-men  children 
beeth  i-taught  to  speke  Frensche  from  the 
tyme  that  they  beeth  i-rokked  in  here  cradel, 
and  kunneth  ^  speke  and  playe  with  a  childes 
broche ;  ^  and  uplondisshe  ^  men  wU  likne 
hym-self  to  gentil-men,  and  fonde'th  i"  with 
greet  besynesse  for  to  speke  Frensce,  for  to  be 
i-tolde "  of.  TrevisaP  This  manere  was 
moche  i-used  to-for  ^^  [the]  FirsteDeth  "  and  is 
siththe  ^^  sumdeP^  i-chaunged;  for  John 
Cornwaile,  a  maister  of  grammer,  chaunged 
the  lore  in  gramer  scole  and  construccioun 
of  ^^  Frensche  in-to  Englische ;  and  Richard 
Pencriche  lerned  the  manere  ^'  techynge  of 
hym  and  othere  men  of  Pencrich ;  so  that 
now,  the  yere  of  oure  Lorde  a  thowsand  thre 
himdred  and  foure  score  and  fyve,  and  of  the 
secounde  kyng  Richard  after  the  Conquest 
nyne,  in  alle  the  gramere  scoles  of  Engelond, 
children  leveth  Frensche  and  const  rueth  and 
lerneth  an  ^*  Englische,  and  haveth  ^  therby 
avaiintage  in  oon  side  and  disavauntage  in 
another  side ;  here  ^  avauntage  is,  that  they 
lerneth  her  ^  gramer  in  lasse  '^  tyme  than 
children  were  i-woned  '°  to  doo ;  disavaimtage 
is  that  now  children  of  gramer  scole  conneth  ^^ 
na  more  Frensche  than  can  --  hir  ^  lift  ^  heele, 
and  that  is  harme  for  hem  ^  and  ^'  they  schulle 
passe  the  see  and  travaiUe  in  straunge  landes 
and  in  many  other  places.  Also  gentil-men 
haveth  now  moche  i-left  -^  for  to  teche  here  ^ 
children  Frensche. 

^  deterioration  ^  leave,  give  up  ^  their  *  have 
*  since  ^  came  ^  can  *  brooch  (ornament  in  gen- 
eral)   '  country   ^°  attempt    ^  accounted    ^  What 


This  deterioration  of  the  birth  of  the  tongue 
is  because  of  two  things :  one  is  because  chil- 
dren in  school,  against  the  usage  and  custom  of 
all  other  nations,  are  compelled  to  give  up 
their  own  language  and  to  construe  their  les- 
sons and  their  exercises  in  French,  and  so  they 
have  since  the  Normans  came  first  into  Eng- 
land. Also  gentlemen's  children  are  taught 
to  speak  French  from  the  time  that  they  are 
rocked  in  their  cradles  and  can  talk  and  play 
with  a  baby's  brooch ;  and  countrymen  wish 
to  be  like  gentlemen  and  attempt  with  great 
^  effort  to  speak  French,  in  order  to  be  highly 
regarded. 

Trcvisa:  This  custom  was  much  used  be- 
fore the  first  plague  and  has  since  been  some- 
what changed ;  for  John  CornwaUe,  master 
of  grammar,  changed  the  teaching  in  gram- 
mar school  and  the  translation  of  French 
mto  English  ;  and  Richard  Pencriche  learned 
this  sort  of  teaching  from  him,  and  other  men 
from  Pencriche,  so  that  now,  the  year  of 
Our  Lord  1385  and  of  the  second  King  Richard 
after  the  Conquest  nine,  in  all  the  grammar 
schools  of  England,  children  give  up  French 
and  construe  and  learn  in  Enghsh,  and  have 
thereby  advantage  on  one  side  and  disadvan- 
tage on  another  side ;  their  advantage  is  that 
they  learn  their  grammar  in  less  time  than 
children  were  accustomed  to  do;  the  dis- 
advantage is  that  now  children  in  grammar 
school  know  no  more  French  than  does  their 
left  heel;  and  that  is  harm  for  them  if  they 
shall  pass  the  sea  and  travel  in  strange  lands 
and  in  many  other  places.  Also  gentlemen 
have  now  in  general  ceased  to  teach  their  chil- 
dren French. 

follows  is  Trevisa's  addition.  ^^  before  "  the  First 
Plague,  1348-1349  ^^  somewhat  ^^  from  ^~'  kind 
of  ^^  in  ^^  less  ^^  accustomed  ^^  know  ^  knows 
23  left  24  them  ^^  if  26  ceased 


THE    END    OF   THE    MIDDLE    AGES 


THOMAS   HOCCLEVE 

(i37o?-i45o?) 

From  DE  REGIMINE  PRINCIPUM 
ON   CHAUCER 

O  maister  deere  and  fadir  reverent,  1961 

Mi  maister  Chaucer,  flour  of  eloquence, 
Mirour  of  fructuous  entendement,' 
O  universel  fadir  in  science, 
Alias,  that  thou  thyn  excellent  prudence 
In   thi  bed   mortel   might ist   noght  by- 

quethe  ! 
What  eiled  Deth  alias  !   why  wold  he  sle 
the? 

O  Deth,  thou  didest  naght  harme  singuleer  ^ 
In  slaughtere  of  him,  but  al  this  land  it 
smertith.  1969 

But  nathelees  yit  hast  thou  no  power 
His  name  sle  ;  his  hy  vertu  astertith  ^ 
Unslayn  fro  the,  whiche  ay  us  lyfly  hertyth  ^ 
With  bookes  of  his  ornat  endytyng, 
That  is  to  al  this  land  enlumynyng.   1974 


The  steppes  of  Virgile  in  poesie 

Thow  folwedist  eeke,  men  wot  wel  ynow. 
That  combre-world  ^  that  the,  my  maistir, 
slow,- 
Would   I   slayne   were !      Deth   was   to 

hastyf, 
To  rene  ^  on  the,  and  reve  *  the  thi  lyf . 

Deth  hath  but  smal  consideracion  2094 

Unto  the  vertuous,  I  have  espied, 
No  more,  as  shewith  the  probacion,^ 
Than  to  a  vicious  maister  losel  ^  tried ; 
Among  an  heep  '^  every  man  is  maistried  ^ 
With  ^  hire,  as  wel  the  porre  ^°  as  is  the 

riche ; 
Lerede  "    and  lewde  '^    eeke  standen  al 
yliche.^^ 

She  mighte  han  taryed  hir  vengeance  a  while 
TU  that  some  man  had  egal  to  the  be.^"*  2102 
Nay,  lat  be  that  !   sche  knew  wel  that  this  yle 
May  never  man  forth  brynge  lyk  to  the, 
And  hir  ofhce  ^^  nedes  do  mot  ^®  she ; 

God  bad  hir  do  so,  I  truste  as  for  the 

beste ; 
O  maister,  maister,  God  thi  soule  reste  ! 


My  dere  maistir  (God  his  soule  quyte  !)     2077 
And  fadir  Chaucer  fayn  wolde  han  me 

taght. 
But  I  was  dul,  and  lerned  lite  or  naght. 

Alias  !   my  worthi  maister  honorable,        2080 

This  landes  verray  tresor  and  richesse  ! 
Dethe,  by  thi  deth,  hath  harme  irreparable 
Unto  us  doon  ;   hir  vengeable  duresse  '" 
Despoiled  hath  this  land  of  the  swetnesse 
Of  rethorik,  for  unto  Tullius 
Was  never  man  so  lyk  ^  amonges  us.  2086 

Also  who  was  hier  '  in  philosophic  2087 

To  Aristotle  in  our  tongc  but  thow  ? 

'  fruitful   understanding     ^  affecting  only  one 
8  escapes  *  heartens  *  cruel  aflSiction    ®  like  ^  heir 


The  firste  fyndere  of  our  faire  langage     4978 
Hath  seyde  in  caas  semblable,^'  and  ofthir 
moo,^** 
So  hyly  wel,  that  it  is  my  dotage 

For  to  expresse  or  touche  any  of  thoo.^^ 
Alasse  !   my  fadir  fro  the  wo  ride  is  goo. 
My  worthi  maister  Chaucer,  hym  I  mene : 
Be   thou   advoket  ^"   for   hym,   Hevenes 
Queue  ! 

As  thou  wel  knowest,  O  Blissid  Virgyne,  4985 
With  lovyng  hert  and  hye  devocion 

In  thyne  honour  he  wroot  ful  many  a  lyne ; 
O  now  thine  helpe  and  thi  promocion  ! 

^  world-cumberer  ^  slew  ^  run  *  bereave  ^  ex- 
perience ^  rascal  '  in  a  crowd  *  overcome  ^  by 
'"  poor  "  learned  ^^  ignorant  ^^  alike  ^*  had  been 
equal  to  thee  ^^  duty  ^^  must  "  like  cases  ^^  others 
also  ^'  those  ^^  advocate 


72 


THE    STORY    OF    THEBES 


73 


To  God  thi  Sone  make  a  mocion 

How  he  thi  servaunt  was,  Mayden  JVIarie, 
And  lat  his  love  floure  and  fructiiie  !  4991 

Al-thogh  his  lyfebequeynt,^  the  resemblaunce 

Of  him  hath  in  me  so  fressh  lyflynesse, 
That,  to  putte  othir  men  in  remembraunce 
Of  his  persone,  I  have  heere  his  lyknesse 
Do  make,'-  to  this  ende,  in  sothfastnesse, 
That  thei  that  have  of  him  lest  thought 
and   mynde,  4997 

By  this  peynture  may  ageyn  him  fynde. 

JOHN   LYDGATE  (i37o?-i45i  ?) 

From  THE   STORY  OF  THEBES 

HOW     FALSLY     ETHYOCLES     LEYDE     A 

BUSSHEMENT3     IN     THE     WAY     TO 

HAVE   SLAYN  TYDEUS 

At  a  posterne  forth  they  gan  to  ryde 

By  a  geyn  ■*  path,  that  ley  oute  a-side, 

Secrely,  that  no  man  hem  espie, 

Only  of  "  tresoun  and  of  felonye. 

They  haste  hem  forth  al  the  longe  day, 

Of  cruel  malys,  forto  stoppe  his  way, 

Thorgh  a  forest,  aUe  of  oon  assent, 

Ful  covartly  to  leyn  a  busshement 

Under  an  hiHe,  at  a  streite  passage, 

To  falle  on  hym  at  mor  avantage,^  mo 

The  same  way  that  Tydeus  gan  drawe 

At  thylke "  mount  wher  that  Spynx  was  slawe.* 

He,  nothing  war  in  his  opynyoun  ^ 

Of  this  compassed  ^°  conspiracioun. 

But  innocent  and  lich  "  a  gentyl  knyght, 

Rood  ay  forth  to  ^^  that  it  drowe  ^^  to  nyght, 

Sool  by  hym-silf,  with-oute  companye, 

Havyng  no  man  to  wisse  "  hym  or  to  g>'e.'^ 

But  at  the  last,  lifting  up  his  hede. 
Toward  evej  he  gan  taken  hede  ;  11 20 

Mid  of  his  waye,  right  as  eny  lyne, 
Thoght  he  saugh,  ageyn  the  mone  shyne, 
Sheldes  fresshe  and  plates  borned  ^^  bright, 
The  which  environ  ^'  casten  a  gret  lyght ; 
YmagjTiyng  in  his  fantasye 
Ther  was  treson  and  conspiracye 
Wrought  by  the  kyng,  his  journe  ^^  forto  lette." 
And  of  al  that  he  no-thyng  ne  sette,^'^ 

^  quenched  -  had  made  ^  ambush  *  convenient 
^  purely  because  of  '^  greater  advantage  ^  the  same 
*  slain  '  not  at  all  aware  in  his  thought  ^^  ar- 
ranged, formed  "  like  ^^  till  ^^  drew  "  direct 
**  guide  ^^  burnished  ^"  around  ^*  journey  ^*  hinder 
^he  cared  nothing  for  all  that 


But  wel  assured  in  his  manly  herte, 
List  ^  nat  onys  a-syde  to  dyverte,  1130 

But  kepte  his  way,  his  sheld  upon  his  brest, 
And  cast  his  spere  manly  in  the  rest, 
And  the  first  platly  ^  that  he  mette 
Thorgh  the  body  proudely  he  hym  smette, 
That  he  fille  ded,  chief  mayster  of  hem  alle ; 
And  than  at  onys  they  upon  hym  falle 
On  every  part,  be  ^  compas  envyroun. 
But  Tydeus,  thorgh  his  hegh  renoun. 
His  blody  swerde  lete  about  hym  glyde, 
Sleth  and  kylleth  upon  every  side  1140 

In  his  ire  and  his  mortal  tene ;  "* 
That  mervaile  was  he  myght  so  sustene 
Ageyn  hem  alle,  in  every  half  besette ; '" 
But  his  swerde  was  so  sharpe  whette 
That  his  foomen  founde  ful  unsoote.^ 
But  he,  aUas !  was  mad  light  a  foote,^ 
Be  force  groimded,^  in  ful  gret  distresse; 
But  of  knyghthod  and  of  gret  prouesse  ^ 
Up  he  roos,  maugre  ^°  aUe  his  foon,ii 
And  as  they  cam,  he  slogh  ^'-  hem  oon  be  oon, 
Lik  a  lyoun  rampaunt  in  his  rage,  1151 

And  on  this  hille  he  fond  a  narow  passage. 
Which  that  he  took  of  ful  high  prudence ; 
And  hche  ^^  a  boor,  stond^-ng  at  his  difTence, 
As  his  foomen  proudly  hym  assaylle. 
Upon  the  pleyn  he  made  her  blode  to  rayUe  '* 
Al  enviroun,  that  the  soyl  wex  rede, 
Now  her,  now  ther,  as  they  fiUe  dede. 
That  her  lay  on,  and  ther  lay  two  or  thre, 
So  mercyles,  in  his  cruelte,  n6o 

Thilke  day  he  was  upon  hem  founde ; 
And,  attonys  ^^  his  enemyes  to  confounde, 
Wher-as  he  stood,  this  myghty  champioun, 
Be-side  he  saugh,  with  water  turned  doun, 
An  huge  stoon  large,  rounde,  and  squar; 
And  sodeynly,  er  that  thei  wer  war, 
As  ^^  it  hadde  leyn  ther  for  the  nonys," 
Upon  his  foon  he  rolled  it  at  onys. 
That  ten  of  hem  ^^  wenten  unto  wrak, 
And  the  remnaunt  amased  drogh  "  a-bak ; 
For  on  by  on  they  wente  to  meschaunce.^** 
And  fynaly  he  broght  to  outraunce  ^^        1172 
Hem  ever>^choon,  Tydeus,  as  blyve,^ 
That  non  but  on  left  -^  of  ham  ^^  alyve : 
Hym-silf  yhurt,  and  y wounded  kene," 
Thurgh  his  barneys  bledyng  on  the  grene ; 

^  wished  ^  absolutely  ^  by  *  pain  ^  beset  on 
every  side  ^  unsweet,  bitter  '  made  to  alight  on 
foot  *  brought  to  ground  ^  progress  ^°  in  spite  of 
"  foes  ^'-  slew  ^^  hke  ^'*  flow  ^^  at  once  ^^  as  if  ^'  for 
the  purpose  ^*  them  ^^  drew  ^'^  defeat  ^^  destruction 
^  quickly  ^'  remained  ^■'  sorely 


74 


BALLADS 


The    Theban   knyghtes   in   compas    rounde 

aboute 
In  the  vale  lay  slayne,  alle  the  hoole  route,^ 
Which  pitously  ageyn  the  mone  ^  gape ; 
For  non  of  hem,  shortly,^  myght  eskape,   1180 
But  dede  ^  echon  as  thei  han  deserved, 
Save  oon  excepte,  the  which  was  reserved 
By  Tydeus,  of  intencioun, 
To  the  kyng  to  make  relacioun 
How    his    knyghtes    han    on    her     journe 

spedde,^  — 
Everich  of  hem  his  lyf  left  for  a  wedde,®  — 
And  at  the  metyng  how  they  han  hem  born ; 
To  tellen  al  he  sured  '  was  and  sworn 
To  Tydeus,  ful  lowly  on  his  kne. 


BALLADS 

{Authors  and  Dates  Unknown) 

ROBIN  HOOD   AND   GUY  OF 
GISBORNE 

1.  When     shawes  *     beene     sheene,^     and 

shradds  1°  fuU  fayre. 
And  leeves  both  large  and  longe, 
It  is  merry,  walking  in  the  fayre  fforrest, 
To  heare  the  small  birds  songe. 

2.  The  woodweele "    sang,    and   wold   not 

cease. 
Amongst  the  leaves  a  lyne  ;  ^" 
And  it  is  by  two  wight  ^^  yeomen, 
By  deare  God,  that  I  meanc. 


3.  "Me  thought  they  did  mee  beate  and 

binde, 
And  tooke  my  bow  mee  froe ;  10 

If  I  bee  Robin  a-live  in  this  lande, 

I'le  be  wrockcn  "  on  both  them  towe." 

4.  "Sweavens^*  are  swift,  master,"  quoth 

John, 
"As  the  wind  that  blowes  ore  a  hill; 
For  if  itt  be  never  soe  lowde  this  night, 
To-morrow  it  may  be  still." 

1  crowd  ^  moon  '  to  tell  it  briefly  *  died  ^  suc- 
ceeded, fared  •"'  pledge  '^  assured  *  groves  '  beauti- 
ful ^^  coppices  "  woodlark  "  of  linden  ^*  stout 
"  avenged  ^^  dreams 


5.  "Buske^  yee,  bowne  ^   yee,   my  merry 

men  all. 
For  John  shall  goe  with  mee ; 
For  I'le  goe  seeke  yond  wight  yeomen 
In  greenwood  where  they  bee."  20 

6.  They  cast  on  their  gowne  of  greene, 

A  shooting  gone  are  they. 
Until  they  came  to  the  merry  greenwood, 

Where  they  had  gladdest  bee  ; 
There  were  they  ware  of  a  wight  yeoman. 

His  body  leaned  to  a  tree. 

7.  A  sword  and  a  dagger  he  wore  by  his  side, 

Had  beene  many  a  mans  bane. 
And  he  was  cladd  in  his  capuU-hyde,^ 
Topp,  and  tayle,  and  mayne.  30 

8.  "Stand  you  stUl,  master,"  quoth  Litle 

John, 
"Under  this  trusty  tree. 
And  I  will  goe  to  yond  wight  yeoman. 
To  know  his  meaning  truly e." 

9.  "A,  John,  by  me  thou  setts  noe  store, 

And  that's  a  ffarley  ^  thinge ; 

How  offt  send  I  my  men  beffore, 

And  tarry  my-selfe  behinde  ? 

10.  "It  is  noe  cunning  a  knave  to  ken ; 

And  a  man  but  heare  him  speake.      40 
And  itt  were  not  for  bursting  of  my  bowe, 
John,  I  wold  thy  head  breake." 

11.  But  often  words  they  breeden  bale; 

That  parted  Robin  and  John. 
John  is  gone  to  Barnesdale, 

The  gates  •*  he  knowes  eche  one. 

12.  And  when  hee  came  to  Barnesdale, 

Great  heavinesse  there  hee'hadd; 
He  ffound  two  of  his  fellowes 

Were  slaine  both  in  a  slade,^  50 

13.  And  Scarlett  a-ffoote  flyinge  was, 

Over  stockes  and  stone, 
For  the  sheriffe  with  seven  score  men 
Fast  after  him  is  gone. 

14.  "  Yett  one  shoote  I'le  shoote,"  sayes  Litle 

John, 
"With  Crist  his  might  and  mayne; 
I'le  make  yond  fellow  that  flyes  soe  fast 
To  be  both  glad  and  ffaine." 

^  get  ready  -  horse-hide  ^  strange  ^  ways  ^  valley 


ROBIN   HOOD    AND    GUY   OF    GISBORNE 


75 


15.  John  bent  up  a  good  veiwe  ^  bow, 

And  ffetteled  ^  him  to  shoote ;  60 

The  bow  was  made  of  a  tender  boughe, 
And  fell  downe  to  his  foote. 

16.  "Woe  worth  thee,  wicked  wood,"  sayd 

Litle  John, 
"That  ere  thou  grew  on  a  tree ! 
For  this  day  thou  art  my  bale, 

My  boote  ^  when  thou  shold  bee  !" 

17.  This  shoote  it  was  but  looselye  shott, 

The  arrowe  flew  in  vaine. 
And  it  mett  one  of  the  sheriiTes  men ; 
Good  William  a  Trent  was  slaine.      70 

18.  It  had  beene  better  for  WiUiam  a  Trent 

To  hange  upon  a  gallowe 
Then  for  to  lye  in  the  greenwoode, 
There  slaine  with  an  arrowe. 

19.  And  it  is  sayd,  when  men  be  mett, 

Six  can  doe  more  than  three : 
And  they  have  tane  Litle  John, 
And  bound  him  ffast  to  a  tree. 

20.  "Thou   shalt   be   drawen   by   dale   and 

downe,"  quoth  the  sheriffe, 
"  And  hanged  hye  on  a  hill : "  80 

"But  thou  may  ffayle,"  quoth  Litle  John, 
"If  itt  be  Christs  owne  will." 

21.  Let  us  leave  talking  of  Litle  John, 

For  hee  is  bound  fast  to  a  tree, 
And  talke  of  Guy  and  Robin  Hood 
In  the  green  woode  where  they  bee. 

22.  How  these  two  yeomen  together  they  mett, 

Under  the  leaves  of  lyne,^ 
To  see  what  marchandise  they  made 
Even  at  that  same  time.  90 

23.  "Good  morrow,  good  feUow,"  quoth  Sir 

Guy; 
"Good  morrow,  good  ffellow,"  quoth 
hee; 
"Methinkes  by  this  bow  thou  beares  in 
thy  hand, 
A  good  archer  thou  seems  to  bee." 

24.  "I  am  wilfuU  ^  of  my  way,"  quoth  Sir 

Guye, 
"And  of  my  morning  tyde :" 


"I'le  lead  thee  through  the  wood,"  quoth 
Robin, 
"Good  ffellow,  I'le  be  thy  guide." 

25.  "I  seeke  an  outlaw,"  quoth  Sir  Guye, 

"Men  call  him  Robin  Hood;  100 

I  had  rather  meet  with  him  upon  a  day 
Than  forty  pound  of  golde." 

26.  "If  you  tow  mett,   itt  wold  be  scene 

whether  were  better 
Afore  yee  did  part  awaye ; 
Let  us  some  other  pastime  find, 
Good  ffellow,  I  thee  pray. 

27.  "Let  us  some  other  mastery es  make, 

And  wee  wiU  walke  in  the  woods  even ; 
Wee  may  chance  meet  with  Robin  Hoode 
Att  some  unsett  Steven."  ^  no 

28.  They    cutt    them    downe    the    summer 

shroggs  2 
Which  grew  both  under  a  bryar, 
And  sett  them  three  score  rood  in  twinn,^ 
To  shoote  the  prickes  fuU  neare. 

29.  "Leade  on,  good  ffellow,"  sayd  Sir  Guye, 

"Lead  on,  I  doe  bidd  thee:" 
"Nay,  by  "my  faith,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
"The  leader  thou  shalt  bee." 

30.  The  first  good  shoot  that  Robin  ledd. 

Did   not   shoote  an   inch   the   pricke 
ffroe; 
Guy  was  an  archer  good  enoughe,        121 
But  he  cold  neere  shoote  soe. 

31.  The  second  shoote  Sir  Guy  shott, 

He  shott  within  the  garlande ; 
But  Robin  Hoode  shott  it  better  than  hee, 
For  he  clove  the  good  pricke-wande. 

$2.   "Gods   blessing   on    thy   heart!"   sayes 

Guye, 

"Goode  iSellow,  thy  shooting  isgoode; 

For  an  thy  hart  be  as  good  as  thy  hands. 

Thou  were  better  than  Robin  Hood.  130 

33.   "Tell  me  thy  name,  good  ffellow,"  quoth 
Guy, 
"Under  the  leaves  of  Jyne  : " 
"Nay,  by  my  faith,"  quoth  good  Robin, 
"Till  thou  have  told  me  thuie." 


^  yew  2  made  ready  ^  help  ■*  linden  *  astray 


^  hour        ^  wands 


'  apart 


76 

34- 


35- 


36. 


37- 


BALLADS 


"I  dwell  by  dale  and  downe,"  quoth 
Guye, 

"And  I  have  done  many  a  curst  turne  ; 
And  he  that  caUes  me  by  my  right  name, 

Calles  me  Guye  of  good  Gysborne." 

"My  dwelling  is  in  the  wood,"  sayes 
Robin ; 

"By  thee  I  set  right  nought ;  140 

My  name  is  Robin  Hood  of  Barnesdale, 

A  ffellow  thou  has  long  sought." 

He  that  had  neither  beene  a  kithe  nor 
kin 

Might  have  seene  a  full  fayre  sight, 
To  see  how  together  these  yeomen  went, 

With  blades  both  browne  and  bright ; 

To  have  seene  how  these  yeomen  together 
fought 

Two  howers  of  a  summer's  day ; 
Itt  was  neither  Guy  nor  Robin  Hood 

That  ffettled  ^  them  to  flye  away.     150 


38.  Robin  was  reacheles  ^  on  a  roote, 

And  stumbled  at  that  tyde. 
And  Guy  was  quicke  and  nimble  with-all, 
And  hitt  him  ore  the  left  side. 

39.  "Ah,  deere  Lady  !"  sayd  Robin  Hoode, 

"Thou  art  both  mother  and  may  !  ^ 
I  thinke  it  was  never  mans  destinye 
To  dye  before  his  day." 

40.  Robin  thought  on  Our  Lady  deere, 

And  soone  leapt  up  againe,  160 

And  thus  he  came  with  an  awkwarde  * 
stroke ; 
Good  Sir  Guy  hee  has  slayne. 

41 .  He  tooke  Sir  Guys  head  by  the  hayre, 

And  sticked  itt  on  his  bowes  end : 

"Thou  hast  beene  traytor  aU  thy  liffe, 

Which  thing  must  have  an  ende." 

42.  Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irish  kniffe. 

And  nicked  Sir  Guy  in  the  fface. 
That  hee  was  nevef  on  a  woman  borne 
Cold  teU  who  Sir  Guye  was.  170 

43.  Saics,   "Lye   there,   lye  there,   good  Sir 

Guye, 
And  with  me  be  not  wrothe ; 

^  made  ready  ^  careless  ^  maiden  "*  back-handed 


If  thou  have  had  the  worse  stroakes  at  my 
hand, 
Thou  shaft  have  the  better  cloathe." 

44.  Robin  did  off  his  gowne  of  greene, 

Sir  Guye  hee  did  it  throwe ; 

And  hee  put  on  that  capull-hyde 

That  cladd  him  topp  to  toe. 

45.  "The  bowe,  the  arrowes,  and  litle  home, 

And  ^  with  me  now  I'le  beare ;      180 
For  now  I  will  goe  to  Barnesdale, 
To  see  how  my  men  doe  fifare." 

46.  Robin  sette  Guyes  home  to  his  mouth, 

A  lowd  blast  in  it  he  did  blow ; 
That  beheard  the  sheriffe  of  Nottingham, 
As  he  leaned  under  a  lowe.^ 

47.  "  Hearken  !  hearken  ! "  sayd  the  sheriffe, 

"  I  heard  noe  tydings  but  good  ; 
For   yonder   I    heare    Sir    Guyes   home 
blowe, 
For  he  hath  slaine  Robin  Hoode.     190 

48.  "For  yonder  I  heare  Sir  Guyes  home 

blow, 
Itt  blowes  soe  well  in  tyde. 
For  yonder  comes  that  wighty  yeoman, 
Cladd  in  his  capuU-hyde. 

49.  "Come  hither,  thou  good  Sir  Guy, 

Aske  of  mee  what  thou  wilt  have  : " 
"I'le  none  of   thy  gold,"   sayes   Robin 
Hood, 
"Nor  I'le  none  of  itt  have. 

50.  "But  now  I  have  slaine  the  master,"  he 

sayd, 
"Let  me  goe  strike  the  knave;         200 
This  is  all  the  reward  I  aske. 
Nor  noe  other  will  I  have." 

51.  "Thou  art  a  madman,"  said  the  shiriffe, 

"Thou  sholdest  have  had  a  knights 
ffee; 
Seeing  thy  asking  hath  beene  soe  badd, 
Well  granted  it  shall  be." 

52.  But  Litle  John  heard  his  master  speake, 

Well  he  knew  that  was  his  Steven ; ' 
"Now  shall  I  be  loset,"  "*  quoth  Litle  John, 
"With  Christs  might  in  heaven."    210 


^  also 


hill 


'  released 


THE    BATTLE    OF    OTTERBURN 


77 


53.  But  Robin  hee  hyed  ^  him  towards  Litle 

John, 
Hee  thought  hee  wold  loose  him  belive ;  ^ 
The  sheriflie  and  all  his  companye 
Fast  after  him  did  drive. 

54.  "Stand  abacke !    stand   abacke!"   sayd 

Robin ; 
"Why  draw  you  mee  soe  nere? 
Itt  was  never  the  use  in  our  countrye 
Ones  shrift  another  shold  heere." 

•55.    But  Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irysh  kniffe, 
And  losed  John  hand  and  ffootq,      220 
And  gave  him  Sir  Guyes  bow  in  his  hand, 
And  bade  it  be  his  boote.^ 

56.    But  John  tooke  Guyes  bow  in  his  hand 
(His    arrowes    were    rawstye"*   by  the 
roote) ; 
The  sherriffe  saw  Litle  John  draw  a  bow 
And  flettle  him  to  shoote. 


57- 


Towards  his  house  in  Nottingham 

He  ffled  full  fast  away. 
And  soe  did  all  his  companye, 

Not  one  behind  did  stay.  230 


58.   But  he  cold  neither  soe  fast  goe, 
Nor  away  soe  fast  runn, 
But  Litle  John,  with  an  arrow  broade, 
Did  cleave  his  heart  in  twinn. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  OTTERBURN 

1.  Yt  felle  abowght  the  Lamasse  tyde. 

Whan  husbondes  wynnes  ^  ther  haye, 
The  dowghtye  Dowglasse  bowynd  ^  hym 
to  ryde. 
In  Ynglond  to  take  a  praye. 

2.  The  yerUe  of  Fyffe,  wythowghten  stryffe, 

He  bowynd  hym  over  Sulway ; 
The  grete  wolde  ever  to-gether  ryde ; 
That  raysse  '  they  may  rewe  for  aye. 

3.  Over  Hoppertope  hyU  they  cam  in, 

And  so  down  by  Rodcl>'ffe  crage ;      10 
Upon  Grene  Lynton  they  lyghted  dowyn, 
Styrande  *  many  a  stage. 

4.  And  boldely  brente  ®  Northomberlond, 

And  harj^ed  many  a  towyn ; 

^  hastened  ^  quickly  ^  help  *  clotted  ^  dry  ^  got 
ready  ^  raid  ^  arousing  ^  burned 


They    dyd    owr    Ynglyssh    men    grete 
wrange, 
To  batteU  that  were  not  bowyn. 

5.  Than  spake  a  berne  ^  upon  the  bent,- 

Of  comforte  that  was  not  colde, 
And  sayd,  "We  have  brente  Northomber- 
lond, 
We  have  aU  welth  in  holde.  20 

6.  "Now  we  have  haryed  aU  Bamborowe 

schyre. 
All  the  welth  in  the  world  have  wee; 
I  rede  we  ryde  to  Newe  Castell, 
So  styU  and  stalworthlye." 

7.  Upon  the  morowe,^  when  it  was  day, 

The  standerds  ^chone  fuUe  bryght ; 
To  the  Newe  Castell  they  toke  the  waye, 
And  thether  they  cam  fulle  ryght. 

8.  Syr  Henry  Perssy  laye  at  the  New  Castell, 

I  tell  yow  wythowtten  drede  ;  *  30 

He  had  byn  a  march-man  all  hys  dayes. 
And  kepte  Barwyke  upon  Twede. 

9.  To  the  Newe  CasteU  when  they  cam, 

The  Skottes  they  cryde  on  hyght : 
"Syr  Hary  Perssy,  and  thow  byste  within, 
Com  to  the  fylde,  and  fyght. 

10.  "For  we  have  brente  Northomberlonde, 

Thy  erytage  good  and  ryght. 
And  syne  '  my  logeyng  '^  I  have  take,    39 
Wyth    my   brande    dubbyd    many   a 
knyght." 

11.  Syr  Harry  Perssy  cam  to  the  waUes, 

The  Skottyssch  oste  for  to  se. 
And  sayd,  "And  thow  hast  brente  North- 
omberlond, 
Full  sore  it  rewyth  me. 

12.  "Yf  thou  hast   haryed  aU  Bamborowe 

schyre, 
Thow  hast  done  me  grete  envye ;  ^ 
For  the  trespasse  thow  hast  me  done. 
The  tone  *  of  us  schaU  dye." 

13.  "Where  schall  I  byde  the?"  sayd  the 

Dowglas, 
"Or  where  wylte  thow  com  to  me ? "  50 
"At  Otterborne,  in  the  hygh  way, 
Ther  mast  thow  well  logeed  be. 

^  man  -  field  ^  morrow  *  doubt  *  since  *  lodging 
''  hostility  *  the  one 


78 


BALLADS 


14.  "The  roo  ^  full  rekeles  ther  sche  rinnes, 

To  make  the  game  and  glee  ; 
The  fawken  and  the  fesamit  both, 
Amonge  the  holtes  on  hye. 

15.  "Ther  mast  thow  have  thy  welth  at  wyll, 

Well  looged  ther  mast  be ; 
Yt  schall  not  be  long  or  I  com  the  tyll," 
Sayd  Syr  Harry  Perssye.  60 

16.  "Ther    schall    I    byde    the,"    sayd    the 

Dowglas, 
"By  the  fayth  of  my  bodye." 
"Thether  schall  I  com,"  sayd  Syr  Harry 

Perssy 
"My  trowth  I  plyght  to  the." 

* 

17.  A  pype  of  wyne  he  gave  them  over  the 

walles, 
For  soth  as  I  yow  saye ; 
Ther  he  mayd  the  Dowglasse  drynke, 
And  all  hys  ost  that  daye. 

18.  The   Dowglas   turnyd   hym   homewarde 

agayne. 
For  soth  withowghten  naye  ;  70 

He  toke  his  logeyng  at  Oterborne, 
Upon  a  Wedynsday, 

19.  And  ther  he  pyght  -  hys  standerd  dowyn, 

Hys  gettyng  more  and  lesse,^ 
And  syne  he  warned  hys  men  to  goo 
To  chose  ther  geldynges  grease.^ 

20.  A  Skottysshe  knyght  hoved  ^  upon  the 

bent,*^ 
A  wache  ^  I  dare  well  saye ; 
So  was  he  ware  on  the  noble  Perssy 
In  the  dawnyng  of  the  daye.  80 

21.  He  prycked  to  hys  pavyleon  dore, 

As  faste  as  he  myght  ronne ; 
"Awaken,  Dowglas,"  cryed  the  knyght, 
"For  Hys  love  that  syttes  in  trone. 

22.  "Awaken,  Dowglas,"  cryed  the  knyght, 

"  For  thow  mastc  waken  wyth  wynne ;  ^ 
Yender  have  I  spyed  the  prowde  Perssye, 
And  seven  stondardes  wyth  hym." 

23.  "  Nay  by  my  trowth,"  the  Dowglas  sayed, 

"It  ys  but  a  fayned  taylle ;  90 

'  roe  ^  fixed  ^  all  he  had  got   ^  grass  ^  tarried 
*  field  ^  sentinel  ^  joy 


He  durst  not  loke  on  my  brede  ^  banner 
For  all  Ynglonde  so  haylle. 

24.  "Was  I   not  yesterdaye  at   the  Newe 

Castell, 
That  stondes  so  fayre  on  Tyne? 
For  all  the  men  the  Perssy  had. 

He  coude  not  garre  ^  me  ones  to  dyne." 

25.  He  stepped  owt  at  his  pavelyon  dore, 

To  loke  and  it  were  lesse :  ^ 
"Araye  yow,  lordynges,  one  and  all, 
For  here  bygynnes  no  peysse.*  100" 

20.    "The  yerle  of  Mentaye,  thow  arte  my 
eme,^ 
The  fowarde  ^  I  gyve  to  the : 
The  yerlle  of  Huntlay,  cawte  and  kene,^ 
He  schall  be  wyth  the. 

27.  "The    lorde    of    Bowghan,    in    armure 

bryght. 
On  the  other  hand  he  schall  be ; 
Lord  Jhonstoune  and  Lorde  Maxwell, 
They  to  schall  be  with  me. 

28.  "Swynton,  fayre  fylde  upon  your  pryde  ! 

To  batell  make  yow  bowen  no 

Syr  Davy  Skotte,  Syr  Water  Stewarde, 
Syr  Jhon  of  Agurstone  ! " 

29.  The  Perssy  cam  byfore  hys  oste, 

Wych  was  ever  a  gentyll  knyght ; 

Upon  the  Dowglas  lowde  can  *  he  crye, 

"I  wyll  holde  that  I  have  hyght.^ 

30.  "For  thou  haste brenteNorthomberlonde, 

And  done  me  grete  envye ; 
For  thys  trespasse  thou  hast  me  done , 
The  tone  ^^  of  us  schall  dye."  120 

31.  The  Dowglas  answerde  hym  agayne, 

Wyth  grett  wurdes  upon  hye, 
And  sayd,  "I  have   twenty  agaynst  thy 
one, 
Byholde,  and  thou  maste  see." 

32.  Wyth  that  the  Perssy  was  grevyd  sore. 

For  soth  as  I  yow  saye ; 
He  lyghted  dowyn  upon  his  foote. 
And  schoote  "  hys  horsse  clene  awaye. 

^  broad  ^  make  ^  if  it  might  be  false  "*  peace 
''  uncle  **  van  '  wary  and  bold  ^  did  ^  promised 
^^  one  ^^  sent  away 


THE    BATTLE    OF    OTTERBURN 


79 


S3.   Every  man  sawe  that  he  dyd  soo, 

That  ryail  ^  was  ever  in  rowght ;  ^     130 
Every  man  schoote  hys  horsse  hym  froo, 
And  lyght  hym  rowynde  abowght. 

34.  Thus  Syr  Hary  Perssye  toke  the  fylde, 

For  soth  as  I  yow  saye ; 
Jhesu  Cryste  in  hevyn  on  hyght 
Dyd  helpe  hym  well  that  daye. 

35.  But  nyne  thowzand,  ther  was  no  moo, 

The  cronykle  wyll  not  layne ;  ^ 
Forty  thowsande  of  Skottes  and  fowre 
That  day  fowght  them  agayne.         140 

36.  But  when  the  batell  byganne  to  jo>Tie, 

In  hast  ther  cam  a  knyght ; 
The  letters  fayre  furth  hath  he  tayne, 
And  thus  he  sayd  full  ryght : 

37.  "My  lorde  your  father  he  gretes  yow  well, 

Wyth  many  a  noble  knyght ; 
He  desyres  yow  to  byde 

That  he  may  see  thys  fyght. 

38.  "The  Baron  of  Grastoke  ys  com  out  of 

the  west, 
With  h>TTi  a  noble  companye;  150 

All  they  loge  at  your  fathers  thys  nyght, 
And  the  batell  fayne  wolde  they  see." 

39.  "  For  Jhesus  love,"  sayd  Syr  Harj^e  Perssy , 

"That  dyed  for  yow  and  me, 
Wende  to  my  lorde  my  father  agayne. 
And  saye  thow  sawe  me  not  with  yee."* 

40.  "  ]\Iy  trowth  ys  plyght  to  yonne  Skottysh 

knyght. 
It  nedes  me  not  to  layne, 
That  I  schulde  byde  hym  upon  thys  bent, 
And  I  have  hys  trowth  agayne.       160 

41 .  "And  if  that  I  weynde  of  ^  thys  growende, 

For  soth,  onfowghten  awaye, 
He  wolde  me  call  but  a  kowarde  knyght 
In  hys  londe  another  daye. 

42.  "Yet  had  I  lever  to  be  rynde  and  rente, ^ 

By  iVIary,  that  mykkel  maye,' 
Then  ever  my  m.anhood  schulde  be  re- 
provyd 
Wyth  a  Skotte  another  daye. 

^  royal     ^  company    ^  conceal     "*  eye      ^  count 
from     '^  flayed  and  drawn     "  powerful  maid 


43.  "Wherefore  schote,  archars,  for  my  sake, 

And  let  scharpe  arowes  flee  ;  170 

Mynstrells,  playe  up  for  your  waryson,^ 
And  well  quyt  it  schall  bee. 

44.  "Every  man  thynke  on  hys  trewe-love, 

And  marke  hym  to  the  Trenite ; 
For  to  God  I  make  myne  avowe 
Thys  day  v/yll  I  not  flee." 

45.  The  blodye  harte  in  the  Dowglas  armes, 

Hys  standerde  stood  on  hye, 
That  every  man  myght  full  well  knowe ; 
By  syde  stode  starriis  thre.  180 

46.  The  whyte  lyon  on  the  Ynglyssh  perte,^ 

For  soth  as  I  yow  sayne, 
The  lucettes  ^  and  the  cressawntes  both ; 
The  Skottes  faught  them  agayne. 


47- 


49. 


50- 


Upon  Sent  Androwe  lowde  can  they  crye, 
And  thrysse  they  schowte  on  hyght,* 

And  syne  merked    them  one  owr  Yng- 
lysshe  men. 
As  I  have  tolde  yow  ryght. 

Sent  George  the  bryght,  owr  Ladyes 
knyght, 

To  name  they  were  full  faj-ne;  190 
Owr  Ynglyssh  men  they  cryde  on  hyght, 

And  thrysse  they  schowtte  agayne. 

Wyth  that  scharpe  arowes  bygan  to  flee, 

I  tell  yow  in  serta>aie; 
Men  of  armes  byganne  to  joyne, 

Many  a  dowghty  man  was  ther  slayne. 


The  Perssy  and  the  Dowglas  mette. 
That  ether  of  other  was  fayne ; 

They    swapped  ^    together    whyU  ^ 
they  swette, 
Wyth  swordes  of  fyne  coUayne :  ' 


that 


51.  TyU  the  bloode  from  ther  bassonnettes  * 

ranne, 
As  the  roke  '  doth  in  the  rayne ; 
"Yelde  the  to  me,"  sayd  the  Dowglas, 
"Or  elles  thow  schalt  be  slayne. 

52.  "For  I  see  by  thy  bryght  bassonet, 

Thow  arte  sum  man  of  myght ; 
And  so  I  do  by  thy  burnysshed  brande ; 
Thow  arte  an  yerle,  or  elles  a  knyght." 

^reward    ^  part    ^  pike   (fish)    .•*  aloud    ^  smote 
®  till  ^  Cologne  steel  ^  basinets  ^  smoke 


8o 


BALLADS 


53.  "By  my  good  fay  the,"  sayd  the  noble 

Perssye, 
"Now  haste  thou  rede  ^  full  ryght ;  210 
Yet  wyll  I  never  yelde  me  to  the, 
Whyll  I  may  stonde  and  fyght." 

54.  They  swapped  together  whyll  that  they 

swette, 
Wyth  swordes  scharpe  and  long ; 
Ych  on  other  so  faste  they  beetle, 

Tyll  ther  helmes  cam  in  peyses  dowyn. 

55.  The  Perssy  was  a  man  of  strenghth, 

I  tell  yow  in  thys  stounde ;  ^ 
He  smote  the  Dowglas  at  the  swordes 
length 
That  he  fell  to  the  growynde.  220 

56.  The  sworde  was  scharpe,  and  sore  can  byte, 

I  tell  yow  in  sertayne ; 
To  the  harte  he  cowde  ^  hym  smyte. 
Thus  was  the  Dowglas  slayne. 

57.  The  stonderdes  stode  sty  11  on  eke  a  ^  syde, 

Wyth  many  a  grevous  grone ; 
Ther  they  fowght  the  day,  and  all  the 
nyght, 
And  many  a  dowghty  man  was  slayne. 

58.  Ther  v\'as  no  freke  •''  that  ther  wolde  flye, 

But  styffely  in  stowre  ^  can  stond,    230 
Ychone    hewyng    on    other    whyll   they 
myght  drye,'' 
Wyth  many  a  bayllefuU  bronde. 

59.  Ther  was  slayne  upon  the  Skottes  syde. 

For  soth  and  sertenly, 
Syr  James  a  Dowglas  ther  was  slayne, 
That  day  that  he  cowde  ^  dye. 

60.  The  yerlle  of  Mentaye  he  was  slayne, 

Grysely  *  groned  upon  the  growynd ; 
Syr  Davy  Skotte,  Syr  Water  Stewarde, 
Syr  Jhon  of  Agurstoune.  240 

61.  Syr  Charlies  Morrey  in  that  place, 

•That  never  a  fote  wold  flee ; 
Syr  Hewe  Maxwell,  a  lord  he  was, 
Wyth  the  Dowglas  dyd  he  dye. 

62.  Ther  was  slayne  upon  the  Skottes  syde. 

For  soth  as  I  yow  saye, 

^  discerned  -  time  ^  did  ^  every  ''  man  ®  battle 
^  endure   *  fearfully 


Of  fowre  and  forty  thowsande  Scottes 
Went  but  eyghtene  awaye. 

63.  Ther  was  slayne  upon  the  Ynglysshe  syde, 

For  soth  and  sertenlye,  250 

A  gentell  knyght,  Syr  Jhon  Fechewe, 
Yt  was  the  more  pety. 

64.  Syr  James  Hardbotell  ther  was  slayne. 

For  hym  ther  hartes  were  sore  ; 

The  gentyll  Lovell  ther  was  slayne, 

That  the  Perssys  standerd  bore. 

65.  Ther  was  slayne  upon  the  Ynglyssh  perte, 

For  soth  as  I  yow  saye. 
Of  nyne  thowsand  Ynglyssh  men 

Fyve  hondert  cam  awaye.  260 

66.  The  other  were  slayne  in  the  fylde ; 

Cryste  kepe  ther  sowUes  from  wo  ! 
Seyng  ^  ther  was  so  fewe  fryndes 
Agaynst  so  many  a  foo. 

67.  Then  on  the  morne  they  maj'de  them 

beerys 
Of  byrch  and  haysell  graye  ; 
Many  a  wydowe,  wyth  wepyng  teyres, 
Ther  makes  they  fette  ^  awaye. 


68.   Thys  fraye  bygan  at  Otterborne, 

Bytwene  the  nyght  and  the  day; 
Ther  the  Dowglas  lost  hys  lyffe. 
And  the  Perssy  was  lede  awaye. 


270 


69.  Then  was  ther  a  Scottysh  prisoner  tayne, 

Syr  Hewe  IMongomery  was  hys  name ; 
For  soth  as  I  yow  saye, 

He  borowed  ^  the  Perssy  home  agayne. 

70.  Now  let  us  all  for  the  Perssy  praye 

To  Jhesu  most  of  myght, 
To  bryng  hys  so  wile  to  the  blysse  of  heven. 
For  he  was  a  gentyll  knyght.  280 

SIR  PATRICK  SPENS 

The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  toune, 

Drinking  the  blude-reid  wine : 
"O  whar  will  I  get  guid  sailor, 

To  sail  this  schip  of  mine?" 

Up  and  spak  an  eldern  knicht, 
Sat  at  the  kings  richt  kne: 

^  seeing        '^  fetched         ^  ransomed 


CAPTAIN   CAR,    OR,    EDOM    0    GORDON 


8i 


"Sir  Patrick  Spenfe  is  the  best  sailor, 
That  saUs  upon  the  se." 

The  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 

And  signd  it  wi  his  hand,  lo 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
Was  walking  on  the  sand. 

The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 

A  loud  lauch  ^  lauched  he ; 
The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 

The  teir  blinded  his  ee. 

"O  wha  is  this  has  don  this  deid. 

This  ill  deid  don  to  me, 
To  send  me  out  this  time  o'  the  yeir, 

To  sail  upon  the  se  !  20 

"Mak  hast,  mak  haste,  my  mirry  men  all, 
Our  guid  schip  sails  the  morne : " 

"O  say  na  sae,  my  master  deir. 
For  I  feir  a  deadlie  storme. 

''Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moone, 

Wi  the  auld  moone  in  hir  arme, 
And  I  feir,  I  feir,  my  deir  master. 

That  we  will  cum  to  harme." 

O  our  Scots  nobles  wer  richt  laith  - 

To  weet  their  cork-heild  schoone ;  30 

Bot  lang  owre  ^  a'  the  play  wer  playd, 
Thair  hats  they  swam  aboone.^ 

O  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  sit, 

Wi  thair  fans  into  their  hand. 
Or  eir  they  se  Sir  Patrick  Spence 

Cum  saiUng  to  the  land. 

O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  stand, 
Wi  thair  gold  kems  '"  in  their  hair, 

Waiting  for  thair  ain  deir  lords. 

For  they'll  se  thame  na  mair.  .  40 

Haf  owre,  haf  owre  to  Aberdour, 

It's  fiftie  fadom  deip. 
And  thair  lies  guid  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 

Wi  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feit. 

CAPTAIN  CAR,  OR,  EDOM  O  GORDON 

I.   It  befell  at  INIartynmas, 

When  wether  waxed  colde, 
Captaine  Care  said  to  his  men, 
"We  must  go  take  a  holde."  ® 

*  laugh  ^  loth  '  ere  *  above  ^  combs  ®  castle 


Syck,^  sike,^  and  to-towe  ^  sike, 

And  sike  and  like  to  die ; 
The  sikest  night e  that  ever  I  abode, 

God  Lord  have  mercy  on  me  ! 

2.  "Haille,  master,  and  wether^  you  will. 

And  wether^  ye  like  it  best."  10 

"To  the  castle  of  Crecrynbroghe, 
And  there  we  will  take  our  reste." 

3.  "  I  knowe  wher  is  a  gay  castle, 

Is  builded  of  lyme  and  stone ; 
Within  their  is  a  gay  ladie. 
Her  lord  is  riden  and  gone." 

4.  The  ladie  she  lend  on  her  castle-walle, 

She  loked  upp  and  downe ; 
There  was  she  ware  of  an  host  of  men, 
Come  riding  to  the  towne.  20 

5.  "Se  yow,  my  meri  men  all. 

And  se  yow  what  I  see? 
Yonder  I  see  an  host  of  men , 
I  muse  who  they  shold  bee." 

6.  She  thought  he  had  ben  her  wed  lord. 

As  he  comd  riding  home  ; 
Then  was  it  traitur  Captaine  Care 
The  lord  of  Ester-towne. 

7.  They  wer  no  soner  at  supper  sett. 

Then  after  said  the  grace,  30 

Or  Captaine  Care  and  all  his  men 
Wer  lighte  aboute  the  place. 

8.  "Gyve  over  thi  howsse,  thou  lady  gay. 

And  I  will  make  the  a  bande  ; 
To-nighte  thou  shall  ly  within  ni}-  armes, 
To-morrowe  thou  shall  ere  ■*  my  lande." 

9.  Then  bespacke  the  eldest  sonne. 

That  was  both  whitt  and  redde  : 
"O  mother  dere,  geve  over  your  howsse. 
Or  elles  we  shalbe  deade."  40 

10.  "I  wiU   not    geve  over    my  hous,"  she 

saithe, 
"Not  for  feare  of  my  lyflfe ; 
It  shalbe  talked  throughout  the  land, 
The  slaughter  of  a  wjnffe. 

11.  "Fetch  me  my  pestilett,* 

And  charge  me  my  gonne, 

^  sick     ^  too- too     ^  whither     *  possess     ^  pistol 


82 


BALLADS 


That  I  may  shott  at  this  bloddy  butcher, 
The  lord  of  Easter-towne." 


17- 


19. 


Styfly  upon  her  wall  she  stode, 
And  lett  the  pellettes  flee  ; 

But  then  she  myst  the  blody  bucher, 
And  she  slew  other  three. 


50 


13.  "I  will  not   geve  over   my   hous,"   she 

saithe, 
"Netheir  for  lord  nor  lowne ; 
Nor  yet  for  traitour  Captaine  Care, 
The  lord  of  Easter-towne. 

14.  "I  desire  of  Captine  Care, 

And  all  his  bloddye  band. 
That  he  would  save  my  eldest  sonne, 
The  eare  ^  of  all  my  lande."  60 

15.  "Lap  him  in  a  shete,"  he  sayth, 

"And  let  him  downe  to  me, 
And  I  shall  take  him  in  my  armes, 
His  waran  shall  I  be." 

16.  The  captayne  sayd  unto  him  selfe ; 

Wyth  sped,  before  the  rest, 
He  cut  his  tonge  out  of  his  head, 
His  hart  out  of  his  brest. 


He  lapt  them  in  a  handkerchef, 

And  knet  it  of  knotes  three,  70 

And  cast  them  over  the  castell-waU, 
At  that  gay  ladye. 

"Eye  upon  the,  Captayne  Care, 

And  all  thy  bloddy  band  ! 
For  thou  hast  slayne  my  eldest  sonne. 

The  ayre  of  all  my  land." 


Then  bespake  the  yongest  sonne, 
That  sat  on  the  nurses  knee, 

Sayth,    "Mother   gay,   geve   over 
house ; 
For  the  smoake  it  smoothers  me." 

Out  then  spake  the  Lady  Margaret, 
As  she  stood  on  the  stair ; 

The  fire  was  at  her  goud  ^  garters, 
The  lowe  "  was  at  her  hair. 


21.    "I  wold  geve  my  gold,"  she  saith, 
"And  so  1  woldc  my  £fec, 


your 


80 


23- 


24. 


25- 


26. 


27. 


28. 


29. 


30. 


31- 


For  a  blaste  of  the  westryn  wind, 
To  dryve  the  smoke  from  thee. 

"Fy  upon  the,  John  Hamleton, 

That  ever  I  paid  the  hyre  !  90 

For  thou  hast  broken  my  castle-waU, 
And  kj^ndled  in  the  ifyre." 

The  lady  gate  to  her  close  parler,^ 
The  fire  fell  aboute  her  head ; 

She  toke  up  her  children  two, 
Seth,  "Babes,  we  are  aU  dead." 

Then  bespake  the  hye  steward. 

That  is  of  hye  degree ; 
Saith,  "Ladie  gay,  you  are  in  close. 

Wether  ye  fighie  or  flee."  100 

Lord  Hamleton  dremd  in  his  dream, 

In  Carvall  where  he  laye. 
His  haUe  were  all  of  fyre. 

His  ladie  slayne  or  daye.^ 

"Busk  and  bowne,  my  mery  men  all, 

Even  and  go  ye  with  me ; 
For  I  dremd  that  my  haU  was  on  fyre, 

My  lady  slayne  or  day." 

He  buskt  him  and  bownd  hym. 

And  like  a  worthi  knighte  ;  no 

And  when  he  saw  his  hall  burning. 
His  harte  was  no  dele  lighte. 

He  sett  a  trumpett  till  his  mouth, 
He  blew  as  it  plesd  his  grace ; 

Twenty  score  of  Hamlentons 
Was  light  aboute  the  place. 

"Had  I  knowne  as  much  yesternighte 

As  I  do  to-daye, 
Captain  Care  and  all  his  men 

Should  not  have  gone  so  quite.         120 

"Eye  upon  the,  Captaine  Care, 

And  all  thy  blody  bande  ! 
Thou  haste  slayne  my  lady  gay, 

More  wurth  then  all  thy  lande. 

"If  thou  had  ought  eny  ill  will,"  he  saith, 
"Thou  shoulde  have  taken  my  lyffe. 

And  have  saved  my  children  thre, 
All  and  my  lovesome  wyffe." 


heir 


'  gold 


flame 


*  parlor         ^  ere  day 


HIND    HORN 


83 


LORD   RANDAL 

1.  "O  where  hae  ye  been,  Lord  Randal,  my 

son? 
O  where  hae  ye  been,  my  handsome  young 

man?" 
"I  hae  been  to  the  wild  wood;    mother, 

make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie 

down." 

2.  "Where  gat  ye  your  dinner,  Lord  Randal, 

my  son? 
Where  gat  ye  your  dinner,  my  handsome 

young  man?" 
"I  din'd  wi  m}^  true-love;   mother,  make 

my  bed  soon, 
For  I'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald 
lie  down." 

3.  "What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner.  Lord  Randal, 

my  son  ? 
What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner,  my  handsome 

young  man?"  .  10 

"I  gat  eels  boiled  in  broo ;   mother,  make 

my  bed  soon, 
For  I'm  weary  wi  hiuiting,  and  fain  wald  lie 

down." 

4.  "What  became  of  your  bloodhounds.  Lord 

Randal,  my  son? 
What  became  of  your  bloodhounds,  my 

handsome  young  man?" 
"O  they  sweUd  and  they  died;    mother, 

make  my  bed  soon. 
For  I'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald 

lie  down." 

5.  "01  fear  ye  are  poison'd,  Lord  Randal,  my 

son  ! 
O  I  fear  ye  are  poisond,   my  handsome 

young  man !" 
"Oyes  !  I  am  poisond;  mother,  make  my 

bed  soon, 
For  I'm  sick  at  the  heart  and  I  fain  wald  lie 

down."  20 


HIND  HORN 

I.  In  Scotland  there  was  a  babie  bom, 
Lill  lal,  etc. 
And  his  name  it  was  called  young  Hind 
Horn. 
With  a  fal  lal,  etc. 


2.jiHe  sent  a  letter  to  our  king 

That  he  was  in  love  with  his  daughter 
Jean. 

3.  The  king  an  angry  man  was  he ; 

He  sent  young  Hind  Horn  to  the  sea. 

4.  Lie's  gien  to  her  a  silver  wand, 

With     seven     Uving     lavrocks  ^     sitting 
thereon.  10 

5.  She's  gien  to  him  a  diamond  ring. 
With  seven  bright  diamonds  set  therein. 

6.  "Wlien  this  ring  grows  pale  and  wan. 
You  may  know  by  it  my  love  is  gane." 

7.  One  day  as  he  looked  his  ring  upon, 
He  saw  the  diamonds  pale  and  wan. 

8.  He  left  the  sea  and  came  to  land, 

And  the  first  that  he  met  was  an  old  beg- 
gar man. 

9.  "What  news,  what  news?"  said  young 

Hind  Horn ; 
"No  news,  no  news,"  said  the  old  beggar 
man.  20 

10.  "No  news,"  said  the  beggar,  "nonewsata' 
But  there  is  a  wedding  in  the  king's  ha. 

11.  "But  there  is  a  wedding  in  the  king's  ha. 
That  has  halden  these  forty  days  and 

twa." 

12.  "Will  ye  lend  me  your  begging  coat? 
And  I'll  lend  you  my  scarlet  cloak. 

13.  "Win  you  lend  me  your  beggar's  rung?  ^ 
And  I'll  gie  you  my  steed  to  ride  upon. 

14.  "Will  you  lend  me  your  wig  o  hair, 

To  cover  mine,  because  it  is  fair?"        30 

15.  The  auld  beggar  man  was  bound  for  the 

mill, 
But  young  Hind  Horn  for  the  king's  hall. 

16.  The  auld  beggar  man  was  bound  for  to 

ride, 
But  young  Hind  Horn  was  bound  for  the 
bride. 

1  larks        2  stafE 


84 


SIR   THOMAS    MALORY 


17.  When  he  came  to  the  king's  gate, 

He  sought  a  drink  for  Hind  Horn's  sake. 

18.  The  bride  came  down  with  a  glass  of  wine, 
When  he  drank  out  the  glass,  and  dropt 

in  the  ring. 

19.  "O  got  ye  this  by  sea  or  land? 

Or  got  ye  it  off  a  dead  man's  hand?"    40 

20.  "I  got  not  it  by  sea,  I  got  it  by  land. 
And  I  got  it,  madam,  out  of  your  own 

hand." 

21.  "O  I'll  cast  off  my  gowns  of  brown, 
And  beg  wi  you  frae  town  to  town. 

22.  "O  I'll  cast  off  my  gowns  of  red, 
And  I'll  beg  wi  you  to  win  my  bread." 

23.  "Ye    needna    cast    off    your    gowns    of 

brown, 
For  I'll  make  you  lady  o  many  a  town. 

24.  "Ye  needna  cast  off  your  gowns  o  red. 
It's   only   a    sham,    the   begging    o    my 

bread."  50 

ST.   STEPHEN  AND   HEROD 

1.  Seynt    Stevene    was    a    clerk    in    Kyng 

Herowdes  halle. 
And  servyd  him  of  bred  and  cloth,  as 
every  kyng  befalle. 

2.  Stevyn  out  of  kechone  cam,  wyth  boris ' 

hed  on  honde ; 
He  saw  a  sterre  was  fayr  and  brygt  over 
Bedlem  stonde. 

3.  He  kyst  ^  adoun  the  boris  hed  and  went 

in  to  the  haUe  : 
"I  forsak  the,  Kyng  Herowdes,  and  thi 
werkes  alle. 

4.  "I  forsak  the,  Kyng  Herowdes,  and  thi 

werkes  alle ; 
Ther  is  a  chyld  in  Bedlem  born  is  beter 
than  we  alle." 

5.  "  What  eylytHhe,  Stevene?    What  is  the 

befalle? 
Lakkyt    the    eyther    mete    or    drynk    in 
Kyng  Herowdes  halle?"  10 


boar's 


cast 


'  aileth 


6.  "Lakit  me  neyther  mete  nor  drynk  in 

Kyng  Herowdes  halle ; 
Ther  is  a  chyld  in  Bedlem  born  is  beter 
than  we  alle." 

7.  "What    eylyt    the,     Stevyn?     Art    thu 

wod,^  or  thu  gynnyst  to  brede  ?  - 
Lakkyt   the  eyther  gold  or  fe,-^  or  ony 
ryche  wede?"  * 

8.  "Lakyt  me  neyther  gold  ne  fe,  ne  non 

ryche  wede ; 
Ther  is  a  chyld  in  Bedlem  born  xal  helpyn 
us  at  our  nede." 

9.  "That  is  al  so  soth,^  Stevyn,  al  so  soth, 

iwys,^ 
As  this  capoun  crowe  xal  that  lyth  here 
in  myn  dysh." 

10.  That  word  was  not  so  sone  seyd,  that 

word  in  that  halle, 
The  capoun  crew  Cristus  natus  est  I  among 
the  lordes  alle.  20 

11.  "Rysyt  ^  up,  myn  turmentowres,*  be  to  ' 

and  al  be  on. 
And  ledyt  Stevyn  j)ut  of  this  toun,  and 
stony t  hym  wyth  ston  ! " 

12.  Tokyn  he  ^^  Stevene,  and  stonyd  hym  in 

the  way. 
And  therefore  is  his  evyn  on  Crystes  owyn 
day. 


SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

(i4oo?-i47o) 

LE  MORTE  DARTHUR 

BOOK  XXI.     From  CAPITULUM   V 

"But  I  m_ay  not  stonde,  myn  hede  werches" 
soo.  A,  Syr  Launcelot,"  sayd  kyng  Arthur, 
"thys  day  have  I  sore  myst  the.  Alas!  that 
ever  I  was  ayenst  ^^  the,  for  now  have  I  my 
dethe,  wherof  Syr  Gauwayn  me  warned  in  my 
dreme."  Than  Syr  Lucan  took  up  the  kyng 
the  one  parte,  and  Syr  Bedwere  the  other  parte, 
and  in  the  lyftyng  the  kyng  sowned,^^  and  Syr 

'  crazy  ^  be  whimsical  '  property  *  garment 
*  true  ^  indeed  ^  rise  *  executioners  '  by  two  ^°  they 
^^  aches  ^^  against  ^^  swooned 


LE    MORTE    DARTHUR 


8S 


Lucan  fyl  in  a  sowne^  ^vyth  the  lyfte,  that  the 
parte  of  his  guttes  fyl  oute  of  his  bodye.  And 
therwyth  the  noble  knyghtes  herte  braste.^ 
And  whan  the  kyng  awake,  he  behelde  Syr 
Lucan  how  he  laye  foomyng  at  the  mowth, 
and  parte  of  his  guttes  laye  at  his  feet. 
"Alas!"  sayd  the  kyng,  "thys  is  to  me  a  ful 
hevy  syght  to  see  thys  noble  duke  so  deye 
for  my  sake,  for  he  wold  have  holpen  me  that 
had  more  nede  of  helpe  than  I.  Alas !  he 
wold  not  complayne  hym,  hys  herte  was  so 
sette  to  helpe  me.  Now  Jhesu  have  mercy 
upon  hys  soule."  Than  Syr  Bedwere  wepte 
for  the  deth  of  his  brother.  "Leve  thys 
mornyng  and  wepyng,"  sayd  the  kyng,  "for 
al  this  wyl  not  avayUe  me ;  for  wyte  ^  thou 
wel,  and  *  I  myght  lyve  my  self,  the  deth  of 
Syr  Lucan  wolde  greve  me  ever  more,  but  my 
tyme  hyeth  °  fast,"  sayd  the  kyng.  "Ther- 
fore,"  sayd  Arthur  unto  Syr  Bedwere,  "take 
thou  Excalybur,  my  good  swerde,  and  goo 
with  it  to  yonder  water  syde,  and  whan  thou 
comest  there,  I  charge  the  ®  throwe  my  swerde 
in  that  water,  and  come  age>'n  and  telle  me 
what  thou  there  seest."  "My  lord,"  sayd 
Bedwere,  "your  commaundement  shal  be 
doon,  and  lyghtly  br^mge  you  worde  ageyn." 
So  Syr  Bedwere  departed,  and  by  the  waye 
he  behelde  that  noble  swerde,  that  the  pomel 
and  the  hafte  was  al  of  precyous  stones ;  and 
thenne  he  sayd  to  hym  self,  "  Yf  I  throwe  this 
ryche  swerde  in  the  water,  therof  shal  never 
come  good,  but  harme  and  losse."  And 
thenne  Syr  Bedwere  hydde  Excalybur  under 
a  tree.  And  so  as  sone  as  he  myght  he  came 
ageyn  unto  the  kyng,  and  sayd  he  had  ben  at 
the  water,  and  had  throwen  the  swerde  in  to 
the  water.  "What  sawe  thou  there?"  sayd 
the  kyng.  " Syr,"  he  sayd,  "I  sawe  no  thynge 
but  wawes  ^  and  wyndes."  "That  is  un- 
trewly  sayd  of  the,"  ^  sayd  the  kynge. 
"  Therfore  goo  thou  lyghtelye  ^  ageyn,  and 
do  my  commaundemente ;  as  thou  arte  to 
me  leef  ^  and  dere,  spare  not  but  throwe  it 
in."  Than  Syr  Bedwere  retorned  ageyn,  and 
took  the  swerde  in  hys  hande,  and  than  hym 
thought  synne  and  sham.e  to  throwe  awaye 
that  nobyl  swerde  ;  and  so  ef te  ^'^  he  hydde  the 
swerde,  and  retorned  ageyn  and  tolde  to  the 
kyng  that  he  had  ben  at  the  water,  and  done 
his  commaundemente.  "What  sawe  thou 
there?"  sayd  the  kyng.     "Syr,"  he  sayd,  "I 

^  swoon    2  burst    ^  know    •*  if    ^  hastens    ^  thee 
^  waves  ^  quickly  ^  beloved  ^^  again 

AE 


saw  no  thynge  but  the  waters  wappe  ^  and 
wawes  wanne."  -  "A,  traytour,  untrewe," 
sayd  kyng  Arthur,  "now  hast  thou  betrayed 
me  twyse.  Who  wold  have  wente  ^  that  thou 
that  hast  been  to  me  so  leef  *  and  dere,  and 
thou  arte  named  a  noble  knyghte,  and  wold 
betraye  me  for  the  richesse  of  the  swerde? 
But  now  goo  ageyn  lyghtly,  for  thy  longe 
taryeng  putteth  me  in  grete  jeopardye  of  my 
lyf ,  for  I  have  taken  colde  ;  and  but-yf  ^  thou 
do  now  as  I  byd  the,  yf  ever  I  may  see  the  I 
shal  slee  ^  the "  myn  o\\'ne  handes,  for  thou 
woldest  for  my  ryche  swerde  see  me  dede."  * 
Thenne  Syr  Bedwere  departed,  and  wente  to 
the  swerde,  and  lyghtly  took  hit  up,  and  wente 
to  the  water  syde,  and  there  he  bounde  the 
gyrdyl  aboute  the  hyltes,  and  thenne  he 
threwe  the  swerde  as  farre  in  to  the  water  as 
he  myght.  And  there  cam  an  arme  and  an 
hande  above  the  water  and  mette  it,  and 
caught  it,  and  so  shoke  it  thryse  and  braun- 
dysshed  ;  and  than  vanysshed  awaye  the  hande 
wyth  the  swerde  in  the  water.  So  S3'r  Bed- 
were  came  age>Ti  to  the  kyng  and  tolde  hym 
what  he  sawe. 

"Alas!"  sayd  the  kyng,  "helpe  me  hens,' 
for  I  drede  ^°  me  I  have  taryed  over  longe." 
Than  Syr  Bedwere  toke  the  kyng  upon  his 
backe,  and  so  wente  wyth  hym  to  that  water 
syde,  and  whan  they  were  at  the  water  syde, 
evyn  fast  "  by  the  banke  hoved  ^-  a  lytyl  barge 
wyth  many  fayr  ladyes  in  hit,  and  emonge 
hem  al  was  a  queue,  and  al  they  had  blacke 
hoodes,  and  al  they  wepte  and  shryked  ^^ 
whan  they  sawe  kyng  Arthur.  "Now  put  me 
in  to  the  barge,"  sayd  the  kyng;  and  so  he 
dyd  softelye.  And  there  receyved  hym  thre 
queues  wyth  grete  mornyng,  and  soo  they 
sette  hem  doun,  and  in  one  of  their  lappes 
kyng  Arthur  layed  hys  heed,  and  than  that 
queue  sayd,  "A,  dere  broder,  why  have  ye 
taryed  so  longe  from  me  ?  Alas  !  this  wounde 
on  your  heed  hath  caught  overmoche  colde." 
And  soo  than  they  rowed  from  the  londe,  and 
Syr  Bedwere  behelde  all  tho  ^'  ladyes  goo  from 
hym.^*  Than  Syr  Bedwere  cryed,  "A,  my 
lord  Arthur,  what  shal  become  of  me,  now  ye 
goo  from  me  and  leve  me  here  allone  emonge 
myn  enemyes?"  "Comfort  thy  self,"  sayd 
the  kyng,  "and  doo  as  wel  as  thou  mayst,  for 
in  me  is  no  truste  for  to  truste  in.     For  I  wyl 

^  lap,  beat  -  grow  dark  ^  thought  ^  beloved  °  unless 
^  slay ''  thee  *  dead  ^  hence  ^^  fear  ^^  close  ^^  hovered, 
floated  ^^  shrieked  "  those  ^^  i.e.  Bedwere 


86 


STEPHEN    HAWES 


in  to  the  vale  of  AvyLyon,  to  hele  me  of  my 
grevous  wounde.  And  yf  thou  here  never 
more  of  me,  praye  for  my  soule."  But  ever 
the  queues  and  ladyes  wepte  and  shryched/ 
that  hit  was  pyte  ^  to  here.  And  assone  as  Syr 
Bedwere  had  loste  the  syght  of  the  baarge,  he 
wepte  and  waylled,  and  so  took  the  foreste ;  ^ 
and  so  he  wente  al  that  nyght,  and  in  the 
mornyng  he  was  ware  '  betwyxte  two  holtes 
hore  ^  of  a  chapel  and  an  ermytage.® 

WILLIAM    CAXTON    (i422?-i49i) 

PREFACE   TO  THE   BOOKE   OF 
ENEYDOS 

And  whan  I  had  advysed  me  in  this  sayd 
boke,  I  delybered  ''  and  concluded  to  trans- 
late it  in  to  Englysshe,  and  forthwyth  toke 
a  penne  and  ynke  and  wrote  a  leef  or  tweyne, 
whyche  I  oversawe  agayn  to  corecte  it ;  and 
whan  I  sawe  the  fayr  and  straunge  termes 
therein,  I  doubted  *  that  it  sholde  not  please 
some  gentylmen  whiche  late  blamed  me, 
sayeng  that  in  my  translacyons  I  had  over 
curyous  ^  termes,  which  coude  not  be  under- 
stande  ^°of  corny n  peple,  and  desired  me  to  use 
olde  and  homely  termes  in  my  translacyons. 
And  fayn  wolde  I  satysfye  every  man ;  and, 
so  to  doo,  toke  an  olde  boke  and  redde  therin  ; 
and  certaynly  the  Englysshe  was  so  rude  and 
brood  ^^  that  I  coude  not  wele  understande  it ; 
and  also  my  lorde  abbot  of  Westmynster  dec! 
so  shewe  to  me  late  certayn  evydences^- 
wryton  in  olde  Englysshe  for  to  reduce  it  in 
to  our  Englysshe  now  used,  and  certaynly  it 
was  wreton  in  suche  wyse  that  it  was  more 
lyke  to  Dutche  than  Englysshe ;  I  coude  not 
reduce  ne  brynge  it  to  be  understonden.  And 
certaynly  our  langage  now  used  varyeth 
ferre  ^^  from  that  whiche  was  used  and  spoken 
whan  I  was  borne.  For  we  Englysshe  men 
ben  borne  under  the  domynacyon  of  the 
monc,  whiche  is  never  stedfaste  but  ever 
wavcrynge,  wexynge  one  season  and  waneth 
and  dyscreaseth  '*  another  season.  And  that 
comyn  ^^  Englysshe  that  is  spoken  in  one 
shyre  varyeth  from  a-nother,  in  so  moche 
that  in  my  dayes  happened  that  certayn 
marchauntes  were  in  a  ship  in  Tamyse  for  to 

^  shrieked  ^  pity  ^  forest  ^  he  perceived  ^  hoary 
forests  *  hermitage  "^  deliberated  *  feared  ^  curi- 
ous, ornate  ^"  understood  ^^  broad  ^^  legal  docu- 
ments ^*  far  ^^  decreases  ^^  common 


have  sayled.  over  the  see  into  Zelande,  and 
for  lacke  of  wynde,  thei  taryed  atte  ^  Forlond, 
and  wente  to  lande  for  to  refreshe  them.  And 
one  of  theym  named  Sheffeide,  a  mercer,  cam 
in  to  an  hows  and  axed  for  mete  and  specyaly 
he  axyed  after  eggys,  and  the  goode  w^'f 
answerde  that  she  could  speke  no  Frenshe. 
And  the  marchaunt  was  angry,  for  he  also 
coude  speke  no  Frenshe,  but  wolde  have  hadde 
egges ;  and  she  understode  hym  not.  And 
themie  at  laste  a-nother  sayd  that  he  wolde 
have  eyren.-  Then  the  good  wyf  sayd  that 
she  understod  hym  wel.  Loo,"  what  sholde 
a  man  in  thyse  daj'^es  now  wryte,  egges,  or 
eyren  ?  Certaynly  it  is  hard  to  playse  every 
man,  by-cause  of  dyversite  and  chaunge  of 
langage  ;  for  in  these  dayes  every  man  that  is 
in  ony  reputacyon  in  his  countre  wyll  utter 
his  commynycacyon  and  maters  in  suche 
maners  and  termes  that  fewe  men  shall  under- 
stonde  theym.  And  som  honest  and  grete 
clerkes  have  ben  wyth  me  and  desired  me  to 
wryte  the  moste  curyous  ^  termes  that  I 
coude  fynde.  And  thus,  betwene  playn, 
rude,  and  curyous,  I  stande  abasshed.  But  in 
my  judgemente  the  comjai  termes  that  be 
dayly  used  ben  lyghter  to  be  understonde 
than  the  olde  and  auncyent  Englysshe.  And, 
foras-moche  as  this  present  booke  is  not  for 
a  rude  uplondyssh  ^  man  to  iaboure  therein 
ne  rede  it,  but  onely  for  a  clerke  and  a  noble 
gentylman  that  feieth  and  understondeth  in 
faytes  ^  of  armes,  in  love,  and  in  noble  chyv- 
alrye,  therfor  in  a  meane  bytwene  bothe  I 
have  reduced  and  translated  this  sayd  booke 
in  our  Englysshe,  not  over  rude  ne  curyous, 
but  in  suche  termes  as  shaU  be  understanden, 
by  Goddys  grace,  accordynge  to  my  copye. 

STEPHEN   HAWES    (d.   1525) 

THE   PASTIME  OF   PLEASURE 

OF    THE     GREAT     M.\RIAGE    BETWENE 

GRAUNDE    AMOUR    AND    LABELL 

PUCELL 

From  Capit.  XXXIX 

Then  Perceveraunce  in  all  goodly  haste 
Unto  the  stewarde  called  Liberalitie 
Gave  warnyng  for  to  make  ready  fast 
Agaynst  this  tyme  of  great  solemnitie 

^  at  the  ^  eggs  ^  lo  ^  ornate,  artificial  ^  country 
^  deeds 


JOHN    SKELTON 


87 


That  on  the  morowe  halowed  shoulde  be. 
She  warned  the  cooke  called  Temperauuce 
And  after  that  the  ewres/  Observaunce, 

With   Pleasaunce,   the  panter,^  and  dame 
Curtesy, 
The  gentle  butler,  with  the  ladyes  all. 
Eche  in  her  office  was  prepared  shortly         10 
Agaynst  this  feast  so  muche  triumphall ; 
And  La  BeU  Pucell  then  in  special! 
Was  up  b}^  time  in  the  morowe  graye ; 
Right  so  was  I  when  I  sawe  the  daye. 

And  right  anone  La  Bell  Pucell  me  sent, 
Agaynst  my  weddyng,  of  the  saten  fyne, 
White  as  the  mylke,  a  goodly  garment 
Braudred  ^    with    pearle    that    clearely    dyd 

shine. 
And  so,  the  mariage  for  to  determine, 
Venus  me  brought  to  a  royal  chapell,  20 

Whiche  of  fine  golde  was  wrought  everydell. 

And  after  that  the  gay  and  glorious 
La  BeU  Pucell  to  the  chapell  w^as  leade 
In  a  white  vesture  fayre  and  precious. 
With  a  golden  chaplet  on  her  yelowe  heade ; 
And  Lex  Ecclesie  did  me  to  her  wedde. 
After  whiche  weddyng  then  was  a  great  feast ; 
Nothing  we  lacked,  but  had  of  the  best. 

What  ^  shoulde  tary  by  longe  continuance 
Of  the  f est  ?  for  of  my  jo}'  and  pleasure       30 
Wisdome  can  judge,  without  variaunce, 
That  nougt  I  lacked,  as  ye  may  be  sure, 
Paiyng  the  swete  due  dette  of  nature. 
Thus   with    my   lady,    that   was   fayre   and 

cleare. 
In  jo}-  I  lived  fuU  ryght,  many  a  yere. 

O  lusty  youth  and  3'ong  tender  hart. 
The  true  companion  of  my  lady  bryght ! 
God  let  us  never  from  other  astart,* 
But  all  in  joye  to  live  bothe  daye  and  nyght. 
Thus  after  sorowe  joye  arived  aryght ;  40 

After  my  payne  I  had  sport  and  playe ; 
Full  litle  thought  I  that  it  shoulde  decaye, 

Tyll  that  Dame  Nature  Naturyng  ^  had 
made 
All  thinges  to  growe  unto  their  fortitude ; '' 

^  eweress,  servant  in  charge  of  ewers,  napkins, 
etc.  ^  servant  in  charge  of  pantry  '  broidered 
^  why  ^  start  away  ^  Nalura  naturans,  Nature  as 
a  creative  being     '  strength 


And  Nature  Naturyng  waxt  retrograde, 
By  strength  my  youthe  so  far  to  exclude, 
As  was  ever  her  olde  consuetude 
First  to  augment  and  then  to  abate,  — 
This  is  the  custome  of  her  hye  estate.  49 

•JOHN   SKELTON  (i46o?-i529) 

From  A  DIRGE   FOR   PHYLLIP 
SPAROWE 

Do  mi  nus,^ 

Helpe  nowe,  swete  Jesus  ! 

Levavi  oculos  meos  in  monies :  - 

Wolde  God  I  had  Zenophontes, 

Or  Socrates  the  wyse. 

To  shew  me  their  devyse,  100 

Moderatly  to  take 

This  sorrow  that  I  make 

For  Phyllip  Sparowes  sake  f 

So  fervently  I  shake, 

I  fele  my  body  quake ; 

So  urgently  I  am  brought 

Into  carefuU  thought. 

Like  Andromach,  Hectors  wjrfe, 

Was  wery  of  her  lyfe, 

Whan  she  had  lost  her  joye,  no 

Noble  Hector  of  Troye; 

In  lyke  manner  also 

Encreaseth  my  dediy  wo, 

For  my  sparowe  is  go. 

It  was  so  prety  a  fole,^ 
It  wold  syt  on  a  stole, 
And  lerned  after  my  scole 
For  to  kepe  his  cut,* 
With,  "Phyllyp,  kepe  your  cut  !" 

It  had  a  velvet  cap,  120 

And  wold  syt  upon  my  lap. 
And  seke  after  small  wormes. 
And  somtyme  white-bred  crommes ; 
And  many  tymes  and  ofte 
'   Betwene  my  brestes  softe 
It  wolde  lye  and  rest ; 
It  w-as  prop  re  and  prest.^ 

Somtyme  he  wolde  gaspe 
.Whan  he  sawe  a  waspe; 
A  fly  or  a  gnat,  130 

He  wolde  flye  at  that ; 
And  prytely  he  wold  pant 
W'han  he  saw  an  ant ; 

^  Lord  ^  I  have  lifted  up  mine  e^'es  to  the 
mountains.  ^  fool  *  to  act  shy,  to  keep  his  dis- 
tance ^  ready 


THE    NUTBROWNE    MAIDE 


Lord,  how  he  wolde  pry 

After  the  butterfly ! 

Lorde,  how  he  wolde  hop 

After  the  gressop  !  ^ 

And  whan  I  sayd,  "Phyp  !  Phyp  !" 

Than  he  wold  lepe  and  skyp, 

And  take  me  by  the  lyp.  140 

Alas,  it  wyll  me  slo,^ 

That  Phillyp  is  gone  me  fro  ! 

From  COLYN   CLOUTE 

My  name  is  Colyn  Cloute. 

I  purpose  to  shake  oute 

All  my  connyng  bagge,  50 

Lyke  a  clerkely  hagge  ; 

For  though  my  ryme  be  ragged, 

Tattered  and  jagged. 

Rudely  rayne  beaten, 

Rusty  and  moughte-eaten,' 

If  )'e  take  well  therwith, 

It  hath  in  it  some  pyth. 

For,  as  farre  as  I  can  se. 

It  is  wronge  with  eche  degre ; 

For  the  temporalte  60 

Accuseth  the  spiritualte ; 

The  spirituall  agayne 

Dothe  grudge  and  complayne 

Upon  the  temporall  men  : 

Thus  eche  of  other  blother  ■* 

The  tone  ^  agayng  the  tother. 

Alas,  they  make  me  shoder  ! 

For  in  hoder  moder  '^ 

The  Churche  is  put  in  fauteJ 

The  prelates  ben  so  haut,^  70 

They  say,  and  loke  so  hy, 

As  though  they  wolde  fly 

Above  the  sterry  skye. 

Laye-men  say  indede 

How  they  take  no  hede 

Theyr  sely  shepe  to  fede, 

But  plucke  away  and  pull 

The  fleces  of  theyr  wuU  ; 

Unethes  "  they  leve  a  locke 

Of  wull  amonges  theyr  flocke.  80 

And  as  for  theyr  connynge, 

A  glommynge  and  a  mummynge, 

And  make  therof  a  jape ; 

They  gaspe  and  they  gape, 

All  to  have  promocyon  ; 

There  is  theyr  hole  devocyon, 

With  money,  if  it  wyll  hap, 

^  grasshopper     2  gi^y     ^  motheaten    *  complain 
^  the  one  ®  in  secret    "^  fault  *  haughty  '  scarcely 


To  catche  the  forked  cap. 
Forsothe  they  are  to  lewd 
To  say  so,  all  beshrewd  !  90 


THE   NUTBROWNE   MAIDE 

(c.  1500) 

( Unknown  A uthor) 

"Be  it  right  or  wrong,  these  men  among   ^on 

women  do  complaine, 
Affermyng  this,  how  that  it  is  a  labour  spent 

in  vaine 
To  love  them  wele,  for  never  a  dele  they  love  a 

man  aga3me ; 
For  lete  a  man  do  what  he  can  ther  favor  to 

attayne. 
Yet  yf  a  newe  to  them  pursue,   ther  furst 

trew  lover  than  ' 
Laboureth  for  nought,  and  from  her  thought 

he  is  a  bannisshed  man." 

"I  say  not  nay  but  that  all  day  it  is  both  writ 

and  sayde 
That  woman's  fayth  is,  as  who  saythe,  all 

utterly  decayed ; 
But  nevertheless  right  good  witnes  in  this 

case  might  be  layde 
That    they    love    trewe     and     contynew  — 

recorde  the  Nutbrowne  Maide,  10 

Whiche  from  her  love,  whan,  her  to  prove,  he 

cam  to  make  his  mone, 
Wolde  not  departe,  for  in  her  herte  she  lovyd 

but  hym  aUone." 

"Than  betwene  us  lete  us  discusse  what  was 

all  the  maner 
Betwene  them  too,^  we  w}d  also  teUe  aU  the 

peyne  infere  ■* 
That  she  was  in.     Now  I  begynne,  soo  that 

ye  me  answere. 
Wherfore  alle  ye  that  present  be,  I  pray  you 

geve  an  eare. 
I  am  a  knyght,  I  cum  be  nyght,  as  secret  as  I 

can, 
Sayng,  'Alas  !  thus  stondyth  the  case:   I  am 

a  bannisshed  man.'" 

"And  I  your  wylle  for  to  fulfylle,  in  this  wyl 

not  refuse. 
Trusting  to  shewe  in  wordis  fewe  that  men 
have  an  ille  use,^  20 

^  continually    ^  then    ^  two    **  together   ^  habit, 
custom 


THE    NUTBROWNE    MAIDE 


89 


To  ther  owne  shame  wymen  to  blame,  and 

causeles  them  accuse. 
Therfore  to  you  I  answere  now,  alle  wymen 

to  excuse : 
']\Iyn  owne  hert  dere,  with  you  what  chiere? 

I  pre}-  you  telle  anoon  ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  allon.'" 

"It  stondeth  so,  a  dede  is  do  wherefore  moche 

harme  shal  growe. 
My  desteny  is  for  to  dey  a  shamful  dethe,  1 

trowe, 
Or  ellis  to  flee ;  the  ton  ^  must  bee,  none  other 

wey  I  knowe 
But  to  withdrawe  as  an  outlaw  and  take  me  to 

my  bowe. 
Wherfore  adew,  my  owne  hert  trewe,  none 

other  red  - 1  can ;  ^ 
For  I  muste  to  the  grene  wode  goo,  alone,  a 

bannysshed  man."  30 

"O  Lorde,  what  is  this  worldis  blisse,  that 

chaungeth  as  the  mone? 
My  somers  day  in  lusty  j\Iay  is  derked  before 

the  none. 
I  here  you  saye  'farwel;'  nay,  nay,  we  de- 

parte  not  soo  sone. 
Wh};-  say  ye  so  ?  wheder  wyl  ye  goo  ?  alas ! 

what  have  ye  done  ? 
Alle  my  welfare  to  sorow  and  care  shulde 

chaunge  if  ye  were  gon  ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mank3mde  I  love  but 

you  alone. " 

"I  can  beleve  it  shal  you  greve,  and  somwhat 

you  distrayne ; 
But  aftyrwarde  your  paynes  harde  within  a 

day  or  tweyne 
Shal  sone  aslake,  and  ye  shal  take  confort  to 

you  agayne. 
Why  shuld  ye  nought  ?  for  to  take  thought, 

your  labur  were  in  veyne.  40 

And  thus  I  do,  and  pray  you,  loo  !  as  hertely 

as  I  can ; 
For  I  muste  too  the  grene  wode  goo,  alone,  a 

bannysshed  man." 

"Now  syth  that  ye  have  shewed  to  me  the 

secret  of  your  mynde, 
I  shalbe  playne  to  you  agayne,  lyke  as  ye  shal 

me  fynde ; 


'  plan 


know 


Syth  it  is  so  that  ye  wyll  goo,  I  wol  not  leve  ^ 

behynde ; 
Shal  ne'er  be  sayd  the  Nutbrowne  Mayd  was 

to  her  love  unkind. 
Make  you  redy,  for  soo  am  I,  all  though  it 

were  anoon ;  - 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone." 

"Yet  I  you -rede  to  take  good  hede,  what  men 

wyl  thinke  and  sey ; 
Of  yonge  and  olde  it  shalbe  tolde  that  ye  be 

gone  away,  50 

Your  wanton  wylle  for  to  fulfylle,  in  grene 

wood  you  to  play, 
And  that  ye  myght  from  your  delyte  noo 

lenger  make  delay. 
Rather  than  ye  shuld  thus  for  me  be  called 

an  ylle  woman, 
Yet  wolde  I  to  the  grenewodde  goo,  alone,  a 

bannysshed  man." 

"Though  it  be  songe  of  olde  and  yonge  that 

I  shuld  be  to  blame, 
Theirs  be  the  charge  that  speke  so  large  in 

hurting  of  my  name ; 
For  I  wyl  prove  that  feythful  love  it  is  de- 

voyd  of  shame. 
In  your  distresse  and  hevynesse  to  parte  wyth 

you  the  same ; 
And  sure  all  thoo  ^  that  doo  not  so,  trewe 

lovers  ar  they  noon ; 
But  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone."  60 

"I   councel   yow,   remembre  how   it   is  noo 

maydens  lawe 
Nothing  to  dought,  but  to  renne  out  to  wod 

with  an  outlawe ; 
For  ye  must  there  in  your  hands  bere  a  bowe 

redy  to  drawe. 
And  as  a  theef  thus  must  ye  lyve  ever  in 

drede  and  awe. 
By  whiche  to  yow  gret  harme  myght  grov\- ; 

yet  had  I  lever  than  •* 
That  I  had  too  the  grenewod  goo,""  alone,  a 

banysshyd  man." 

"I  thinke  not  nay,  but  as  ye  saye,  it  is  noo 

maydens  lore ; 
But  love  may  make  me  for  your  sake,  as  ye 

have  said  before, 

^  remain  ^  at  once  ^  those  ■*  I  had  rather  then 
*  gone 


90 


THE    NUTBROWNE    MAIDE 


To  com  on  fote,  to  hunte  and  shote  to  get  us 

mete  and  store ; 
For  soo  that  I  your  cctoipany  may  have,  I 

aske  noo  more ;  70 

From  whiche  to  parte,  it  makith  myn  herte  as 

colde  as  ony  ston  ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone." 

"For  an  outlawe  this  is  the  lawe,  that  men 

hym  take  and  binde, 
Wythout  pjrtee  hanged  to  bee,   and  waver 

wyth  the  wynde. 
Yf  I  had  neede,  as  God  forbede,  what  rescous  ^ 

coude  ye  finde  ? 
For  sothe  I  trowe,  you  and  your  bowe  shul 

drawe  for  fere  beh3Tide ; 
And  noo  merveyle,  for  lytel  avayle  were  in 

your  councel  than ; 
Wherfore  I  too  the  woode  wyl  goo,  alone,  a 

bannysshd  man." 

"Ful  wel  knowe  ye  that  wymen  bee  ful  febyl 

for  to  fyght ; 
Noo  womanhed  is  it  indeede  to  bee  bolde  as  a 

knight ;  80 

Yet  in  suche  fere  yf  that  ye  were,  amonge 

enemys  day  and  nyght, 
I  wolde  wythstonde,  with  bowe  in  hande,  to 

greve  them  as  I  myght, 
And  you  to  save,  as  wymen  have  from  deth 

[ful]  many  one ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone." 

"Yet  take  good  hede,  for  ever  I  drede  that  ye 

coude  not  sustein 
The  thorney  wayes,  the  depe  valeis,  the  snowc, 

the  frost,  the  reyn. 
The  colde,  the  hcte ;    for,  drye  or  wete,  we 

must  lodge  on  the  playn, 
And,  us  above,  noon  other  rove  ^  Ijut  a  brake, 

bussh,  or  twayne ; 
Whiche  sone  shulde  greve  you,  I  believe,  and 

ye  wolde  gladly  than 
That  I  had  too  the  grencwode  guo,  alone,  a 

banysshed  man."  90 

"Syth  1  have  here  ben  partynere  with  you 

of  joy  and  blysse, 
I  muste  also  parte  of  your  woo  endure,  as 

reason  is ; 


Yet  am  I  sure  of  00  ^  plesure,  and  shortly  it  is 

this, 
That  where  ye  bee,  me  semeth,  perde,  I  coude 

not  fare  amysse. 
Wythout  more  speche,  I  you  beseche  that  we 

were  soon  agone ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone." 

"Yef  ye  goo  thedyr,  ye  must  consider,  whan 

ye  have  lust  to  dyne, 
Ther  shal  no  mete  be  fore  to  gete,  nor  drinke, 

bere,  ale,  ne  wine, 
Ne  shetis  clene  to  lye  betwene,  made  of  thred 

and  twyne. 
Noon  other  house  but  levys  and  bowes,  to 

kever  your  hed  and  myn.  100 

Loo !  myn  herte  swete,  this  ylle  dyet  shuld 

make  you  pale  and  wan ; 
Wherfore  I  to  the  wood  wyl  goo,  alone,  a  ban- 

y^shid  man." 

"Amonge  the  wylde  dere  suche  an  archier  as 

men  say  that  ye  bee 
Ne  may  not  fayle  of  good  vitayle,  where  is  so 

grete  plente ; 
And  watir  cleere  of   the   ryvere  shalbe  ful 

swete  to  me, 
Wyth  whiche  in  hele^  I  shal  right  wele  endure, 

as  ye  shal  see  ; 
And,  er  we  goo,  a  bed  or  twoo  I  can  provide 

anoon ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone." 

"Loo!  yet  before  ye  must  doo.more,  yf  ye 
wyl  goo  with  me,  — 

As  cutte  your  here  up  by  your  ere,  your  kirtel 
by  the  knee,  no 

Wyth  bowe  in  hande,  for  to  withstonde  your 
enmys,  yf  nede  be, 

And  this  same  nyght  before  da^dyght  to  wood- 
ward wyl  I  flee ; 

And  if  ye  wyl  all  this  fulfylle,  doo  it  shortely 
as  ye  can ; 

Ellis  wil  I  to  the  grenewode  goo,  alone,  a 
banysshyd  man." 

"I  shal,  as  now,  do  more  for  you  than  longeth 

to  womanhedc, 
To  short  my  here,  a  bowe  to  bere  to  shote  in 

time  of  nede. 


roof 


health 


THE    NUTBROWNE    MAIDE 


91 


0  my  swete  moder,  before  all  other,  for  you  Remembre  you  wele  how  that  ye  dele,  for  yf 

have  I  most  drede ;  ye,  as  ye  sayde. 

But  now  adiew  !     I  must  ensue,  wher  fortune  Be  so  unkynde  to  leve  behyndc  your  love,  the 

doth  me  leede :  Notbrowne  Maide, 

All  this  make  ye ;    now  lete  us  flee,  the  day  Trust  me  truly  that  I  shal  dey  sone  after  ye 

cummeth  fast  upon  ;  be  gone ; 

For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but  For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone."  120  you  alone." 


"Nay,  nay,  not  soo,  ye  shal  not  goo  !  and  I 

shal  tell  }'ou  why  : 
Your  appetyte  is  to  be  lyght  of  love,  I  wele 

aspie ; 
For  right  as  ye  have  sayd  to  me,  in  lykewise 

hardely 
Ye  wolde  answere,  whosoever  it  were,  in  way 

of  company. 
It  is  sayd  of  olde,  'sone  hote,  sone  colde,'  and 

so  is  a  woman  ; 
Wherfore  I  too  the  woode  wyl  goo,  alone,  a 

banysshid  man." 

"Yef  ^  ye  take  hede,  yet  is  noo  nede,  suche 

wordis  to  say  bee  ^  me. 
For  oft  ye  preyd,  and  longe  assayed,  or  I  you 

lovid,  perdee  ! 
And  though  that  I  of  auncestry  a  barons 

doughter  bee, 
Yet  have  you  proved  how  I  you  loved,  a 


"Yef  that  ye  went,  ye  shulde  repent,  for  in 

the  forest  now 
I  have  purveid  me  of  a  maide,  whom  I  love 

more  than  you,  — 
Another  fayrer  than  ever  ye  were,  I  dare  it 

wel  avowe ; 
And  of  you  both,  eche  shuld  be  wrothe  with 

other,  as  I  trowe. 
It  were  myn  ease  to  ly ve  in  pease ;  so  wyl  I  yf 

I  can ; 
Wherfore  I  to  the  wode  wyl  goo,  alone,  a 

banysshid  man."  150 

"Though  in  the  wood  I  undirstode  ye  had  a 

paramour, 
All  this  may  nought  remeve  my  thought,  but 

that  I  wyl  be  your ; 
And  she  shal  fynde  me  softe  and  kynde,  and 

curteis  every  our, 
Glad  to  fulfylle  all  that  she  wyl  commaunde 

me,  to  my  power : 


squyer  of  lowe  degree,  130      For  had  ye,  loo  !  an  hondred  moo,  yet  wolde  I 

And  ever  shal,  what  so  befalle,  to  dey  therfore  be  that  one ; 


anoon ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 
you  alone." 


For  in  my  mynde  of  aU  mankynde  I  love  but 
you  alone." 


"Myn  owne  dere  love,  I  see  the  prove  that  ye 
,,  ,    ,  -  ., ,  ,      ,        ,    ,    .  be  kynde  and  trewe ; 

A  barons  childe  to  be  begyled,  it  were  a      qj  ^^y^^  and  wyfe,  in  all  my  lyf,  the  best 


curssed  dede. 


that  ever  I  knewe  ! 


To  be  felaw  with  an  outlawe,  almyghty  God      g^  ^^^^  ^^^  glad,  be  no  more  sad,  the  case 


forbede 


is  chaunged  newe ; 


Yet  bettyr  were  the  power  ^  squyer  alone  to      p^^  j^  ^^.^^^  ^^^1^^  ^^^t  for  your  trouth  you 


forest  yede, 


shuld  have  cause  to  rewe. 


160 


Than  ye  shal  say,  another  day,  that  be  "-  my  g^  ^^^^  dismayed,  whatsoever  I  sayd,  to  you 

wyked  dede  \\hsLn  I  began 

Ye  were  betrayed ;  wherfore,  good  maide,  the  j  ^^^^^j  ^^^  ^^^  ^^^^  g^enewode  goo,  I  am  noo 

best  red  "that  I  can  'banysshyd  man." 

Is  that  1  too  the  grenewode  goo,  alone,  a  ban- 

ysshed  man."  "Theis  tidingis  be  more  glad  to  me  than  to  be 

made  a  quene, 

"Whatsoever  befalle,   I   never   shal   of   this  Yf  I  were  sure  they  shuld  endure;    but  it  is 

thing  you  upbraid ;         "  often  seen, 

But  yf  ye  goo  and  leve  me  so,  than  have  ye  me  When  men  wyl  breke  promyse,  they  speke  the 

betraied.  140  wordis  on  the  splene.^ 


1  if    2  ijy     3  poor     ■*  should  go     *  advice 


^  capriciously 


92 


EARLY   TUDOR   LYRICS 


Ye  shape  some  wyle,  me  to  begyle,  and  stele 

fro  me,  I  wene. 
Then  were  the  case  wurs  than  it  was,  and  I 

more  woo-begone ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  al  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone." 

"Ye  shal  not  nede  further  to  drede,  I  wyl  not 

disparage 
You,  God  defende,  sith  you  descende  of  so 

grete  a  lynage.  170 

Now  understonde,  to  Westmerlande,  whiche 

is  my  herytage, 
I  wyle  you  bringe,  and  wyth  a  rynge,  be  wey 

of  maryage, 
I  wyl  you  take,  and  lady  make,  as  shortly  as 

I  can ; 
Thus  have  ye  wone  an  eries  son,  and  not  a 

bannysshyd  man." 

Here   may   ye  see   that   wymen   be   in   love 

meke,  kinde,  and  stable. 
Late  never  man  repreve  them  than,  or  calle 

them  variable. 
But  rather  prey  God  that  we  may  to  them 

be  comfortable,  — 
Whiche  somtyme  provyth  suche  as  he  loveth, 

yf  they  be  charitable. 
For  sith  men  wolde  that  wymen  sholde  be 

meke  to  them  echeon, 
Moche  more  ought  they  to  God  obey,  and 

serve  but  hym  alone.  180 


EARLY  TUDOR  LYRICS  (c.  1500) 
I.     RELIGIOUS  LYRIC 


Who  shall  have  my  fayr  lady  ? 
Who  but  I?     Who  but  1  ?   'Who? 
Who  shall  have  my  fayr  lady  ? 
Who  hath  more  ryght  therto? 

This  lady  clere 
That  I  sheu  '  here, 

Man  soul  yt  ys,  trust  ye ; 
To  Cryst  most  dere 
It  hath  no  pere ; 

Therfor  thys  song  syng  we. 
Who  shall,  etc. 


"For  love  swetnes 
And  joy  endles 

I  made  my  lady  fre, 
Unto  my  lyknes 
I  gave  her  quicnes  ^ 

In  Paradyse  to  be. 

Who  shall,  etc.  14 

"O  my  swet  store. 
My  true  love  therfore 

Thy  place  y t  ys  above ; 
What  man  may  do  more 
Than  only  dy  therfore. 

Lady,  for  thy  love? 

Who  shall,"  etc.  21 

II.     CHRISTMAS   CAROLS 


Thys  ender  nyght  ^ 
I  saw  a  syght, 

A  star  as  bright  as  day ; 
And  ever  among 
A  maydyn  song : 

By-by,  baby,  luUay ! 

Thys  vyrgyn  clere 
Wythowtyn  pere 

Unto  hur  son  gane  say : 
"My  son,  my  lorde, 
My  fathere  dere, 

Why  lyest  thow  in  hay  ?  12 

"Methynk  by  ryght 
Thow,  kyng  and  knyght, 

Shulde  lye  in  ryche  aray, 
Yet  none  the  lesse 
I  wyll  not  cesse  ^ 

To  syng,  By-by,  luUay  ! "  18 

Thys  babe  full  bayne  ^ 
Aunsweryd  agayne, 

And  thus,  me-thought,  he  sayd  : 
"I  am  a  kyng 
Above  all  thyng, 

Yn  hay  yff  I  be  layde ;  24 

"For  ye  shall  see 
That  kynges  thre 

Shall  cum  on  the  twelfe  day. 
For  thys  behest 
Geffe  me  thy  brest 

And  sing,  By-by,  lullay  !"  30 


show,  declare 


^  life      '^  the  other  night      ^  cease      ^  readily 


EARLY    TUDOR    LYRICS 


93 


"My  son,  I  say 
W'ythowtyn  nay  * 

Thow  art  my  derling  dere ; 
I  shall  the  kepe 
Whyle  thow  dost  slepe 
And  make  the  -  goode  chere ;  36 

"And  aU  thy  wylle 
I  wyU  fulfill. 

Thou  wotyst  hyt  well  yn  fay. 
Vet  more  then  thys,  — 
I  wyll  the  kys 

And  syng,  By-by,  lullay."  42 

"i\Iy  moder  swete, 
When  I  have  slepe, 

Then  take  me  up  on  lofte ; 
Upon  your  kne 
Thatt  ye  sett  me 

And  dandell  me  full  soft ;  48 

"And  in  j^our  arme 
Lap  me  ryght  warme 

And  kepe  me  nyght  and  day ; 
And  yE  I  wepe 
And  cannott  slepe, 

S3aig,  By,  baby,  lullay."  54 

"My  son,  my  lorde, 
My  fader  dere, 

Syth  all  ys  at  thy  wyll, 
I  pray  the,  son, 
Graunte  me  a  bone, 

Yff  hyt  be  ryght  and  skylle ;  60 

"That  chjdde  or  man. 
Whoever  can 

Be  mery  on  thys  day, 
To  blys  them  bryng 
And  I  shall  sj'ng : 

By-by,  baby,  lullay  ! "  66 

"jNIy  moder  shene,' 
Of  hevyn  quene. 

Your  askyng  shall  I  spede, 
So  that  the  myrth 
Dysplease  me  nott 

Yn  wordes  nor  in  dede.  72 

"Syng  what  ye  wyll, 
So  ye  fullfyll 

My  ten  commaundements  ay. 
Yow  for  to  please 
Let  them  nott  sesse  ■*■ 

To  syng,  Baby,  lullay."  78 

^certainli'       Uhee       ^  beautiful       ^  cease 


II 


"Quid  petis,  0  fily?  " 
"Mater  dulcissima,  ba-ba!  " 
"Quid  petis,  0  fili?  " 
"Michi  plausus  oscula  da-da  1  " 

So  laughyng  in  lap  layde, 

So  pretyly,  so  pertly, 
So  passyngly  well  a-payd,^ 

Ful  softly  and  full  soberly 
Unto  her  swet  son  she  said :  5 

"Quid  petys,"  etc. 

The   moder   full   manerly   and   mekly   as   a 

mayd, 
Lokyng  on  her  lytill  son  so  laughyng  in  lap 

layd. 
So  pretyly,  so  partly,  so  passingly  well  apayd, 
So  passyngly  wel  apayd,  10 

Full  softly  and'  full  soberly 
Unto  her  son  she  saide. 
Unto  her  son  saide  : 

"Quid  petis,"  etc. 

I  mene  this  by  Mary,  our  Makers  moder  of 

myght. 
Full  lovely  lookyng  on  our  Lord,   the  lan- 

terne  of  lyght,  16 

Thus  saying  to  our  Savior ;  this  saw  I  in  my 

syght. 

in 

Make  we  mery,  bothe  more  and  lasse, 
For  now  ys  the  tyme  of  Crystymas  ! 

Let  no  man  cum  into  this  hall, 
Grome,  page,  nor  yet  marshal. 
But  that  sum  sport  he  brj^ng  withall, 

For  now  ys  the  tyme  of  Crystymas.    4 

Make  we  mery,  etc. 

Yffe  that  he  say  he  can  not  syng, 

Sum  Oder  sport  then  lett  hym  bryng. 

That  yt  may  please  at  thys  festyng,  8 

For  now  ys  the  tyme  of  Crystymas. 

Make  we  mery,  etc. 

Yffe  he  say  he  can  nowght  do. 

Then,  for  my  love,  aske  hym  no  mo,  12 

But  to  the  stokke  then  lett  hym  go, 

For  now  ys  the  t}^me  of  Crystymas. 

Make  we  mery,  etc. 

^  satisfied 


94 


EARLY  TUDOR    LYRICS 


IV 


What  cher  ?     Gud  cher  1  gud  chcr,  gud  cher  1 
Be  niery  and  glad  this  gud  Newyere  ! 

"Lyft  up  your  hartes  and  be  glad 
In  Crystes  byrth,"  the  angell  bad; 
Say  eche  to  oder,  yf  any  be  sad, 

"What  cher,"  etc.  4 

Now  the  kyng  of  hevyn  his  byrth  hath  take, 
Joy  and  myrth  we  owght  to  make ; 
Say  eche  to  oder  for  hys  sake, 

"What  cher,"  etc.  8 

I  tell  you  all  with  hart  so  fre, 
Ryght  welcum  ye  be  to  me : 
Be  glad  and  mery,  for  charite  ! 

"What  cher,"  etc.  12 

The  gudman  of  this  place  in  fere  ^ 
You  to  be  mery  he  prayth  you  here, 
And  with  gud  hert  he  doth  to  you  say, 

"What  cher,"  etc.  16 


III.     CONVIVIAL   SONGS 


IV. 


LOVE   SONGS 
I 


Lully,  lulley,  lulley,  lulley  ! 

The  Jawcon  hath  born  my  make  ^  away  ! 

He  bare  hym  up,  he  bare  hym  down, 
He  bare  hym  into  an  orchard  brown. 

Lully,  lulley,  etc.  3 

Yn  that  orchard  there  was  an  halle 
That  was  hangid  with  purpill  and  pall. 

Lully,  lulley,  etc.  6 

And  in  that  hall  there  was  a  bade, 
Hit  was  hangid  with  gold  so  rede. 

Lully,  lulley,  etc.  9 

And  yn  that  bed  there  lythe  a  knyght, 
His  wowndis  bledyng  day  and  nyghl. 

Lully,  lulley,  etc.  12 

By  that  bedis  side  kneleth  a  may. 
And  she  wepeth  both  night  and  day. 

Lully,  lulley,  etc.  15 

And  by  that  beddis  side   there  stondith   a 

ston, 
Corpus  Christi  wretyn  thereon. 

Lully,  lulley,  etc.  18 


I 


Fyll  the  cuppe,  Phylyppe, 

And  let  us  drynke  a  drame  ! 
0ns  or  twys  abowte  the  howse 

And  leave  where  we  began. 
I  drynke  to  your  swete  harte 

Soo  mutche  as  here  is  in, 
Desyeringe  yow  to  foUowe  me 

And  doo  as  I  begyn  ! 
And  yf  you  will  not  pledge. 

You  shall  bere  the  blame. 
I  drynke  to  you  with  all  my  harte, 

Yf  you  will  pledge  me  the  same. 


II 


Make  rome,^  syrs,  and  let  us  be  mery, 

With  "Huffa,  galand!" 
Syngc,'''  "Tyrll  on  the  bery," 
And  let  the  wyde  worlde  wynde  ! 

Synge,  "  Fryska  joly," 

With  "Hey,  trolyloly," 

For  I  se  well  it  is  but  foly 
For  to  have  a  sad  mynd  ! 


^  together        ^  room 


II 

The  lytyll,  prety  nyghtyngale. 

Among  the  levys  grene, 
I  wold  I  were  with  her  all  nyght ! 

But  yet  ye  wote  ^  not  whome  I  mene  ! 

The  nyghtyngale  sat  one  a  brere 
Among  the  t horny s  sherp  and  keyn 

And  comfort  me  wyth  mery  cher. 
But  yet  ye  wot  not  whome  I  mene  ! 

She  dyd  aper  ^  all  on  ^  hur  kej^nde  ^ 

A  lady  ryght  wcl  be-seyne,  10 

Wyth  wordys  of  loff  tolde  me  hur  mynde. 
But  yet  ye  wot  not  whome  I  mene. 

Hyt  dyd  me  goode  upon  hur  to  loke, 
Hur  corse  was  closyd  all  in  grene ; 

Away  fro  me  hur  hcrte  she  toke. 
But  yete  ye  wot  not  whome  I  mene. 

"Lady  !"  I  cryed,  wyth  rufull  mone, 

"Have  mynd  of  nie,  that  true  hath  bene  I 

For  I  loved  none  but  you  alone." 

But  yet  ye  wot  not  whome  I  mene.  :!o 

^  mate,  sweetheart  ^  know  ^  appear  ■*  in  ^  nature 


THE    BEGINNING    OF   THE    RENAISSANCE- 


SIR   THOMAS   MORE   (1478-1535) 

A  DIALOGUE  OF  SYR  THOMAS  MORE, 
KNYGHTE 


From  THE  THIRDE  BOKE. 
CHAPITER 


THE   16. 


The  messenger  rehearseth  some  causes  which  he 
hath  herd  laid  ^  bj'  some  of  the  clergie  wherfore 
the  Scripture  should  not  be  suffred  in  Englishe. 
And  the  author  sheweth  his  mind,  that  it  wer  con- 
venient to  have  the  E3-ble  in  Englishe. 

"Syr,"  quod  your  frende,  "yet  for  al  this, 
can  I  see  no  cause  why  the  cleargie  shoulde 
kepe  the  Byble  out  of  ley  mennes  handes, 
that  can-  no  more  but  theyr  mother  tong." 
'T  had  went,"  ^  quod  I,  "that  I  had  proved 
you  playnely  that  they  kepe  it  not  from  them. 
For  I  have  shewed  you  that  they  kepe  none 
from  them,  but  such  translacion  as  be  either 
not  yet  approved  for  good,  or  such  as  be  alredi 
reproved  for  naught,  as  Wikhffes  was  and 
Tindals.  For  as  for  other  olde  ones,^  that 
wer  before  Wickhffes  daies,  remain  lawful, 
and  be  in  some  folkes  handes  had  and  read." 
"Ye  saye  well,"  quod  he.  "But  yet  as  weo- 
men  saye,  'somewhat  it  was  alway  that  the 
cat  winked  whan  her  eye  was  oute.'  Surely e 
so  is  it  not  for  nought  that  the  English  Byble 
is  in  so  few  mens  handes,  whan  so  many 
woulde  so  fayne  have  it."  "That  is  very 
trouth,"  quod  I;  "for  I  thinke  that  though 
the  favourers  of  a  secte  of  heretikes  be  so  fer- 
vent in  the  setting  furth  of  their  secte,  that 
they  let  ^  not  to  lay  their  money  together  and 
make  a  purse  among  them,  for  the  printyng  of 
an  _  evili  made,  or  evil  translated  booke : 
which  though  it  happe  to  be  forboden  ^  and 
burned,  yet  some  be  sold  ere  they  be  spyed, 

*  alleged  ^  know  ^  weened,  thought  ^  This  word 
is  the  subject  of  remain,  as  well  as  a  part  of  the 
phrase  in  which  it  stands;  the  construction  is  curious 
but  common.   ^  hesitate   ®  forbidden 


and  eche  of  them  lese  ^  but  theyr  part :  yet  I 
thinke  ther  will  no  printer  lightly  ^  be  so 
hote  ^  to  put  anye  Byble  in  prjmte  at  hys  owti 
charge,  whereof  the  losse  shoulde  lye  hole  in 
his  owne  necke,  and  than  ^  hang  upon  a  dout- 
ful  tryal,  whether  the  first  copy  of  hys  trans- 
lacion was  made  before  Wicklitfes  dayes  or 
since.  For  if  it  were  made  synce,  it  must  be 
approved  before  the  prynting. 

"And  surelye  howe  it  hathe  happed  that  in 
aU  this  whyle  God  hath  eyther  not  suffered,  or 
not  provided  that  any  good  verteous  man  hath 
hadde  the  mynde  in  faithful  wise  to  translate 
it,  and  therupon  ether  the  clergie  or,  at  the 
least  wise,  some  one  bishop  to  approve  it,  thys 
can  I  nothing  teU.  But  howesoever  it  be,  I 
have  hearde  and  heare  so  muche  spoken  in  the 
matter,  and  so  muche  doute  made  therin,  that 
peradventure  it  would  let  and  withdrawe  any 
one  bishop  from  the  admitting  therof,  without 
the  assent  of  the  remenant.  And  whereas 
many  thinges  be  laid  against  it :  yet  is  ther  in 
my  mind  not  one  thynge  that  more  putteth 
good  men  of  the  clergie  in  doubte  to  suffer  it, 
than  thys :  that  the}^  see  sometime  much  of 
the  worse  sort  more  fervent  in  the  calling  for 
it,  than  them  whom  we  find  farre  better. 
Which  maketh  them  to  feare  lest  such  men 
desyre  it  for  no  good,  and  lest  if  it  wer  hadde 
in  ever}'-  mannes  hand,  there  would  great  peril 
arise,  and  that  sedicious  people  should  doe 
more  harme  therwith  than  good  and  honest 
folke  should  take  fruit  e  thereby.  Whiche 
feare  I  promise  you  nothyng  feareth  me,  but 
that  whosoever  woulde  of  theyr  malice  or 
folye  take  harme  of  that  thing  that  is  of  it 
selfe  ordeyned  to  doe  al  men  good,  I  would 
never  for  the  avoyding  of  their  harme,  take 
from  other  the  profit,  which  they  might  take, 
and  nothing  deserve  to  lese.^  For  elles  ^  if 
the  abuse  of  a  good  thing  should  cause  the 
taking  away  thereof  from  other  that  would 
use  it  well,  Christ  should  hymself  never  have 
been  borne,  nor  brought  hys  fayth  into  the 


lose    ^  easily    ^  hot,  ready    ^  then    ^  else 


95 


96 


WILLIAM    TYNDALE 


world,  nor  God  should  never  have  made  it 
neither,  if  he  should,  for  the  losse  of  those 
that  would  be  damned  wretches,  have  kept 
away  the  occasion  of  reward  from  them  that 
would  with  helpe  of  his  grace  endevor  them  to 
deserve  it." 

"I  am  sure,"  quod  your  frend,  "ye  doubte 
not  but  that  I  am  full  and  hole  of  youre  mynde 
in  this  matter,  that  the  Byble  shoulde  be  in 
oure  EngHshe  tong.  But  yet  that  the  clergie 
is  of  the  contrary,  and  would  not  have  it  so, 
that  appeareth  well,  in  that  they  suffer  it  not 
to  be  so.  And  over  ^  that,  I  heare  in  everye 
place  almost  where  I  find  any  learned  man  of 
them,  their  mindes  all  set  theron  to  kepe  the 
Scripture  from  us.  And  they  seke  out  for 
that  parte  every  rotten  reason  that  they  can 
find,  and  set  them  furth  solemnely  to  the 
shew,  though  fyve  of  those  reasons  bee  not 
woorth  a  figge.  For  they  begynne  as  farre  as 
our  first  father  Adam,  and  shew  us  that  his 
wyfe  and  he  fell  out  of  paradise  with  desyre 
of  knowledge  and  cunning.  Nowe  if  thys 
woulde  serve,  it  must  from  the  knowledge  and 
studie  of  Scripture  dryve  every  man,  priest 
and  other,  lest  it  drive  all  out  of  paradise. 
Than  ^  saye  they  that  God  taught  his  disciples 
many  thynges  apart,  because  the  people 
should  not  heare  it.  And  therefore  they 
woulde  the  people  should  not  now  be  suffered 
to  reade  all.  Yet  they  say  further  that  it  is 
hard  to  translate  the  Scripture  out  of  one  tong 
into  an  other,  and  specially  they  say  into  ours, 
which  they  call  a  tong  vulgare  and  barbarous. 
But  of  all  thing  specially  they  say  that  Scrip- 
ture is  the  foode  of  the  soule.  And  that  the 
comen  people  be  as  infantes  that  must  be 
fedde  but  with  milke  and  pappe.  And  if  we 
have  anye  stronger  meate,  it  must  be 
chammed^  afore  by  the  nurse,  and  so  putte 
into  the  babes  mouthe.  But  me-think  though 
they  make  us  al  infantes,  they  shall  fynde 
many  a  shrewde  brayn  among  us,  that  can 
perceive  chalke  fro  chese  well  ynough,  and  if 
they  woulde  once  take  *  us  our  meate  in  our 
own  hand,  we  be  not  so  evil-tothed  ^  but  that 
within  a  while  they  shall  see  us  cham  it  our 
self  as  well  as  they.  For  let  them  call  us 
yong  babes  and  •"'  they  wil,  yet,  by  God,  they 
shal  for  al  that  well  fynde  in  some  of  us  that 
an  olde  knave  is  no  chylde." 

^  besides  ^  then  '  masticated  *  deliver  ^  ill- 
toothed  ®if 


WILLIAM   TYNDALE  (d.  1536) 

THE  GOSPELL  OF  S.  MATHEW.     THE 
FYFTH   CHAPTER 

When  he  sawe  the  people,  he  went  up  into  a 
mountaine,  and  wen  he  was  sett,  hys  disciples 
cam  unto  him,  and  he  opened  his  mouth,  and 
taught  them  sayinge :  "Blessed  are  the  poure 
in  sprete :  for  thers  is  the  kyngdom  of  heven. 
Blessed  are  they  that  mourne  :  for  they  shalbe 
comforted.  Blessed  are  the  meke :  for  they 
shall  inheret  the  erthe.  Blessed  are  they 
which  hunger  and  thurst  for  rightewesnes :  for 
they  shalbe  fylled.  Blessed  are  the  mercy- 
full  :  for  they  shall  obteyne  mercy.  Blessed 
are  the  pure  in  hert :  for  they  shall  se  God. 
Blessed  are  the  maynteyners  of  peace :  for 
they  shalbe  called  the  chyldren  of  God. 
Blessed  are  they  which  suffre  persecucion  for 
rightewesnes  sake :  for  thers  is  the  kyngdom 
of  heven.  Blessed  are  ye  when  men  shall 
revyle  you,  and  persecute  you,  and  shal 
falsly  saye  all  manner  of  evle  sayinges  agaynst 
you  for  my  sake.  Rejoyce  and  be  gladde, 
for  greate  is  youre  rewarde  in  heven.  For  so 
persecuted  they  the  prophettes  which  were 
before  youre  dayes. 

"Ye  are  the  salt  of  the  erthe,  but  ah  !  yf  the 
salte  be  once  unsavery,  what  can  be  salted 
there-with  ?  it  is  thence-forthe  good  for  noth- 
ynge,  but  to  be  cast  out  at  the  dores,  and  that 
men  treade  it  under  fete.  Ye  are  the  light  of 
the  worlde.  A  cite  that  is  sett  on  an  hill 
cannot  be  hyd,  nether  do  men  light  a  candle 
and  put  it  under  a  busshell,  but  on  a  candel- 
stycke,  and  it  lighteth  all  those  which  are  in 
the  housse.  Se  that  youre  light  so  schyne 
before  men,  that  they  maye  se  youre  good 
werkes,  and  gloryfie  youre  Father,  which  is 
in  heven. 

"Ye  shall  not  thynke,  that  y  am  come  to 
disanuU  the  lawe  other  ^  the  prophettes :  no,  y 
am  not  come  to  dysanuU  them,  but  to  fulfyU 
them.  For  truely  y  say  unto  you,  tyll  heven 
and  erthe  perysshe,  one  jott,  or  one  tytle  of 
the  lawe  shall  not  scape,  tyll  all  be  fulfylled. 

"Whosoever  breaketh  one  of  these  leest 
commaundmentes,  and  shall  teche  men  so,  he 
shalbe  called  the  leest  in  the  kyngdom  of 
heven.  But  whosoever  shall  observe  and 
teache  them,  that  persone  shalbe  called  greate 
in  the  kyngdom  of  heven. 


THE    GOSPELL   OF    S.    MATHEW 


97 


"For  I  say  unto  you,  except  youre  righte- 
wesnes  excede  the  rightewesnes  of  the  scrybes 
and  pharyses,  ye  cannot  entre  into  the  kyng- 
dom  of  haven. 

"Ye  have  herde  howe  it  was  sayd  unto  thera 
of  the  olde  tyme.  Thou  shalt  not  kyli. 
Whosoever  shall  kyll,  shalbe  in  daunger  of 
judgement.  But  I  say  unto  you,  whosoever 
ys  angre  with  hys  brother,  shalbe  in  daunger 
of  judgement.  Whosoever  shall  say  unto  his 
brother,  Racha !  shalbe  in  daunger  of  a 
counseill.  But  vvhosoever  shaU  say  unto  his 
brother,  Thou  fole  !  shalbe  in  daunger  of  hell 
fyre.  Therfore  when  thou  offerest  th}^  gyfte 
att  the  altre,  and  there  remembrest  that  thy 
brother  hath  eny  thynge  agaynst  the :  leve 
there  thyne  offrynge  before  the  altre,  and  go 
thy  waye  fyrst  and  reconcyle  thy  silff  to  thy 
brother,  and  then  come  and  offre  thy  gyfte. 

"  Agre  with  thine  adversary  at  once,  whyles 
thou  arte  in  the  waye  with  hym,  lest  thine 
adversary  delivre  the  to  the  judge,  and  the 
judge  delyvre  the  to  the  minister, ^  and  then 
thou  be  cast  into  preson.  I  say  unto  the 
verely :  thou  shalt  not  come  out  thence  tyll 
thou  have  payed  the  utmoost  forthynge.^ 

"Ye  have  herde  howe  yt  was  sayde  to  them 
of  oide  tyme,  thou  shalt  not  commytt  ad- 
vouirie.^  But  I  say  unto  3'ou,  that  whoso- 
ever eyeth  a  wyfe,  lustynge  after  her,  hathe 
commytted  advoutrie  with  her  alredy  in  his 
hert. 

"Wherfore  yf  thy  right  eye  offende  the, 
plucke  hym  out  and  caste  him  from  the. 
Better  hit  is  for  the,  that  one  of  thy  membres 
perysshe  then  that  thy  whole  body  shuld  be 
caste  in  to  hell.  Also  yf  thy  right  honde 
offend  the,  cutt  hym  of  and  caste  hym  from 
the.  Better  hit  is  that  one  of  thy  membres 
perisshe,  then  that  all  thy  body  shulde  be 
caste  in  to  heU. 

"Hit  ys  sayd,  whosoever  put  "^  awaye  his 
wyfe,  let  hym  geve  her  a  testy monyall  of  her 
divorcement.  But  I  say  unto  you :  whoso- 
ever put  ■*  awaye  hys  wyfe  (except  hit  be  for 
fornicacion)  causeth  her  to  breake  matrimony, 
And  who  soever  maryeth  her  that  is  divorsed, 
breaketh  wedlocke. 

"Agayne  ye  have  herde,  howe  it  was  said 
to  them  of  olde  tyme,  thou  shalt  not  forswere 
thysiLfe,  but  shalt  performe  thine  othe  to  God. 
But  I  saye  unto  you  swere  not  at  all :  nether 
by  heven,  for  hit  ys  Goddes  seate :  nor  yet  by 


the  erth,  For  it  is  hys  fote  stole :  Nether  by 
Jerusalem,  for  it  is  the  cite  of  the  greate  kynge : 
Nether  shalt  thou  swere  by  thy  heed,  because 
thou  canst  not  make  one  heer  whyte,  or 
blacke :  But  youre  communicacion  shalbe, 
ye,  ye :  nay,  nay.  For  whatsoever  is  more 
then  that,  commeth  of  evle. 

"Ye  have  herde  howe  it  is  sayd,  an  eye  for 
an  eye :  a  tothe  for  a  tothe.  But  I  say  unto 
you,  that  ye  withstond  ^  not  wronge :  But  yf 
a  man  geve  the  a  blowe  on  thy  right  cheke, 
turne  to  hym  the  othre.  And  yf  eny  man  wyll 
sue  the  at  the  lawe,  and  take  thi  coote  from 
the,  lett  hym  have  thi  clooke  also.  And 
whosoever  wyll  compell  the  to  goo  a  myle, 
goo  wyth  him  twayne.  Geve  to  him  that 
axeth :  and  from  him  that  wolde  borrowe 
turne  not  away. 

"  Ye  have  herde  howe  it  is  saide :  thou  shalt 
love  thyne  neghbour,  and  hate  thyne  enemy. 
But  y  saye  unto  you,  love  youre  enemies. 
Blesse  them  that  cursse  you.  Doo  good  to 
them  that  hate  you,  Praye  for  them  which  doo 
you  wronge,  and  persecute  you,  that  ye  maye 
be  the  chyldren  of  youre  hevenly  Father  :  for 
he  maketh  his  sunne  to  aryse  on  the  evle  and 
on  the  good,  and  sendeth  his  reyne  on  the 
juste  and  on  the  onjuste.  For  if  ye  shall  love 
them,  which  love  you :  what  rewarde  shall  ye 
have?  Doo  not  the  publicans  even  so? 
And  if  ye  be  frendly  to  youre  brethren  only : 
what  singuler  thynge  doo  ye?  Doo  nott  the 
publicans  lyke  wyse?  Ye  shall  therfore  be 
perfecte,  even  as  youre  hevenly  Father  is 
perfecte." 

SIR  THOMAS  WYATT  (i 503-1 542) 

THE  DESERTED  LOVER  CONSOLETH 
HIMSELF  WITH   REMEMBRANCE 
THAT  ALL  WOMEN  ARE  BY 
NATURE   FICKLE 

Divers  doth  use,-  as  I  have  heard  and  know, 
When  that  to  change  their  ladies  do  begin, 
To  mourn,  and  wail,  and  ne\'er  for  to  lynn ;  ^ 
Hoping  thereby  to  'pease  their  painful  woe. 
And  some  there  be  that  when  it  chanceth  so 
That   women  change,   and  hate  where  love 

hath  been, 
They  call  them  false,  and  think   with  words 

to  win 


officer     ^  farthing     ^  adultery     *  puts 


'  resist     ^  manv  are  accustomed     ^  cease 


98 


SIR    THOMAS    WYATT 


The  hearLs  of  them  which  otherwhere  dotli 

grow.^ 
But  as  for  me,  though  that  by  chance  indeed 
Change  hath  outworn  the  favour  that  I  had, 
I  will  not  wail,  lament,  nor  yet  be  sad,         ii 
Nor  call  her  false  that  falsely  did  me  feed ; 
But  let  it  pass,  and  think  it  is  of  kind  ^ 
That  often  change  doth  please  a   woman's 

mmd. 


To  cause  thy  lovers  sigh  and  swoon  ; 
Then  shalt  thou  know  beauty  but  lent, 
And  wish  and  want,  as  I  have  done. 

Now  cease,  my  lute,  this  is  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste. 
And  ended  is  that  we  begun. 
Now  is  this  song  both  sung  and  past, 
My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 


40 


THE   LOVER   COMPLAINETH   THE 
UNKINDNESS   OF   HIS   LOVE 

Aly  lute,  awake,  perform  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste,^ 
And  end  that  I  have  now  begun. 
And  when  this  song  is-  sung  and  past, 
My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 

As  to  be  heard  where  ear  is  none, 
As  lead  to  grave  •*  in  marble  stone, 
My  song  may  pierce  her  heart  as  soon. 
Should  v.^e  then  sigh,  or  sing,  or  moan  ? 
No,  no,  my  lute,  for  I  have  done.  10 

The  rocks  do  not  so  cruelly 
Repulse  the  waves  continually. 
As  she  my  suit  and  affection ; 
So  that  I  am  past  remedy, 
Whereby  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

Proud  of  the  spoil  that  thou  hast  got 
Of  simple  hearts  through  Loves  shot. 
By  whom  unkind  thou  hast  them  won. 
Think  not  he  hath  his  bow  forgot. 
Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done.  20 

Vengeance  shall  fall  on  thy  disdain 
That  makest  but  game  on  earnest  pain. 
Think  not  alone  under  the  sun 
Unquit  ^  to  cause  thy  lovers  plain,® 
Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

]\Iay  chance  thee  lie  withered  and  old 
Tn  winter  nights  that  are  so  cold. 
Plaining  in  vain  unto  the  moon  ; 
Thy  wishes  then  dare  not  be  told. 
Care  then  who  list,  for  I  have  done.  30 

And  then  may  chance  thee  to  repent 
The  time  that  thou  hast  lost  and  spent 

^  grow,  adhere,  to  others    ^  of  nature,  natural 
'  spend  *  engrave  *  unpunished  ^  complain 


A  DESCRIPTION  OF  SUCH  A  ONE  AS 
HE  WOULD   LOVE 

A  face  that  should  content  me  wondrous  well. 
Should  not  be  fair,  but  lovely  to  behold, 
Of  lively  look,  all  grief  for  to  repell. 
With  right  good  grace,    so  would  I  that  it 

should 
Speak  without  word,  such  words  as  none  can 

tell; 
The  tress  also  should  be  of  crisped  gold. 
With  wit   and  these  perchance  I  might  be 

tried, 
And  knit  again  with  knot  that  should  not 

slide. 

OF   THE   MEAN   AND    SURE   ESTATE 
WRITTEN  TO  JOHN   POINS 

My  mother's  maids,  when  they  did  sew  and 

spin, 
They  sang  sometime  a  song  of  the  field  motise 
That,  for  because  her  livelihood  was  but  thin. 
Would   needs   go   seek   her   townish   sister's 

house. 
She  thought  herself  endured  too  much  pain; 
The  stormy  blasts  her  cave  so  sore  did  souse 
That  when  the  furrow^s  swimmed  wdth  the 

rain. 
She  must  lie  cold  and  wet  in  sorry  plight ; 
And  worse  than  that,  bare  meat   there   did 

remain 
To   comfort   her   when   she   her   house   had 

dight ;  10 

Sometime  a  bariy  corn ;   sometime  a  bean, 
For  which  she  laboured  hard  both  day  and 

night 
In  harvest  time  whilst  she  might  go  and  glean  ; 
And  where  store  ^  was  stroyed  -  with  the  flood, 
Then  welaway  !  for  she  undone  was  clean. 
Then  was  she  fain  to  take  instead  of  food 
Sleep,  if  she  might,  her  hunger  to  beguile. 

*  abundance         ^  destro\-cd 


OF    THE    MEAN    AND    SURE    ESTATE 


99 


"My  sister,"  quoth  she,  "hath  a  living 
good. 
And  hence  from  me  she  dwelleth  not  a  mile. 
In  cold  and  storm  she  lieth  warm  and  dry  20 
In  bed  of  down,  the  dirt  doth  not  defile 
Her  tender  foot,  she  laboureth  not  as  I. 
Richly  she  feedeth  and  at  the  richman's  cost, 
.\nd  for  her  meat  she  needs  not  crave  nor  cry. 
By  sea,  by  land,  of  the  deUcates,  the  most 
Her  cater  ^  seeks  and  spareth  for  no  peril. 
She  feedeth  on  boiled  bacon,  meat  and  roast, 
And  hath  thereof  neither  charge  nor  travail ; 
And  when  she  list,  the  liquor  of  the  grape 
Doth  glad  her  heart  tiU  that  her  belly  swell." 
And   at   this  journey  she  maketh   but   a 
jape;-  36 

So  forth  she  goeth,  trusting  of  all  this  wealth 
With  her  sister  her  part  -so  for  to  shape. 
That  if  she  might  keep  herself  in  health, 
To  live  a  lady  while  her  life  doth  last. 

And  to  the  door  now  is  she  come  by  stealth, 
And  with  her  foot  anon  she  scrapeth  full  fast. 
Th'  other  for  fear  durst  not  well  scarce  ap- 
pear. 
Of  every  noise  so  was  the  wretch  aghast. 
At  last  she  asked  softly  who  was  there,        40 
And  in  her  language  as  well  as  she  could. 
"Peep!"    quoth    the    other    sister,    "I    am 

here." 
"Peace,"    quoth    the    town    mouse,    "why 

speakest  thou  so  loud?" 
And  by  the  hand  she  took  her  fair  and  well. 
"Welcome,"  quoth  she,  "my  sister,  by  the 
Rood!" 
She  feasted  her,  that  joy  it  was  to  tell 
The  fare  they  had;    they  drank  the  wine  so 

clear, 
And  as  to  purpose  now  and  then  it  fell. 
She    cheered    her    with    "Ho,    sister,    what 
cheer  I" 
Amid  this  joy  befeU  a  sorry  chance,  50 

That,  welaway  !  the  stranger  bought  fuU  dear 
The  fare  she  had,  for,  as  she  looks  askance. 
Under  a  stool  she  spied  two  steaming  ^  eyes 
In  a  round  head  with  sharp  ears.     In  France 
Was  never  mouse  so  fear'd,  for,  though  un- 
wise 
Had  not  i-seen  such  a  beast  before. 
Yet  had  nature  taught  her  after  her  guise  ^ 
To  know  her  foe  and  dread  him  evermore. 
The  towney  rnouse  fled,  she  knew  whither  to 

go; 

Th'  other  had  no  shift,  but  wanders  sore     60 


Feard  of  her  hfe.     At  home  she  wished  her 

tho,i 
.\nd  to  the  door,  alas  !  as  she  did  skip. 
The  Heaven  it  would,  lo  !  and  eke  her  chance 

was  so. 
At  the  threshold  her  silly  foot  did  trip ; 
And  ere  she  might  recover  it  again. 
The  traitor  cat  had  caught  her  by  the  hip, 
And  made  her  there  against  her  will  remain, 
That  had  forgotten  her  poor  surety  and  rest 
For  seeming  wealth  wherein  she   thought  to 

reign. 
Alas,  my  Poines,  how  men  do  seek  the  best 70 
And  find  the  worst  by  error  as  they  stray  ! 
And  no  marvel ;   when  sight  is  so  oppressed,' 
And  blind  the  guide,  anon  out  of  the  way 
Goeth  guide  and  all  in  seeking  quiet  hfe. 
O  wretched  minds,  there  is  no  gold  that  may 
Grant  that  ye  seek;   no  war;   no  peace;   no 

strife. 
No,  no,  although  thy  head  were  hooped  with 

gold,     ^ 
Sergeant  with  mace,  halberd,  sword  nor  knife, 
Cannot  repulse  the  care  that  follow  should. 
Each  kind  of  life  hath  with  him  his  disease. 
Live  in  delight  even  as  thy  lust  would,^       81 
And  thou  shalt  find,  when  lust  doth  most 

thee  please. 
It  irketh  straight,  and  by  itself  doth  fade. 
A  small  thing  it  is  that  may  thy  mind  appease. 
None  of  ye  all  there  is  that  is  so  mad 
To  seek  grapes  upon  brambles  or  briars ; 
Nor  none,  I  trow,  that  hath  his  wit  so  bad 
To  set  his  hay  ^  for  conies  *•  over  rivers. 
Nor  ye  set  not  a  drag  net  for  an  hare ; 
And  yet  the  thing  that  most  is  your  desire  90 
Ye  do  mistake  with  more  travail  and  care. 
j\Iake  plain  thine  heart,  that  it  be  not  knotted 
With  hope  or  dread,  and  see  thy  will  be  bare 
From  aU  effects  whom  vice  hath  ever  spotted. 
Thyself  content  with  that  is  thee  assigned. 
And  use  it  well  that  is  to  thee  allotted. 
Then  seek  no  more  out  of  thyself  to  find 
The  thing  that  thou  hast  sought  so  long  be- 
fore, 
For  thou  shalt  feel  it  sitting  in  thy  mind. 
]Mad,  if  3'e  list  to  continue  your  sore,  100 

Let  present  pass  and  gape  on  time  to  come. 
And  dip  yourself  in  travail  more  and  more. 
Henceforth,  my  Poines,   this  shall  be  all 

and  some. 
These  wretched  fools  shall  have  nought  else  of 

me ; 


^  caterer    ^  jest     ^  gleaming     *  manner,  way 


then     -  desire,  wish     ^  snare     *  rabbits 


lOO 


HENRY    HOWARD,    EARL    OF    SURREY 


But  to  the  great  God  and  to  his  high  dome, 
None  other  pain  pray  I   for  them  to  be, 
But  when  the  rage  doth  lead  them  from  the 

right, 
That,  looking  backward,  virtue  they  may  sec, 
Even  as  she  is  so  goodly  fair  and  bright. 
And  whilst   they  clasp   their  lusts  in   arms 

across,  no 

Gram  them,  good  Lord,  as  Thou  mayst  of 

Thy  might. 
To  fret  inward  for  losing  such  a  loss. 

HENRY     HOWARD,     EARL     OF 
SURREY    (i5i7?-i547) 

DESCRIPTION  OF  SPRING,  WHEREIN 

EACH     THING     RENEWS,      SAVE 

ONLY  THE  LOVER 

The  soote  ^  season  that  bud  and  bloom  forth 

brings 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill  and  eke  the  vale ; 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings ; 
The  turtle  ^  to  her  make  ^  hath  told  her  tale : 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs ; 
The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  ■•  on  the 

pale ;  ^ 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  cote  he  flings ; 
The  fishes  flete  *"  with  new  repaired  scale ; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  slings ; 
The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale;io 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings.'^ 
Winter  is  worn,  that  was  the  flowers'  bale:  ^ 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs! 

COMPLAINT  OF  A  LOVER  REBUKED 

Love,  that  liveth  and  reigneth  in  my  thought. 
That  built  his  seat  within  my  captive  breast, 
Clad  in  the  arms  wherein  with  me  he  fought, 
Oft  in  my  face  he  doth  his  banner  rest. 
She  that  me  taught  to  love  and  suffer  pain. 
My  doubtful  hope  and  eke  my  hot  desire 
With  shamcfast  cloak  to  shadow  and  refrain, 
Her  smiling  grace  convert eth  straight  to  ire. 
The  coward  Love  then  to  the  heart  apace 
Taketh    his    flight,    whereas    he    lurks    and 
plains,"  lo 

His  purpose  lost,  and  dare  not  show  his  face. 

^  sweet    ^  turtle  dove    ^  mate   ''  liorns   ^  paling 
®  float  ^  mixes  **  destruction  '■•  laments 


For  my  lord's  guilt  thus  faultless  bide  I  pains. 
Yet  from  my  lord  shall  not  my  foot  remove ; 
Sweet  is  his  death  that  takes  his  end  by  love. 

DESCRIPTION   AND    PRAISE   OF    HIS 
LOVE   GERALDINE 

From  Tuscan  came  my  lady's  worthy  race ; 
Fair  Florence  was  sometime  her  ancient  seat ; 
The  Western  isle  whose  pleasant  shore  doth 

face 
Wfld  Camber's  cliffs  did  give  her  lively  heat  ; 
Fostered  she  was  with  milk  of  Irish  breast ; 
Her   sire,    an    earl ;     her   dame,    of   princes' 

blood ; 
From  tender  years  in  Britain  she  doth  rest, 
With  a  king's  chfld,  where  she  tasteth  costly 

food ; 
Hunsdon  did  first  present  her  to  mine  eyes ; 
Bright  is  her  hue,  and  Geraldine  she  hight ;  ^ 
Hampton  me  taught   to   wish   her   first   for 

mme ;  1 1 

And  Windsor,  alas,  doth  chase  me  from  her 

sight : 
Her  beauty  of  kind ,2  her  virtues  from  above. 
Happy  is  he,  that  can  obtain  her  love  ! 

THE    MEANS    TO    ATTAIN    A    HAPPY 
LIFE 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 

The  happy  life  be  these,  I  find : 

The  riches  left,^  not  got  with  pain ; 

The  fruitful  ground  ;   the  quiet  mind ; 

The  egaU  '^  friend  ;  no  grudge,  no  strife ; 

No  charge  of  rule,  no  governance ; 

Without  disease,  the  healthful  hfe ; 

The  household  of  continuance ; 

The  mean  ^  diet,  no  delicate  fare  ; 

True  wisdom  joined  with  simpleness ;  10 

The  night  discharged  of  all  care. 

Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  oppress ; 

The  faithful  wife,  without  debate ; 

Such  sleeps  as  may  beguile  the  night : 

Contented  with  thine  own  estate, 

Ne  wish  for  death,  ne  fear  his  might. 

VIRGIL'S  ^NEID 

BOOK  II 

They  whisted  ^  all,  with  fi.xed  face  attent, 
When  Prince  ^Eneas  from  the  royal  seat 

*  is  named    ^  from   nature    ^  inherited    *  equal 
'■  moderate  ^  became  silent 


VIRGIL'S   ^NEID 


ICI 


Thus  'gan  to  speak:  "O  Queen,  it  is  thy  will 
I  should  renew  a  woe  cannot  be  told ; 
How  that  the  Greeks  did  spoil  and  overthrow 
The  Phrygian  wealth  and  wailful  ^  realm  of 

Troy. 
Those  ruthful   things  that  I  myself  beheld, 
And  whereof  no  small  part  fell  to  my  share ; 
Which   to   express,   who   could   refrain   from 

tears  ? 
What  Myrmidon?   or  yet  what  Dolopes?    lo 
What  stern  Ulysses'  waged  soldier? 
And  lo  !    moist  night  now  from  the  welkin 

falls. 
And  stars  declining  counsel  us  to  rest ; 
But  since  so  great  is  thy  delight  to  hear 
Of  our  mishaps  and  Troyes  last  decay. 
Though  to  record  the  same  my  mind  abhors 
And  plaint  eschews,  yet  thus  will  I  begin :  — ■ 
The  Greekes  chieftains,  all  irked  with  the  war, 
Wherein  they  wasted  had  so  many  years, 
And  oft  repulsed  by  fatal  destiny,  20 

A  huge  horse  made,  high  raised  like  a  hill. 
By  the  divine  science  of  Minerva,  — - 
Of  cloven  tir  compacted  were  his  ribs,  — ■ 
For  their  return  a  feigned  sacrifice,  — 
The  fame  whereof  so  wandered  it  at  point.^ 
In  the  dark  bulk  they  closed  bodies  of  men 
Chosen  by  lot,  and  did  enstuff  by  stealth 
The  hollow   womb   with   armed   soldiers. 

There  stands  in  sight  an  isle  hight  Tenedon, 
Rich  and  of  fame  while  Priam's  kingdom  stood, 
Now  but  a  bay  and  road  unsure  for  ship.      3 1 
Hither  them  secretly  the  Greeks  withdrew, 
Shrouding  themselves  under  the  desert  shore ; 
And,  weening  we  they  had  been  fled  and  gone, 
And  with  that  wind  had  fet^  the  land  of  Greece, 
Troy  discharged  her  long  continued  dole.'* 
The  gates  cast  up,  we  issued  out  to  play, 
The  Greekish  camp  desirous  to  behold, 
The  places  void  and  the  forsaken  coasts. 
Here    Pyrrhus'    band,    there    fierce    Achilles 

pight ;  ^ 
Here  rode  their  ships,  there  did  their  battles 

join. 
Astonied  some  the  scathful  ®  gift  beheld,     42 
Behight  ^  by  vow  unto  the  chaste  Minerve,  — 
All  wondering  at  the  hugeness  of  the  horse. 
.\nd  first  of  all  Timoetes  gan  advise 
Within  the  walls  to  lead  and  draw  the  same, 
And  place  it  eke  amid  the  palace  court,  — 
Whether  of  guile,  or  Troyes  fate  it  would. 
Capys,  with  some  of  judgment  more  discreet, 

^  lamentable    ^  conformably    ^  fetched,  reached 
■•  sorrow  ^  camped,  tendebat   ^  harmful   '  promised 

AE 


Willed  it  to  drown,  or  underset  with  flame,  50 
The  suspect  present  of  the  Greek's  deceit, 
Or  bore  and  gauge  the  hollow  caves  uncouth ; 
So  diverse  ran  the  giddy  people's  mind. 

Lo  !   foremost  of  a  route  that  followed  him, 
Kindled  ^  Laocoon  hasted  from  the  tower, 
Crying  far  off :   'O  wretched  citizens. 
What  so  great  kind  of  frenzy  freteth  you? 
Deem  ye  the  Greeks,  our  enemies,  to  be  gone? 
Or  any  Greekish  gifts  can  you  suppose 
Devoid  of  guile  ?     Is  so  Ulysses  known  ?      60 
Either  the  Greeks  are  in  this  timber  hid, 
Or  this  an  engine  is  to  annoy  ^  our  walls, 
To  view  our  towers,  and  overwhelm  our  town. 
Here  lurks  some  craft.     Good  Troyans  give 

no  trust 
Unto  this  horse,  for,  whatsoever  it  be, 
I  dread  the  Greeks,  yea  w^hen  they  offer  gifts.' " 


ROGER   ASCHAM    (1515-1568) 
THE   SCHOLEMASTER 

From     THE     FIRST     BOOKE     FOR     THE 
YOUTH 


If  your  scholer  do  misse  sometmies,  in 
marking  rightlie  these  foresaid  sixe  thinges, 
chide  not  hastelie  :  for  that  shall,  both  dull  his 
witte,  and  discorage  his  diligence  :  but  monish 
him  gentelie :  which  shall  make  him,  both  will- 
ing to  amende,  and  glad  to  go  forward  in  love 
and  hope  of  learning.  I  have  now  v»'ished, 
twise  or  thrise,  this  gentle  nature,  to  be  in  a 
Scholemaster :  And,  that  I  have  done  so, 
neither  by  chance,  nor  without  some  reason, 
I  will  now  declare  at  large,  why,  in  mine  opin- 
ion, love  is  fitter  then  feare,  gentlenes  better 
than  beating,  to  bring  up  a  childe  righthe  in 
learninge. 

With  the  common  use  of  teaching  and  beat- 
ing in  common  scholes  of  England,  I  will  not 
greatlie  contend  :  which  if  I  did,  it  were  but  a 
small  grammaticall  controversie,  neither  be- 
longing to  heresie  nor  treason,*  nor  greatly 
touching  God  nor  the  Prince :  although  in 
very  deede,  in  the  end,  the  good  or  ill  bringing 
up  of  children,  doth  as  much  s&rve.  to  the  good 
or  ill  service,  of  God,  our  Prince,  and  our 
whole  countrie,  as  any  one  thing  doth  beside. 

*  excited  -  injure  "  This  is  a  proverbial  expression. 


I02 


ROGER   ASCHAM 


I  do  gladlie  agree  with  all  good  Schole- 
m asters  in  these  pointes :  to  have  children 
brought  to  a  good  perfitnes  in  learning  :  to  all 
honestie  in  maners :  to  have  all  fautes  ^  rightlie 
amended:  to  have  everie  vice  severelie  cor- 
rected :  but  for  the  order  and  waie  that  lead- 
eth  rightlie  to  these  pointes,  we  somewhat 
differ.  For  commonlie,  many  scholemasters, 
some,  as  I  have  seen,  moe,^  as  I  have  heard 
tell,  be  of  so  crooked  a  nature,  as,  when  they 
meete  with  a  hard  wit  ted  scholer,  they  rather 
breake  him  than  bowe  him,  rather  marre  him 
then  mend  him.  For  whan  the  scholemaster 
is  angrie  with  some  other  matter,  then  will  he 
sonest  faul  to  beate  his  scholer :  and  though 
he  him  selfe  should  be  punished  for  his  folie, 
yet  must  he  beate  some  scholer  for  his  plea- 
sure :  though  there  be  no  cause  for  him  to  do 
so,  nor  yet  fault  in  the  scholer  to  deserve  so. 
These,  ye  wiU  say,  be  fond  ^  scholemasters, 
and  fewe  they  be  that  be  found  to  be  soch. 
They  be  fond  in  deede,  but  surelie  overmany 
soch  be  found  everie  where.  But  this  will  I 
say,  that  even  the  wisest  of  your  great  beaters, 
do  as  oft  punishe  nature  as  they  do  correcte 
faultes.  Yea,  many  times,  the  better  nature 
is  sorer  punished :  For,  if  one,  by  quicknes  of 
witte,  take  his  lesson  readclie,  an  other,  by 
hardnes  of  witte,  taketh  it  not  so  speedelie: 
the  first  is  alwaies  commended,  the  other  is 
commonlie  punished :  whan  a  wise  schole- 
master should  rather  discretelie  consider  the 
right  disposition  of  both  their  natiu^es,  and 
not  so  moch  wey  *  what  either  of  them  is  able 
to  do  now,  as  what  either  of  them  islikeheto 
do  hereafter.  For  this  I  know,  not  onehe  by 
reading  of  bookes  in  my  studie,  but  also  by 
experience  of  life,  abrode  in  the  world,  that 
those  which  be  commonlie  the  wisest,  the  best 
learned,  and  best  men  also,  when  they  be  olde, 
vv'ere  never  commonlie  the  quickest  of  witte, 
when  they  were  yonge.  The  causes  why, 
amongst  other,  which  be  many,  that  move 
me  thus  to  thinke,  be  these  fewe,  which  I  will 
recken.  Quicke  wittes,  commonlie,  be  apte 
to  take,  unapte  to  keepe :  soone  hote  and 
desirous  of  this  and  that :  as  colde  and  sone 
wery  of  the  same  againc :  more  quicke  to  enter 
spedelie,  than  hable  ^  to  pcarse  '^  farre :  even 
like  over  sharpe  tooles,  whose  edges  be  verie 
soone  turned.  Soch  wittes  delite  them  selves 
in  easie  and  pleasant  studies,  and  never  passe 
farre  for\":i.rd  in  hie  and  hard  sciences.     And 


therefore  the  quickest  wittes  commonlie  may 
prove  the  best  Poetes,  but  not  the  wisest 
Orators :  readie  of  tonge  to  speake  boldJie, 
not  deepe  of  judgement,  either  for  good  counsel 
or  wise  writing.  Also,  for  m_aners  and  life, 
quicke  wittes,  commonlie,  be,  in  desire,  new- 
fangle,^  in  purpose  unconstant,  light  to  prom- 
ise any  thing,  readie  to  forget  every  thing: 
both  benefite  and  injurie:  and  thereby  neither 
fast  to  frend,  nor  fearefull  to  foe :  inquisitive 
of  every  trifle,  not  secret  in  greatest  affaires : 
bolde,  with  any  person  :  busie,  in  every  matter : 
sothing  '^  soch  as  be  present :  nipping  any  that 
is  absent :  of  nature  also,  alwaies,  flattering 
their  betters,  envying  their  equals,  despising 
their  inferiors :  and,  by  quicknes  of  witte, 
verie  quicke  and  readie,  to  like  none  so  well  as 
them  selyes. 

Moreover  commonhe,  men,  very  quicke  of 
witte,  be  also,  verie  light  of  conditions :  * 
and  thereby,  very  readie  of  disposition,  to  be 
caried  over  quicklie,  by  any  light  cumpanie 
to  any  riot  and  unthriftiness,  when  they  be 
yonge :  and  therfore  seldom.e,  either  honest 
of  life,  or  riche  in  living,  when  they  be  olde. 
For,  quicke  in  witte  and  light  in  maners, 
be,  either  seldome  troubled,  or  verie  sone  wery, 
in  carying  a  verie  hevie  purse.  Quicke  wittes 
also  be,  in  most  part  of  all  their  doinges,  over- 
quicke,  hastie,  rashe,  headie,  and  brainsicke. 
These  two  last  wordes,  Headie,  and  Brain- 
sicke, "be  fitte  and  proper  wordes,  rising  nat- 
uraUie  of  the  matter,  and  tearmed  aptlie  by 
the  condition,  of  over  moch  quickenes  of  witte. 
In  yougthe  also  they  be  readie  scoffers,  privie 
mockers,  and  ever  over  light  and  mery. 
In  aige,  sone  testie,  very  waspishe,  and  alwaies 
over  miserable :  and  yet  fewe  of  them  cum  to 
any  great  aige,  by  reason  of  their  misordered 
life  when  they  were  yong:  but  a  great  deale 
fewer  of  them  cum  to  shewe  any  great  counte- 
nance, or  beare  any  great  authoritie  abrode  in 
the  world,  but  either  live  obscurelie,  men  know 
not  how,  or  dye  obscurelie,  men  marke  not 
whan.  They  be  like  trees,  that  shewe  forth 
faire  blossoms  and  broad  leaves  in  spring  time, 
l)ut  bring  out  small  and  not  long  lasting  fruite 
in  harvest  time :  and  that,  onelie  soch  as  fall 
and  rotte  before  they  be  ripe,  and  so,  never,  or 
seldome,  cum  to  any  good  at  all.  For  this  ye 
shall  fmde  m.ost  true  by  experience,  that 
amongest  a  number  of  quicke  wittes  in  youthe, 
fewe  l)e  found,  in  the  end,  either  verie  fortu- 


^  faults  ^  more  ^  foolish  *  weigh  ^  able  ^  pierce  ^  fond  of  novelty  -  agreeing  with  '  character 


JOHX   FOXE 


103 


nate  for  them  selves,  or  verie  profitable  to 
serve  the  common  wealth,  but  decay  and 
vanish,  men  know  not  which  way :  except  a 
very  fevve,  to  whom  peradventure  blood  and 
happie  parentage  may  perchance  purchace  a 
long  standing  upon  the  stage.  The  which 
felicitie,  because  it  commeth  by  others  pro- 
curing, not  by  their  owne  deservinge,  and 
stand  by  other  mens  feete,  and  not  by 
their  own,  what  owtward  brag  so  ever  is  borne 
by  them,  is  in  deed,  of  it  selfe,  and  in  wise 
mens  eyes,  of  no  great  estimation. 


JOHN   FOXE    (1516-1587) 

ACTS  AND   ]\10NUMENTS  OF  THESE 
LATTER  AND   PERILLOUS   DAYES 

From  THE   BEHA\T:0UR   OF   DR.    RIDLEY 

AND   MASTER   LATLMER   AT   THE 

TIAtE   OF   THEIR   DEATH 


Incontinently  ^  they  were  commanded  to 
make  them  readie,  which  they  with  all  meek- 
nesse  obeyed.  Master  Ridley  tooke  his  gowne 
and  his  tippet,  and  gave  it  to  his  brother-in- 
lawe  Master  Shepside,  who  aU  his  time  of  im- 
prisonment, although  he  might  not  be  suffered 
to  come  to  him,  lay  there  at  his  owne  charges 
to  provide  him  necessaries,  which  from  time  to 
time  he  sent  him  by  the  sergeant  that  kept 
him.  Some  other  of  his  apparel  that  was  little 
worth,  hee  gave  away ;  other  the  baUiffes 
took.  He  gave  away  besides  divers  other 
small  things  to  gentlemen  standing  by,  and 
divers  of  them  pitifulJie  weeping,  as  to  Sir 
Henry  Lea  he  gave  a  new  groat ;  and  to  divers 
of  my  Lord  Williams  gentlemen  some  napkins, 
some  nutmegges,  and  races  ^  of  ginger ;  his 
diall,  and  such  other  things  as  he  had  about 
him,  to  every  one  that  stood  next  him.  Some 
plucked  the  pomtes  of  his  hose.  Happie  was 
he  that  might  get  any  ragge  of  him.  Master 
Latimer  gave  nothing,  but  very  quickly 
suffered  his  keeper  to  pull  off  his  hose,  and  his 
other  array,  which  to  look  unto  was  very 
simple :  and  being  stripped  into  his  shrowd,^ 
hee  seemed  as  comly  a  person  to  them  that 
were  there  present  as  one  should  lightly  see ; 


and  whereas  in  his  clothes  hee  appeared  a 
withered  and  crooked  sUlie  olde  man,  he  now 
stood  bolt  upright,  as  comely  a  father  as  one 
might  Ughtly  behold. 

Then  Master  Ridley,  standing  as  yet  in  his 
trusse,^  said  to  his  brother :  "It  were  best  for 
me  to  go  m  my  trusse  still."  ''  No,"  quoth  his 
brother,  "it  will  put  you  to  more  paine:  and 
the  trusse  will  do  a  poore  man  good. "  Where- 
unto  Master  Ridley  said :  "  Be  it,  in  the  name 
of  God;"  and  so  unlaced  himselfe.  Then 
being  in  his  shirt,  he  stood  upon  the  foresaid 
stone,  and  held  up  his  hande  and  said:  "O 
heavenly  Father,  I  give  unto  thee  most  heartie 
thanks,  for  that  thou  hast  called  mee  to  be  a 
professour  of  thee,  even  unto  death.  I  be- 
seech thee.  Lord  God,  take  mercie  upon  this 
realme  of  England,  and  deliver  the  same  from 
all  her  enemies." 

Then  the  smith  took  a  chaine  of  iron,  and 
brought  the  same  about  both  Dr.  Ridleyes  and 
Maister  Latimers  middles ;  and  as  he  was 
knocking  in  a  staple.  Dr.  Ridley  tooke  the 
chaine  in  his  hand,  and  shaked  the  same,  for 
it  did  girde  m  his  belly,  and  looking  aside  to  the 
smith,  said :  "  Good  feUow,  knocke  it  in  hard, 
for  the  flesh  will  have  his  course."  Then  his 
brother  did  bringe  him  gunnepowder  in  a  bag, 
and  would  have  tied  the  same  about  his  necke. 
Master  Ridley  asked  what  it  was.  His 
brother  said,  "Gunnepowder."  "Then." 
sayd  he,  "I  take  it  to  be  sent  of  God ;  there- 
fore I  wUl  receive  it  as  sent  of  him.  And  have 
you  any,"  sayd  he,  "for  my  brother?"  mean- 
ing jNIaster  Latimer.  "Yea,  sir,  that  I  have," 
quoth  his  brother.  "Then  give  it  unto  him," 
sayd  hee,  "betime;  -  least  ye  come  too  late." 
So  his  brother  went,  and  caried  of  the  same 
guiinepowder  unto  Maister  Latimer. 

In  the  mean  time  Dr.  Ridley  spake  imto  my 
Lord  Williams,  and  saide :  "  My  lord,  I  must 
be  a  suter  unto  your  lordshippe  in  the  behalfe 
of  divers  poore  men,  and  speciaUie  in  the  cause 
of  my  poor  sister ;  I  have  made  a  supplication 
to  the  Queenes  Majestic  in  their  behalves.  I 
beseech  your  lordship  for  Christs  sake,  to  be  a 
mean  to  her  Grace  for  them.  My  brother 
here  hath  the  supplication,  and  will  resort  to 
your  lordshippe  to  certifie  you  herof.  There 
is  nothing  in  all  the  world  that  troubleth  my 
conscience,  I  praise  God,  this  only  excepted. 
Whiles  I  was  in  the  see  of  London  divers  poore 
men  tooke  leases  of  me,  and  agreed  with  me  for 


^  immediatelj-         -  roots         ^  shirt 


^  a  padded  jacket         -  early 


I04 


JOHN    FOXE 


the  same.  Now  I  heare  say  the  bishop  that 
now  occupieth  the  same  roome  will  not  allow 
my  grants  unto  them  made,  but  contrarie  unto 
all  la  we  and  conscience  hath  taken  from  them 
their  livings,  and  will  not  suffer  them  to  injoy 
the  same.  I  beseech  you,  my  lord,  be  a  meane 
for  them ;  you  shall  do  a  good  deed,  and  God 
will  reward  you." 

Then  they  brought  a  faggotte,  kindled  with 
fire,  and  laid  the  same  downe  at  Dr.  Ridleys 
feete.  To  whome  Master  Latimer  spake  in 
this  manner:  "Bee  of  good  comfort,  Master 
Ridley,  and  play  the  man.  Wee  shall  this 
day  light  such  a  candle,  by  Gods  grace,  in 
England,  as  I  trust  shall  never  bee  putte  out." 

And  so  the  fire  being  given  unto  them,  when 
Dr.  Ridley  saw  the  fire  flaming  up  towards 
him,  he  cried  with  a  wonderful  lowd  voice : 
"In  manus  tuas,  Domine,  commendo  spiritum 
meum :  Domine,  recipe  spiritum  meum." 
And  after,  repeated  this  latter  part  often  in  Eng- 
lish, "Lord,  Lord,  receive  my  spirit ;"  Master 
Latimer  crying  as  vehementlie  on  the  other 
side,  "  O  Father  of  heaven,  receive  my  soule  ! " 
who  received  the  flame  as  it  were  imbracing  of 
it.  After  that  he  had  stroaked  his  face  with 
his  hands,  and  as  it  were  bathed  them  a  little 
in  the  fire,  he  soone.died  (as  it  appeared)  with 
verie  little  paine  or  none.  And  thus  much 
concerning  the  end  of  this  olde  and  blessed 
servant  of  God,  Master  Latimer,  for  whose 
laborious  travailes,^  fruitfull  life,  and  constant 
death  the  whole  realme  hath  cause  to  give 
great  thanks  to  almightie  God. 

But  Master  Ridley,  by  reason  of  the  evill 
making  of  the  fire  unto  him,  because  the 
wooden  faggots  were  laide  about  the  gosse  ^ 
and  over-high  built,  the  fire  burned  first  be- 
neath, being  kept  downe  by  the  wood  ;  which 
when  he  felt,  hee  desired  them  for  Christ es 
sake  to  let  the  fire  come  unto  him.  Which 
when  his  brother-in-law  heard,  but  not  well 
understood,  intending  to  rid  him  out  of  his 
paine  (for  the  which  cause  hee  gave  attend- 
ance), as  one  in  such  sorrow  not  well  advised 
what  hee  did,  heaped  faggots  upon  him,  so  that 
he  cleane  covered  him,  which  made  the  fire 
more  vehement  beneath,  that  it  burned  cleane 
all  his  neather  parts,  before  it  once  touched  the 
upper ;  and  that  made  him  leape  up  and 
down  under  the  faggots,  and  often  desire  them 
to  let  the  fire  come  unto  him,  saying,  "1  can- 
not   burne."     Which    indeed  appeared  well; 


labors 


'  gorse,  furze 


for,  after  his  legges  were  consumed  by  reasesn 
of  his  struggling  through  the  paine  (whereof  hee 
had  no  release,  but  onelie  his  contentation  in 
God),  he  showed  that  side  toward  us  cleane, 
shirt  and  all  untouched  with  flame.  Yet  in 
all  this  torment  he  forgate  not  to  call  unto 
God  still,  having  in  his  mouth,  "Lord  have 
mercy  upon  me,"  intermedling  ^  this  cry, 
"Let  the  fire  come  unto  me,  I  cannot  burne." 
In  which  paines  he  laboured  till  one  of  the 
standers  by  with  his  bill  ^  pulled  off  the  fag- 
gots above,  and  where  he  saw  the  fire  flame 
up,  he  wrested  himself  unto  that  side.  And 
when  the  flame  touched  the  gunpowder,  he 
was  seen  to  stirre  no  more,  but  burned  on  the 
other  side,  falling  downe  at  Master  Latimers 
feete.  Which  some  said  happened  by  reason 
that  the  chain  loosed ;  other  said  that  he  fell 
over  the  chain  by  reason  of  the  poise  of  his 
body,  and  the  weakness  of  the  neather  lims. 

Some  said  that  before  he  was  like  to  fall 
from  the  stake,  hee  desired  them  to  holde  him 
to  it  with  their  billes.  However  it  was,  surelie 
it  mooved  hundreds  to  teares,  in  beholding  the 
horrible  sight ;  for  I  thinke  there  was  none 
that  had  not  cleane  exfled  all  humanitie  and 
mercie,  which  would  not  have  lamented  to 
beholde  the  furie  of  the  fire  so  to  rage  upon 
their  bodies.  Signes  there  were  of  sorrow  on 
everie  side.  Some  tooke  it  greevouslie  to  see 
their  deathes,  whose  lives  they  held  full  deare : 
some  pittied  their  persons,  that  thought  the 
soules  had  no  need  thereof.  His  brother 
mooved  many  men,  seeing  his  miserable  case, 
seeing  (I  say)  him  compelled  to  such  infelicilie, 
that  he  thought  then  to  doe  him  best  service 
when  he  hastned  his  end.  Some  cried  out  of 
the  lucke,  to  see  his  indevor  (who  most  dearelie 
loved  him,  and  sought  his  release)  turne  to  his 
greater  vexation  and  increase  of  paine.  But 
whoso  considered  their  preferments  in  time 
past,  the  places  of  honour  that  they  some 
time  occupied  in  this  common  wealth,  the 
favour  they  were  in  with  their  princes,  and  the 
opinion  of  learning  they  had  in  the  university 
where  they  studied,  could  not  chuse  but  sor- 
row with  teares  to  see  so  great  dignity,  hon- 
our, and  estimation,  so  necessary  members 
sometime  accounted,  so  many  godly  vertues, 
the  study  of  so  manie  yeres,  such  excellent 
learning,  to  be  put  into  the  fire  and  consumed 
in  one  moment.     Wefl  !    dead  they  are,  and 

^  intermingling  '^a  kind  of  weapon  consisting 
of  a  curved  blade  fixed  at  the  end  of  a  pole. 


THOMAS    SACKVILLE 


los 


the  reward  of  this  world  they  have  alreadie. 
What  reward  remaineth  for  them  in  heaven, 
the  day  of  the  Lords  glorie,  when  hee  commeth 
with  his  saints,  shall  shortlie,  I  trust,  declare. 

THOMAS      SACKVILLE,      LORD 
BUCKHURST    (1536-1608) 

A  MIRROR  FOR   MAGISTRATES 

From  THE  INDUCTION 

Flat  dow^n  I  fell,  and  with  all  reverence 

Adored  her,  perceiving  now  that  she, 

A  goddess  sent  by  godly  providence. 

In  earthly  shape  thus  showed  herself  to  me, 

To  wail  and  rue  this  world's  uncertainty :   1 73 

And   while   I   honored   thus   her   god-head's 

might 
With  plaining  voice  these  words  to  me  she 

shright :  ^ 

"I  shall  thee  guide  first  to  the  griesly^  lake, 
And  thence  unto  the  blissful  place  of  rest, 
Where  thou  shalt  see  and  hear  the  plaint  they 
make,  178 

That  whilom  here  bare  saving  ^  among  the  best. 
This  shalt  thou  see,  but  great  is  the  unrest 
That  thou  must  bide  before  thou  canst  attain 
Unto  the  dreadful  place  where  these  remain. 

And  with  these  words  as  I  upraised  stood. 
And   'gan   to   follow   her   that   straightforth 

paced, 
Ere  I  was  ware,  into  a  desert  wood 
We  i|ow  were  come ;  where,  hand  in  hand  em- 
braced, 
She  led  the  way,  and  through  the  thick  so 

traced, 
As,  but  I  had  been  guided  by  her  might, 
It  was  no  way  for  any  mortal  wight.  189 

But  lo  !  while  thus,  amid  the  desert  dark, 
We  passed  on  with  steps  and  pace  unmeet, 
A  rumbling  roar,  confused  with  howl  and  bark 
Of  dogs,  shook  all  the  ground  under  our  feet. 
And  struck  the  din  within  our  ears  so  deep. 
As  half  distraught  unto  the  ground  I  fell. 
Besought  return,  and  not  to  visit  hell.       196 

But  she  forth-wnth  uplifting  me  apace 
Removed  my  dread,  and  with  a  steadfast  mind 


Bade  me  come  on,  for  here  was  now  the  place, 
The  place  where  we  our  travel's  end  should 
•find.  200 

Wherewith  I  arose,  and  to  the  place  assigned 
Astonied    I    stalk ;     when    straight    we    ap- 
proached near 
The  dreadful  place, that  you  will  dread  to  hear. 

An  hideous  hole  all  vast,  wilhouten  shape. 

Of  endless  depth,  o'erwhelmed  with  ragged 

stone. 
With  ugly  mouth  and  griesly  jaws  doth  gape, 
And  to  our  sight  confounds  itself  in  one. 
Here  entered  we,  and  yeding  ^  forth,  anon 
An  horrible  lothly  lake  we  might  discern. 
As  black  as  pitch,  that  cleped  ^  is  Averne.   210 

A  deadly  gulf  where  nought  but  rubbish  grows, 
With  foul  black  swelth  ^  in  thickened  lumps 

that  lies. 
Which  up  in  the  air  such  stinking  vapours 

throws, 
That  over  there  may  fly  no  fowl  but  dies. 
Choked  with  the  pestilent  savours  that  arise. 
Hither  we  come,  whence  forth  we  still  did  pace. 
In  dreadful  fear  amid  the  dreadful  place.    217 

And  first  wathin  the  porch  and  jaws  of  Hell 
Sat  deep  Remorse  of  Conscience,  all  besprent 
With  tears :   and  to  herself  oft  would  she  tell 
Her  wretchedness,  and  cursing  never  stent  * 
To  sob  and  sigh ;  but  ever  thus  lament 
With  thoughtful  care,  as  she  that  all  in  vain 
Would  wear  and  waste  continually  in  pain.  224 

Her  eyes  unsteadfast,  rolling  here  and  there, 
Whirled  on  each  place,  as  place  that  vengeance 

brought, 
So  was  her  mind  continually  in  fear. 
Tossed    and    tormented    with     the    tedious 

thought 
Of    those    detested    crimes   which    she   had 

wrought ; 
With  dreadful  cheer  and  looks  thrown  to  the 

sky,  230 

Wishing  for  death,  and  yet  she  could  not  die. 

Next  saw  we  Dread,  all  trembling  how^  he 

shook, 
With  foot  uncertain  proffered  here  and  there  ; 
Benumbed  of  speech,  and  with  a  ghastly  look 
Searched  every  place  all  pale  and  dead  for 

fear, 


^  shrieked         ^  dreadful         ^  bore  sway  ^  going        ^  called         ^  scum         *  cease 


io6 


THOMAS    SACKVILLE,    LORD    BUCKHURST 


His  cap  borne  up  with  staring  ^  of  his  hair, 
Stoynd  ^  and  amazed  at  his  own  shade  for 

dread, 
And  fearing  greater  dangers  than  was  need. 238 

And  next  within  the  entry  of  this  lake 
Sat  fell  Revenge,  gnashing  her  teeth  for  ire. 
Devising  means  how  she  may  vengeance  take, 
Never  in  rest  till  she  have  her  desire ; 
But  frets  within  so  farforth  ^  with  the  fire 
Of  wreaking  flames,  that  now  determines  she 
To  die  by  Death,  or  venged  by  Death  to  be. 245 

When  fell  Revenge  with  bloody  foul  pretence 
Had  shown  herself  as  next  in  order  set, 
With  trembling  limbs  we  softly  parted  thence, 
Till  in  our  eyes  another  sight  we  met : 
When  from  my  heart  a  sigh  forthwith  I  fet,"* 
Rueing,  alas  !   upon  the  woeful  plight 
Of  Misery,  that  next  appeared  in  sight.     252 

His  face  was  lean,  and  somedeal  pined  away, 
And  eke  his  hands  consumed  to  the  bone. 
And  what  his  body  was  I  cannot  say. 
For  on  his  carcass  raiment  had  he  none 
Save  clouts  and  patches,  pieced  one  by  one. 
With  staff  in  hand,  and  scrip  on  shoulders  cast. 
His  chief  defence  against  the  winter's  blast.  259 

His  food,  for  most,^  was  wild  fruits  of  the 

trees, 
Unless  sometime  some  crumbs  fell  to  his  share. 
Which  in  his  wallet  long,  God  wot,  kept  he. 
As  on  the  which  full  daintily  would  he  fare ; 
His  drink  the  running  stream,  his  cup  the  bare 
Of   his  palm  closed,  his  bed   the  hard  cold 

ground. 
To  this  poor  life  was  Misery  y-bound.        266 

Whose   wretched    state   when    we   had   well 

beheld 
With  tender  ruth  on  him  and  on  his  feres  ^ 
In  thoughtful  cares,  forth  then  our  pace  we 

held. 
And  by  and  by,  another  shape  appears 
Of  greedy  Care,  still  brushing  up  the  breresj 
His  knuckles  knobbed,  his  flesh  deep  dented  in. 
With  tawed  hands,  and  hard  y-tanned  skin. 

The  morrow  gray  no  sooner  hath  begun 

To  spread  his  light,  even  peeping  in  our  eyes, 

When  he  is  up  and  to  his  work  y-run  ;        276 

^  standing  on  end     ^  astounded     ^  excessively 
*  fetched     ^  chiefly    ®  companions    ^  briars 


But  let  the  night's  black  misty  mantles  rise, 
And  with  foul  dark  never  so"  much  disguise 
The  fair  bright  day,  yet  ceaseth  he  no  while, 
But  hath  his  candles  to  prolong  his  toil.     280 

By  him  lay  heavy  Sleep,  the  cousin  of  Death 
Flat  on  the  ground,  and  still  as  any  stone, 
A  very  corpse,  save  yielding  forth  a  breath. 
Small  keep  ^  took  he  whom.  Fortune  frowned 

on 
Or  whom  she  lifted  up  into  the  throne 
Of  high  renown ;   but  as  a  living  death. 
So  dead  alive,  of  life  he  drew  the  breath.    287 

The  body's  rest,  the  quiet  of  the  heart. 

The  travail's  ease,  the  still  night's  fear  was  he, 

And  of  our  life  in  earth  the  better  part, 

Reaver  of  sight,  and  yet  in  whom  we  see 

Things  oft  that  tide,^  and  oft  that  never  be. 

Without  respect  esteeming  equally 

King  Cresus'  pomp,  and  Irus'  poverty.     294 

And  next  in  order  sad  Old  Age  we  found, 
His  beard  all  hoar,  his  eyes  hollow  and  blind. 
With  drooping  cheer  still  poring  on  the  ground. 
As  on  the  place  where  nature  him  assigned 
To  rest,  when  that  the  Sisters^  had  untwined 
His  vital  thread,  and  ended  with  their  knife 
The  fleeting  course  of  fast  declining  life.    301 

There  heard  we  him  with  broken  and  hollow 

plaint 
Rue  with  himself  his  end  approaching  fast. 
And  aU  for  nought  his  wretched  mind  torment 
With  sweet  remembrance  of  his  pleasures  past. 
And  fresh  delights  of  lusty  youth  forwast.^ 
Recounting  which,   how  would  he  sob   and 

shriek, 
And  to  be  young  again  of  Jove  beseek  !  ^  308 

But  and  ®  the  cruel  fates  so  fixed  be 
That  time  forepast^  cannot  return  again, 
This  one  request  of  Jove  yet  prayed  he : 
That  in  such  withered  plight,  and  wretched 

pain 
As  Eld,  accompanied  with  his  lothsome  train. 
Had  brought  on  him,  all  were  it  woe  and  grief, 
He  might  a  while  yet  linger  forth  his  life,    315 

And  not  so  soon  descend  into  the  pit. 
Where  Death,  when  he  the  mortal  corps  hath 
slain, 

^  heed     '^  happen     ^  the  Fates    *  wasted   away 
^  beseech  *  if  ^  passed  by 


A    MIRROR    FOR    MAGISTRATES 


107 


With  retchless  ^  hand  in  grave  doth  cover  it, 
Thereafter  never  to  enjoy  again 
The  gladsome  Hght,  but,  in  the  ground  y-lain. 
In   depth    of   darkness   waste   and   wear   to 

nought, 
As  he  had  never  into  the  world  been  brought. 

But    who    had    seen   him,    sobbing   how   he 
stood  323 

Unto  himself,  and  how  he  would  bemoan 
His  youth  forepast,  as  though  it  wrought  him 

good 
To  talk  of  youth,  all  were  his  youth  foregone,^ 
He  would  have  mused,  and  marvelled  much 
vi^hereon 


This  wretched  Age  should  life  desire  so  fain. 
And  knovvs  full  well  life  doth  but  length  his 
pain.  329 

Crookbacked  he  was,  toothshakcn,  and  blear- 
eyed, 

Went  on  three  feet,  and  sometime  crept  on 
four, 

With  old  tame  bones,  that  rattled  by  his  side. 

His  scalp  all  piled  ^  and  he  with  elde  forlore  ;  - 

His  withered  fist  still  knocking  at  death's 
door, 

Fumbling  and  drivelling  as  he  draws  his 
breath,  _  335 

For  brief,  the  shape  and  messenger  of  Death. 


^  careless        -  passed  away 


^  bare         ^  worn  with  age 


THE    RENAISSANCE 


EDMUND   SPENSER   (i552?-i599) 

From  THE   SHEPHEARDS   CALENDER 

FEBRUARIE 

^GLOGA    SeCUNDA 

Cuddie     Thenot 

CuDDiE.   Ah  for  pittie,  wil  rancke  Winters 

rage 
These  bitter  blasts  never  ginne  tasswage? 
The  kene   cold   blowes   through   my  beaten 

hyde, 
All  as  I  were  through  the  body  gryde.^ 
My  ragged  routes  ^  all  shiver  and  shake, 
As  doen  high  Towers  in  an  earthquake : 
They  wont  in  the  wind  wagge  their  wrigle 

tailes, 
Perke  ^  as  Peacock ;  but  nowe  it  avales.'* 
The.   Lewdly^    complainest    thou,    laesie 

ladde, 
Of  Winters  wracke  for  making  thee  sadde.  lo 
Must  not  the  world  wend  in  his  commun 

course, 
From  good  to  badd,  and  from  badde  to  worse, 
From  worse  unto  that  is  worst  of  all, 
And  then  returne  to  his  former  fall^? 
Who  will  not  suffer  the  stormy  time, 
Where  will  he  live  tyll  the  lusty  prime? 
Selfe  have  I  worne  out  thrise  threttie  yeares. 
Some  in  much  ioy,  many  in  many  teares. 
Yet  never  complained  of  cold  nor  heate. 
Of  Sommers  flame,  nor  of  Winters  threat :   20 
Ne  ever  was  to  Fortune  focman, 
But  gently  tooke,  that  ungently  came ; 
And  ever  my  flocke  was  my  chicfc  care, 
Winter  or  Sommcr  they  mought  well  fare. 
Cud.   No   marvcile,   Thenot,   if  thou  can- 

beare 
CherefuUy  the  Winters  wrath  full  chearc; 
For  Age  and  Winter  accord  full  nie. 
This  chill,  that  cold,  this  crooked,  that  wrye ; 

*  pierced  ^  young  bullocks  ^  pert  ^  droops  ^  igno- 
rantly  "  condition 


108 


And  as  the  lowring  Wether  lookes  downe, 
So  semest  thou  like  good  fryday  to  frowne,  30 
But  my  flowring  youth  is  foe  to  frost, 
My  shippe  unwont  in  stormes  to  be  tost. 
The.    The  soveraigne  of  seas  he  blames  in 
vaine. 
That,  once  sea-beate,  will  to  sea  againe. 
So  loytring  live  you  little  heardgroomes. 
Keeping  your  beasts  in  the  budded  broomes : 
And  when  the  shining  sunne  laugheth  once, 
You  deemen,  the  Spring  is  come  attonce; 
Tho  gynne^  you,  fond  flyes,  the  cold  to  scorne, 
And  crowing  in  pypes  made  of  greene  come,  40 
You  thinken  to  be  Lords  of  the  yeare ; 
But  eft,^  when  ye  count  you  freed  from  feare, 
Comes  the  breme  ^   winter  with    chamfred  * 

browes 
Full  of  wrinckles  and  frostie  furrowes : 
Drerily  shooting  his  stormy  darte, 
Which  cruddles  ^   the  blood,  and  pricks  the 

harte. 
Then  is  your  carelesse  corage  accoied," 
Your  careful!  heards  with  colde  bene  annoied. 
Then  paye  you  the  price  of  your  surquedrie," 
With  weeping,  and  wayling,  and  misery.  50 
Cud.  Ah  foolish  old  man,  I  scorne  thy  skill, 
That  wouldest  me,  my  springing  youngth  to 

spil: 
I  deeme  thy  braine  emperished  bee 
Through  rusty  elde,  that  hath  rotted  thee : 
Or  sicker  ^  thy  head  veray  tottie  ^  is. 
So  on  thy  corbe  ^°  shoulder  it  leanes  amisse. 
Now  thy  selfe  hast  lost  both  lopp  and  topp, 
Als "    my   budding  braunch    thou    wouldest 

cropp : 
But  were   thy  yeares  greene,   as  now  bene 

myne. 
To  other  delights  they  would  encline.  60 

Tho  wouldest  thou  learne  to  caroU  of  Love, 
And  hery  ^^  with  hymnes  thy  lasses  glove. 
Tho  wouldest  thou  pype  of  Phyllis  prayse : 
But  Phyllis  is  myne  for  many  dayes ; 
I  wonne  her  with  a  gyrdlc  of  gelt,^^ 

'  then  begin  "^  again,  after  ■*  hitler  ''  wrinkled 
^  curdles  '''  quieted  '  pride  ^  surely  ^  unsteady 
'"  crooked  "  also  ^-  praise  ''  gilt 


THE    SHEPHEARDS    CALENDER 


109 


Embost  with  buegle  about  the  bek. 

Such  an  one  shepeheards  woulde  make  full 

faine, 

Such  an  one  would  make  thee  younge  againe. 

The.    Thou  art  a  fon^  of  thy  love  to  boste, 

All  that  is  lent  to  love  wyll  be  lost.  70 

Cud.    Seest    howe    brag  -    yond    Bullocke 

beares, 
So  smirke,  so  smoothe,  his  pricked  eares? 
His  homes  bene  as  broade  as  Rainebowe  bent, 
His  dewelap  as  lythe  as  lasse  of  Kent, 
See  howe  he  venteth  ^  into  th&  wynd. 
Weenest  of  love  is  not  his  mynd? 
Seemeth  thy  flocke  thy  coujisell  can,* 
So  lustlesse  ^  bene  they,  so  weake,  so  wan. 
Clothed  with  cold,  and  hoary  wyth  frost. 
Thy  flocks  father  his  corage  hath  lost :  So 

Thy  Ewes,  that  wont  to  have  blowen  ^  bags. 
Like  wailefull  widdov^^es  hangen  their  crags  ^  : 
The  rather  *  lambes  bene  starved  with  cold, 
.■\J1  for  their  Maister  is  lustlesse  and  old. 
The.    Cuddie,  I  wote  thou    kenst  ^    little 

good, 
So  vainely  tadvaimce  thy  headlesse  hood. 
For   Youngth   is   a   bubble   blown   up   with 

breath, 
Whose   witt   is   weakenesse,   whose   wage   is 

death. 
Whose  way  is  wildernesse,  whose  ynne  ^°  Pen- 

aunce. 
And  stoope  gallant  Age  the  hoste  of  Gree- 

vaunce. 
But  shall  I  tel  thee  a  tale  of  truth,  91 

Which  I  cond  ^^  of  Tityrus  in  my  youth. 
Keeping  his  sheepe  on  the  hils  of  Kent? 
CtJD.    To  nought  more,  Thenot,  my  mind 

is  bent. 
Then  to  heare  novells  of  his  devise : 
They  bene  so  well  thewed,  and  so  wise. 
What  ever  that  good  old  man  bespake. 
The.   Many  meete  tales  of  youth  did  he 

make, 
.\nd  some  of  love,  and  some  of  chevalrie : 
But  none  fitter  than  this  to  applie.  100 

Now  listen  a  while,  and  hearken  the  end. 

There  grewe  an  aged  Tree  on  the  greene, 
A  goodly  Oake  sometime  had  it  bene. 
With  armes  full  strong  and  largely  displayd, 
But  of  their  leaves  they  were  disarayde : 
The  bodie  bigge,  and  mightely  pight,^^ 

*  fool  -  brisk  ^  puffs  *  know  ^  without  desire 
®  full  ^  necks  *  earlier  ^  knowest  ^'^  inn  ^^  learned 
^  firmly  set 


Throughly  rooted,  and  of  wonderous  hight : 
Whilome  had  bene  the  King  of  the  field, 
And  mochell  mast  ^  to  the  husband  did  yielde, 
And  with  his  nuts  larded ^  many  swine,     no 
But  now  the  gray  rnosse  marred  his  rinc,* 
His  bared  boughes  were  beaten  with  stormes, 
His  toppe  was  bald,  and  wasted  with  wormes, 
His  honor  decayed,  his  braunches  sere. 

Hard  by  his  side  grewe  a  bragging  Brere, 
Which  prowdly  thrust  into  Thelement, 
And  seemed  to  threat  the  Firmament. 
Yt  was  embellisht  with  blossom.es  fayre, 
And  thereto  aye  wonned  *  to  repayre 
The  shepheards  daughters  to  gather  flowres, 
To  peinct  their  girlonds  with  his  cclowres.  121 
And  in  his  small  bushes  used  to  shrcwde 
The  sweete  Nightingale  singing  so  lowde : 
Which  made  this  foolish  Brere  wexe  so  bold. 
That  on  a  time  he  cast  him  ^  to  scold 
And  snebbe^  the  good  Oake,  for  he  was  old. 

'Why  standst  there  (quoth  he),  thou  brutish 
blocke  ? 
'Nor  for  fruict  nor  for  shadowe  serves  thy 

stocke. 
'  Seest  how  fresh  my  flowers  bene  spredde, 
'Dyed  in  Lilly  white  and  Cremsm  redde,      130 
'W^ith  Leaves  engrained  in  lusty  greene, 
'Colours  meete  to  clothe  a  mayden  Qugene? 
'  Thy  wast  bignes ''  but  combers  the  grownd, 
'  And  dirks  *  the  beauty  of  my  blossoms  rownd. 
'The  mouldie  mosse,  Vv'hich  thee  accloieth,^ 
']My  Sinamon  smell  too  much  annoieth. 
'  WTherefore  soone,  I  rede  ^"  thee,  hence  remove, 
'Least  thou  the  price  of  my  displeasure  prove.' 
So  spake  this  bold  brere  Vvdth  great  disdame : 
Little  him  answered  the  Oake  againe,         140 
But  yielded,  with  shame  and  greefe  adav.-ed," 
That  of  a  weede  he  was  oueravred. 

Yt  chaimced  after  vpon  a  day. 
The  Hus-bandman  selfe  to  come  that  way, 
Of  custome  for  to  survewe  ^-  his  grov/nd. 
And  his  trees  of  state  in  compasse  rownd. 
Him  when  the  spitefull  brere  had  espyed, 
Causlesse  complained,  and  lowdly  ctyed 
Unto  his  Lord,  stirring  up  steme  strife : 

'  O  my  liege  Lord  !  the  God  of  my  life,     1 50 
'  Pleaseth  you  ponder  your  Suppliants  plaint, 
'Caused  of  wrong,  and  cruell  constraint, 
'  WTiich  I  your  poore  vassall  dayly  endure : 
'And  but  your  goodnes  the  same  recure,^' 

^  many  acorns  ^  fattened  ^  rind  -  were  accus- 
tomed ^  planned  ^  reprove  ^  vast  bigness  *  dark- 
ens ^  encumbers  ^°  advise  "  daunted  ^-  look  over 

13  Tf^nrw'nr 


no 


EDMUND    SPENSER 


'  Am  like  for  desperate  doole  ^  to  dye, 
'Through  felonous  force  of  mine  enemie.' 

Greatly  aghast  with  this  piteous  plea, 
Him  rested  the  goodman  on  the  lea, 
And  badde  the  Brere  in  his  plaint  proceede. 
With   painted  words  tho  ^  gan   this  proude 
weede  i6o 

(As  most  usen  Ambitious  folke) 
His  colowred  crime  with  crafte  to  cloke. 

*Ah  my  soveraigne,  Lord  of  creatures  all, 
'Thou  placer  of  plants  both  humble  and  tall', 
'Was  not  I  planted  of  thine  owne  hand, 
'To  be  the  primrose  of  all  thy  land, 
'  With  flowring  blossomes,  to  furnish  the  prime, 
'And  scarlet  berries  in  Sommer  time? 
'Howe  falls  it  then  that  this  faded  Oake, 
'  Whose  bodie  is  sere,  whose  braunches  broke, 
'Whose  naked  Armes  stretch  unto  the  fyi;e,i 
'Unto  such  tyrannie  doth  aspire,  172 

'Hindering  with  his  shade  my  lovely  light, 
'And  robbing  me  of  the  swete  sonnes  sight? 
'  So  beate  his  old  boughes  my  tender  side, 
'  That  oft  the  bloud  springeth  from  wounds 

wyde: 
'  Untimely  my  flowres  forced  to  fall, 
'That  bene  the  honor  of  your  Coronall. 
'And  oft  he  lets  his  cancker  wormes  light 
'  Upon^   my  braunches,    to    worke    me    more 
spight :  180 

And  oft  his  hoarie  locks  downe  doth  cast, 
'  Where  with  my  fresh  flowretts  bene  defast : 
'  For  this,  and  many  more  such  outrage, 
'  Craving  your  goodlihead  ^  to  aswage 
'The  ranckorous  rigour  of  his  might, 
'Nought  aske  I,  but  onely  to  hold  my  right : 
'  Submitting  me  to  your  good  sufferance, 
'And  praying  to  be  garded  from  greevance.' 

To  this  the  Oake  cast  him  to  replie 
Well  as  he  couth  "*;   but  his  enemie  190 

Had  kindled  such  coles  of  displeasure, 
That  the  good  man  noulde  ^  stay  his  leasure, 
But  home  him  hasted  with  furious  heate, 
Encreasing  his  wrath  with  many  a  threate. 
His  harmefuU  Hatchet  he  hent  '^  in  hand, 
(Alas,  that  it  so  ready  should  stand  !) 
And  to  the  field  alone  lie  speedeth, 
(Ay  little  helpc  to  harme  there  needeth  !) 
Anger  nould  let  him  spcakc  to  the  tree, 
Enaunter  '  his  rage  mought  cooled  bee ;      200 
But  to  the  roote  bent  his  sturdy  stroke. 
And  made  many  wounds  in  the  wast  *  Oake. 
The  Axes  edge  did  oft  turne  againe, 

^  grief   2  then    ^goodness    *  could    ^  would  not 
^  seized  ^  lest  perchance  ^  vast 


As  halfe  unwilling  to  cutte  the  graine : 

Semed,  the  sencelesse  yron  dyd  feare, 

Or  to  wrong  holy  eld  did  forbeare. 

For  it  had  bene  an  auncient  tree. 

Sacred  with  many  a  mysteree. 

And  often  crost  with  the  priestes  crewe. 

And  often  halowed  with  holy  water  dewe.  210 

But  sike  ^  fancies  weren  foolerie. 

And  broughten  this  Oake  to  this  miserye. 

For  nought  mought  they  quitten  him  from 

decay : 
For  fiercely  the  good  man  at  him  did  laye. 
The  blocke  oft  groned  under  the  blow, 
And  sighed  to  see  his  neare  overthrow. 
In  fine,  the  Steele  had  pierced  his  pitth : 
Tho  ^  downe  to  the  earth  he  fell  forthwith  : 
His  wonderous  weight  made  the  grounde  to 

qviake, 
Thearth  ^  shronke  vnder  him,  and  seemed  to 

shake.  220 

There  lyeth  the  Oake,  pitied  of  none. 

Now  stands  the  Brere  like  a  Lord  alone, 
Puffed  up  with  pryde  and  vaine  pleasaunce. 
But  all  this  glee  had  no  continuance ; 
For  eftsones  ^  Winter  gan  to  approche, 
The  blustering  Boreas  did  encroche, 
And  beate  upon  the  solitarie  Brere : 
For  nowe  no  succoure  was  scene  him  nere.^ 
Now  gan  he  repent  his  pryde  to  late ; 
For  naked  left  and  disconsolate,  230 

The  byting  frost  nipt  his  stalke  dead. 
The  watrie  wette  weighed  downe  his  head. 
And  heaped  snowe  burdned  him  so  sore. 
That  nowe  upright  he  can  stand  no  more : 
And  being  downe,  is  trodde  in  the  durt 
Of  cattell,  and  bronzed,  and  sorely  hurt. 
Such  was  thend  ®  of  this  Ambitious  brere. 

For  scorning  Eld • 

Cud.   Now  I  pray  thee,  shepheard,  tel  it  not 

forth : 
Here  is  a  long  tale,  and  little  worth.  240 

So  longe  have  I  listened  to  thy  speche. 
That  graffed  to  the  ground  is  my  breche ; 
My  hartblood  is  welnigh  frorne,^  I  feele. 
And  my  galage  ^  growne  fast  to  my  heele  : 
But  little  ease  of  thy  lewd  tale  I  tasted : 
Hye  thee  home,  shepheard,  the  day  is  nigh 

wasted. 

Thcnots  Emhleme 
Iddio,  perchc  e  vecchio, 
Fa  suoi  al  suo  essempio.^ 

^  such  ^  then  ^  the  earth  ^  soon  again  ^  near 
®  the  end  ^  frozen  ^  shoe  '  God,  because  he  is 
old,  makes  his  own  in  his  image. 


THE    FAERIE    QUEENE 


III 


Cuddies  Emhleme 

Niuno  vecchio 

Spaventa  Iddio.^ 

THE  FAERIE  QUEENE 
BOOK  I.  CANTO  I 


A  gentle  Knight  was  pricking  "  on  the  plaine, 
Ycladd  in  mightie  armes  and  silver  shielde, 
Wherein  old  dints  of  deepe  woundes  did  re- 
maine, 

*    The  cruell  markes  of  many  a  bloody  fielde ; 
Yet  armes  tiU  that  time  did  he  never  wield. 
His  angry  steede  did  chide  his  foming  bitt, 
As  much  disdayning  to  the  curbe  to  yield : 
FuU  jolly  knight  he  seemd,  and  faire  did  sitt, 

As  one  for  knightly  giusts '  and  fierce  en- 
counters litt. 

II 

But  on  his  brest  a  bloodie  Crosse  he  bore,  lo 
The  deare  remembrance  of  his  djdng  Lord, 
For  whose  sweete  sake  that  glorious  badge 

he  wore, 
And  dead,  as  living,  ever  him  ador'd : 
Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  scor'd, 
For  soveraine  hope  which  in  his  helpe  he 

had. 
Right  faithfuU  true  he  was  in  deede  and 

word; 
But  of  his  cheere  ^  did  seeme  too  solemn e 
sad; 
Yet   nothmg  did    he    dread,   but    ever  was 
ydrad.^ 

Ill 

Upon  a  great  adventure  he  was  bond,^ 

That  greatest  Gloriana  to  him  gave,         20 
(That  greatest  Glorious  Queene  of  Faery 

lond ') 
To  winne  him  worshippe,  and  her  grace  to 

have. 
Which  of  all  earthly  thinges  he  most  did 

crave : 
And  ever  as  he  rode  his  hart  did  earne* 
To  prove  his  puissance  in  battell  brave 
Upon  his  foe,  and  his  new  force  to  leame, 
Upon  his  foe,  a  Dragon  horrible  and  stearne. 

^  No  greybeard  fears. God.  ^  riding  ^jousts  *  de- 
meanor *  dreaded  ^  bound  "  land  ^  yearn 


IV 

A  lovely  Ladie  rode  him  faire  beside, 

Upon  a  lowly  Asse  more  white  then  snow, 
Yet  she  much  whiter;    but  the  same  did 
hide  30 

Under  a  vele,^  that  wimpled  ^  was  full  low ; 
And  over  all  a  blacke  stole '  shee  did  throw  : 
As  one  that  inly  mournd,  so  was  she  sad, 
And  heavie  sate  upon  her  palfrey  slow ; 
Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had, 

And  by  her,  in  a  line,''  a  milkewhite  lambe  she 
lad.^ 

V 

So  pure  and  innocent,  as  that  same  lambe, 
She  was  in  life  and  every  vertuous  lore; 
And  by  descent  from  RoyaU  lynage  came 
Of  ancient  Kinges  and  Queenes,  that  had  of 

yore 
Their    scepters     stretcht     from    East    to 

West  erne  shore,  41 

And  all  the  world  in  their  subjection  held ; 

Till  that  infernall  feend  with  foide  uprore 

Forwasted  ^  all  their  land,  and  them  expeld  ; 

Whom  to  avenge  she  had  this  Knight  from  far 

compeld. 

\T 

Behind  her  farre  away  a  Dwarfe  did  lag, 
That  lasie  seemd,  in  being  ever  last. 
Or  wearied  with  bearing  of  her  bag 
Of  needments  at  his  backe.     Thus  as  they 

past, 
The  day  with  cloudes  was  suddeine  overcast. 
And  angry  Jove  an  hideous  storme  of  raine 
Did  poure  into  his  Lemans  "^  lap  so  fast   52 
That  everie  wight  to  shrowd  ^  it  did  con- 
strain ; 
And  this  faire  couple  eke  ^  to  shroud  them- 
selves were  fain.^" 

VII 

Enforst  to  seeke  some  covert  nigh  at  hand, 
A  shadie  grove  not  farr  away  they  spide, 
That  promist  ayde  the  tempest  to  with- 
stand ; 
Whose   loftie   trees,    yclad   with   sommers 

pride, 
Did  spred  so  broad  that  heavens  light  did 
hide, 

^  veil  -  folded  ^  a  long  outer  garment  ■*  cord, 
or  rope  ^led  ^devastated  "sweetheart's  (  =  earth's) 
*  cover  ^  also  ^^  glad 


112 


EDMUND    SPENSER 


Not  perceable  with  power  of  any  slarr :    60 

And  all  within  were  pathes  and  alleles  wide, 

With   footing  worne,   and  leading  inward 

farr. 

Faire  harbour  that  them  seemes ;    so  in  they 

eatred  ar. 


XXIX 

At  length  they  chaunst  to  meet  upon  the  way 
An  aged  Sire,  in  long  blacke  weedes  yclad, 
His  feete  all  bare,  his  beard  all  hoarie  gray, 
And  by  his  belt  his  booke  he  hanging  had : 
Sober  he  seemde,  and  very  sagely  sad, 
And  to  the  ground  his  eyes  were  lowly  bent, 
Simple  in  shew,  and  voide  of  malice  bad ; 
And  all  the  way  he  prayed  as  he  went,    260 

And  often  knockt  his  brest,  as  one  that  did  re- 
pent. 

XXX 

He  faire  the  knight  saluted,  louting  ^  low. 
Who  faire  him  quited,^  as   that   courteous 

was; 
And  after  asked  him,  if  he  did  know 
Of  straunge  adventures,  which  abroad  did 
pas. 
"Ah!    my   dear   sonne,"    (quoth   he)    "how 
should,  alas  !  266 

Silly  old  man,  that  lives  in  hidden  cell, 
Bidding  his  beades  all  day  for  his  trespas, 
Tydings  of  warre  and  worldly  trouble  tcU? 
With  holy  father  sits  ^  not  with  such  thinges  to 
mell." 

XXXI 

"But  if  of  daunger,  which  hereby  doth  dwell, 
And  homebredd  evil  ye  desire  to  heare, 
Of  a  straunge  man  I  can  you  tidings  tell, 
That  wasteth  all  this  countrie,  farre  and 

neare." 
"Of  such,"  (saide  he,)   "I  chiefly  doe  in- 

qucre, 
And  shall  you  well  rewarde   to   shew   the 

place 
In  which  that  wicked  wight  his  dayes  cloth 

wcarc ; 
Forto  all  knighthood  it  is  foule  disgrace,  278 
That  such  a  cursed  creature  lives  so  long  a 

space." 


xxxn 

"Far  hence"  (quoth  he)  "in  wastfuU  wilder- 
nesse 
His  dwelling  is,  by  which  no  living  wight 
May  ever  passe,  but  thorough  ^  great  dis- 

tresse." 
"Now,"   (saide  the  Ladle,)   "draweth  to- 
ward night, 
And  well  I  wote,  that  of  your  later  fight 
Ye  all  forwearied  be ;  for  what  so  strong, 
But,  wanting  rest,  will  also  want  of  might? 
The  Sunne,  that  measures  heaven  all  day 
long,  287 

At  night  doth  baite  ^  his  steedes  the  Ocean 
waves  emong. 

XXXIII 

"Then  with  the  Sunne  take.  Sir,  your  timely 

rest, 
And   with   new   day   new   worke   at   once 

begin : 
Untroubled  night,  they  say,  gives  counsell 

best." 
"Right  well,  Sir  knight,  ye  have  advised 

bin." 
Quoth  then  that  aged  man:    "the  way  to 

v.dn 
Is  wisely  to  advise  ;   now  day  is  spent : 
Therefore  with  me  ye  may  take  up  your  In 
For  this  same  night."     The  knight  was  well 

content ;  296 

So  with  that  godly  father  to  his  home  they 

went. 

XXXIV 

A  litle  lowly  Hermitage  it  was, 

Downe  in  a  dale,  hard  by  a  forests  side, 
Far  from  resort  of  people  that  did  pas 
In  traveill  to  and  froe  :   a  litle  wyde 
There  was  an  holy  chappell  edifyde,^ 
Wherein  the  Hermite  dewly  wont  to  say 
His  holy  thinges  each  morne  and  everi-tyde ; 
Thereby  a  christall  streame  did  gently  play, 

Which  from  a  sacred  fountaine  welled  forth 
alway.  306 

XXXV 

Arrived  there,  the  litle  house  they  fill, 

Ne  looke   for   entertainement  where  none 
was : 


^  bowing       2  answered        ^  suits       "•  meddle 


through        ^  feed 


'  built 


THE    FAERIE    QUEENE 


113 


Rest  is  their  feast ,  and  all  thinges  at  their 

will. 
The  noblest  mind  the  best  contentment  has. 
With  f  aire  discourse  the  evening  so  they  pas  ; 
For  that  olde  man  of  pleasing  wordes  had 

store 
And  well  coitld  file  his  tongue  as  smooth  as 

glas : 
He  told  of  Saintes  and  Popes,  and  evermore 
He  strowd  an  Ave-Mary  after  and  before.  315 

XXXVI 

The  drouping  night   thus  creepeth  on   them 

fast, 
And  the  sad  humor  loading  their  eyeliddes, 
As  messenger  of  Morpheus/  on  them  cast 
Sweet  slombring  deaw,  the  which  to  sleep 

them  biddes. 
Unto  their  lodgings  then   his   guestes   he 

riddes : 
Where  when  all  drownd  in  deadly  sleepe  he 

fijides, 
He  to  his  studie  goes ;   and  there  amiddes 
His  magick  bookes  and  artes  of  sundries 

kindes,  323 

He  seekes  out   mighty  charmes,   to  trouble 

sleepy  minds. 

XXX\'II 

Then  choosing  otit  few  words  most  horrible, 
(Let   none   them  read)    thereof  did  verses 

frame ; 
With  which,  and  other  spelles  like  terrible, 
He  bad  awake  blacke  Plutoes  griesly  Dame  ; 
And  cursed  heven;    and  spake  reprochful 

shame 
Of  highest  God,  the  Lord  of  life  and  light : 
A  bold  bad  man,  that  dar'd  to  call  by  name 
Great  Gorgon,  prince  of  darknes  and  dead 

night;  332 

At  which  Cocytus  quakes,  and  Styx  is  put  to 

flight. 

XXXVIII 

And  forth  he  cald  out  of  deepe  darknes  dredd 
Legions  of  Sprights,  the  which,  like  htle 

flyes 
Fluttring  about  his  ever-damned  hedd, 
Awaite  whereto  their  service  he  applyes, 
To  aide  his  friendes,  or  fray  ^  his  enimies. 


Of  those  he  chose  out  two,  the  falsest  twoo, 
And  fittest  for  to  forge  true-sqeming  lyes : 
The  one  of  them  he  gave  a  message  too,  341 
The  other  by,  him  selfe  staide,  other  worke  to 
doo. 

XXXIX 

He,  making  speedy  way  through  spersed  ^  ayre, 
And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and 

deepe. 
To  Morpheus  house  doth  hastily  repaire. 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  fuU  steepe. 
And  low,  v/here  dawning  day  doth  never 

peepe, 
His  dwelling  is  ;  there  Tethys  his  wet  bed 
Doth   ever  wash,    and   Cynthia  still   doth 

steepe 
In  silver  deaw  his  ever-drouping  hed,      350 
Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle  black 

doth  spred. 

XL 

^^Tiose  double  gates  he  findeth  locked  fast. 
The  one  faire  fram'd  of  burnisht  Yvory, 
The  other  all  with  silver  overcast ; 
And  wakefid  dogges  before  them  farre  doe 

lye,  • 
Watching  to  banish  Care  their  enimy, 
WTio  oft  is  wont  to  trouble  gentle  Sleepe. 
By  them  the  Sprite  doth  passe  in  quietly, 
And  unto  Morpheus  comes,  whom  drowned 

deepe  359 

In  drowsie  fit  he  findes :   of  nothing  he  takes 

keepe.2 

XLI 

And  more,  to  luUe  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickhng  streame  from  high  rock  tiunbling 

downe. 
And  ever-drizling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like 

the  sowne 
Of  swarming  Bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne. 
No  other  noyse,  nor  peoples  troublous  cryes. 
As  still  are  v/ont  t 'annoy  the  walled  towne. 
Might  there  be  heard ;   but  carelesse  Quiet 

lyes  368 

Wrapt  m  etemaU  silence  farre  from  enimyes. 

XLII 

The  Messenger  approching  to  him  spake ; 
But  his  waste  wordes  retournd  to  him  in 
vaine : 


^  the  god  of  sleep     -  frighten 


^  dispersed 


heed 


114 


EDMUND    SPENSER 


So  sound  he  slept  that  nought  mought  ^  him 

awak©;j; 
Then  rudely  he  him  thrust,  and  pusht  with 

paine, 
Whereat  he  gan  to  stretch ;   but  he  againe 
Shooke  him  so  hard  that   forced   him  to 

speake. 
As   one   then  in    a    dreame,    whose   dryer 

braine 
Is  tost   with   troubled  sights   and  fancies 

weake, 
lie  mumbled    soft,  but  would    not    all    his 

silence  breake.  378 

XLIII 

The  Sprite  then  gan  more  boldly  him  to  wake, 
And  threatned  unto  him  the  dreaded  name 
Of  Hecate :   whereat  he  gan  to  quake, 
And,    lifting   up    his   lompish    head,    with 

blame 
Halfe  angrie  asked  him,  for  what  he  came. 
"Hether  (quoth  he)  "me  Archimago  sent. 
He  that  the  stubborne  Sprites  can  wisely 

tame. 
He  bids  thee  to  him  send  for  his  intent   386 
A  fit  false  dreame,  that  can  delude  the  sleepers 
sent." 


CANTO   III 

I 

Nought  is  there  under  heav'ns  wide  hollow- 

nesse, 
That    moves    more    deare    compassion    of 

mind. 
Then  beautie  brought  t'unworthie  wretched- 

nesse 
Through  envies  snares,  or  fortunes  freakes 

unkind. 
I,    whether   lately    through   her   brightnes 

blynd, 
Or  through  alleagcance  and  fast  fealty, 
Which  I  do  owe  unto  all  womankynd, 
Feele  my  hart  perst  with  so  great  agony,  8 
When  such  I  sec,  that  all  for  pitty  I  could  dy. 

II 

And  now  it  is  empassioned  so  decpe, 
For  fairest  Unaes  sake,  of  whom  I  sing, 


That  my  frayle  eies  these  lines  with  teares 

do  steepe, 
To  thinke  how  she  through  guyleful  han- 

deling, 
Though  true  as  touch,  though  daughter  of  a 

king,  _ 
Though  faire  as  ever  living  wight  was  fayre. 
Though  nor  in  word  nor  deede  ill  meriting, 
Is  from  her  knight  divorced  in  despayre, 
x\nd  her  dew  loves  dery  v'd  to  that  vile  witches 

shayre..  iS 


III 

Yet  she,  most  faithfull  Ladie,  all  this  while 
Forsaken,  wofuU,  solitarie  mayd. 
Far  from  all  peoples  preace,i  as  in  exile. 
In  wildernesse  and  wast  full  deserts  straj^d, 
To  seeke  her  knight ;   who,  subtily  betrayd 
Through   that   late  vision   which   th'   En- 

chaunter  wrought, 
Had  her  abandond.     She,  of  nought  affrayd. 
Through  woods  and  wastnes  wide  him  daily 

sought ;  26 

Yet  wished  tydinges  none  of  him  unto  her 

brought. 


IV 

One  day,  nigh  wearie  of  the  3Tksome  v.^ay, 
From  her  unhastie  beaste  she  did  alight ; 
And  on  the  grasse  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay, 
In  secrete  shadow,  far  from  all  mens  sight : 
From  her  fayre  head  her  fillet  she  undight, 
And  layd  her  stole  aside.  Her  angels  face, 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shyned  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place ; 

Did  never  mortall  eye  behold  such  heavenly 
grace.  36 


V 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  Lyon  rushed  suddeinly, 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  salvage^  blood. 
Soone  as  the  royall  virgin  he  did  spy, 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily. 
To  have  attonce  devourd  her  tender  corse; 
But  to  the  pray  when  as  he  drew  more  ny, 
His  bloody  rage  aswaged  with  remorse,^  44 

And  with  the  sight  amazd,  forgat  his  furious 
forse. 


^  might 


^  press,  throng        ^  savage 


pity 


EPITHALAMION 


115 


VI 

In  stead  thereof  he  kist  her  wearie  feet, 
-Ajid  lickt  her  lilly  hands  with  fawning  tong, 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet.^ 
O  how  can  beautie  maister  the  mo3t  strong, 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong  ! 
^^"hose  yielded  pryde  and  proud  submission. 

Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had  marked 
long, 
Her  hart  gan  melt  in  great  compassion  ;  53 

And  drizling  teares  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 


From  EPITHALAMION 

Ye  learned  sisters,  which  have  oftentimes 

Been  to  me  aiding,  others  to  adorn, 

Whom  ye  thought  worthy  of  your  graceful 

rimes, 
That  even  the  greatest  did  not  greatly  scorn  ■ 
To  hear  their  names  sung  in  your  sunple  lays, 
But  joyed  in  their  praise  ; 
And  when  ye  list  your  own  mishaps  to  mourn, 
Which  Death,  or  Love,  or  Fortune's  wreck  did 

raise, 
Your  string  could  soon  to  sadder  tenor  turn. 
And  teach  the  woods  and  waters  to  lament 
Your  doleful  dreariment :  11 

Now  lay  those  sorrowful  complaints  aside ; 
And,  having   all  yoiu"  heads  with   garlands 

crowned, 
Help  me  mine  own  love's  praises  to  resound ; 
Ne  let  the  same  of  any  be  envied ; 
So  Orpheus  did  for  his  own  bride  ! 
So  I  unto  myself  alone  will  sing ; 
The  woods  shall  to  me  answer,  and  my  echo 

ring. 

Early,  before  the  world's  light-giving  lamp 
His  golden  beam  upon  the  hills  doth  spread. 
Having    dispersed    the    night's     uncheerful 

damp,  21 

Do  ye  awake,  and,  with  fresh  lustihed,- 
Go  to  the  bower  of  my  beloved  love, 
My  truest  turtle  dove ; 
Bid  her  awake ;   for  Hymen  is  awake, 
And  long  since  ready  forth  his  mask  to  move, 
With  his  bright  tead  ^  that  flames  with  many 

a  flake. 
And  many  a  bachelor  to  wait  on  him. 
In  their  fresh  garments  trim  ; 
Bid  her  awake  therefore,  and  soon  her  dight, 
For  lo  !   the  wished  day  is  come  at  last,       31 


^  know         -  lustiness 


torch 


That  shall,  for  all  the  pains  and  sorrows  past, 
Pay  to  her  usury  of  long  delight : 
And,  whilst  she  doth  her  dight. 
Do  ye  to  her  of  joy  and  solace  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring. 

Bring  with  you  all  the  nymphs  that  you  can 

hear. 
Both  of  the  rivers  and  the  forests  green. 
And  of  the  sea  that  neighbours  to  her  near. 
All  with  gay  garlands  goodly  well  beseen ;   40 
And  let  them  also  with  them  bring  in  hand 
Another  gay  garland. 
For  my  fair  love,  of  lilies  and  of  roses. 
Bound  truelove-wise  with  a  blue  silk  riband ; 
And  let  them  make  great  store  of  bridal  posies, 
And  let  them  eke  bring  store  of  other  flowers, 
To  deck  the  bridal  bowers ; 
And  let  the  ground  whereas  ^  her  foot  shall 

tread. 
For  fear  the  stones  her  tender  foot  should 

wrong. 
Be  strewed  with  fragrant  flowers  all  along,  50 
And  diapered  -  like  the  discoloured  ^  mead ; 
Which  done,  do  at  her  chamber  door  await. 
For  she  will  waken  straight ; 
The  whiles  do  ye  this  song  unto  her  sing. 
The  woods  shall  to  you  answer,  and  your  echo 

ring. 


Wake  now,  my  love,  awake  !  for  it  is  time ; 
The  rosy  mom  long  since  left  Tithon's  bed,  75 
All  ready  to  her  sflver  coach  to  climb ; 
And  Phoebus  *  'gins  to  show  his  glorious  head. 
Hark,  how  the  cheerful  birds  do  chant  their 

lays 
And  carol  of  love's  praise. 
The  merry  lark  her  matins  sings  aloft ;         So 
The  thrush  replies  ;   the  mavis  descant  plays ; 
The  ouzel  shrills  ;   the  ruddock  warbles  soft ; . 
So  goodly  all  agree,  with  sweet  concent,* 
To  this  day's  merriment. 
Ah  !  my  dear  love,  why  do  ye  sleep  thus  long 
When  meeter  were  that  ye  should  now  awake, 
T'  await  the  coming  of  your  joyous  make,^ 
And  hearken  to  the  birds'  love-learned  song. 
The  dewy  leaves  among  ! 
For  they  of  joy  and  pleasance  to  you  sing,   90 
That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  their 

echo  ring. 

1  where     -  marked     ^  vari-coloured     ^  the   sun 
*  harmony  ®  mate 


ii6 


EDMUND    SPENSER 


My  love  is  now  awake  out  of  her  dreams, 
And  her  fair  eyes,  hke  stars  that  dimmed  were 
With  darksome  cloud,  now  show  their  goodly 

beams 
More  bright  than  Hesperus  his  head  doth  rear. 
Come  now,  ye  damsels,  daughters  of  delight, 
Help  quickly  her  to  dight : 
But  first  come  ye,  fair  Hours,  which  were  begot. 
In  Jove's  sweet  paradise,  of  Day  and  Night ; 
Which  do  the  seasons  of  the  year  allot,       loo 
And  all  that  ever  in  this  world  is  fair 
Do  make  and  still  repair : 
And  ye  three  handmaids  of  the  Cyprian  queen, 
The  which  do  still  adorn  her  beauty's  pride. 
Help  to  adorn  my  beautifulest  bride ; 
And  as  ye  her  array,  still  throw  between 
Some  graces  to  be  seen. 
And,  as  ye  use  to  Venus,  to  her  sing. 
The  whiles  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  your 

echo  ring. 

Lo  !  where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace. 
Like  Phoebe,^  from  her  chamber  of  the  East, 
Arising  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race,  150 

Clad  all  in  white,  that  'seems  a  virgin  best. 
So  well  it  her  beseems  that  ye  would  ween 
Some  angel  she  had  been. 
Her  long  loose  yellow  locks  like  golden  wire. 
Sprinkled   with   pearl,   and   pearling   flowers 

atween, 
Do  like  a  golden  mantle  her  attire ; 
And,  being  crowned  with  a  garland  green, 
Seem  like  some  maiden  queen. 
Her  modest  eyes,  abashed  to  behold 
So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare,  1 60 

Upon  the  lowly  ground  affixed  are  ; 
Ne  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too  bold. 
But  blush  to  hear  her  praises  sung  so  loud, 
So  far  from  being  proud. 
Nathless^  do  ye  still  loud  her  praises  sing, 
That  all  the  w^oods  may  answer,  and  your  echo 

ring. 

:jc  :}c  ^  :{:  :{£  :{e  »t; 

But  if  ye  saw  that  which  no  eyes  can  see,  1S5 
The  inward  beauty  of  her  lively  spright,^ 
Garnished  with  heavenly  gifts  of  high  degree. 
Much  more  then  would  ye  wonder  at  that 

sight. 
And  stand  astonished  like  to  those  which  read 
Medusa's  mazeful  head.  iqo 

There  dwells  sweet  love,  and  constant  chastity, 
Unspotted  faith,  and  comely  womanhood, 


the  moon        ^  nevertheless 


spirit 


Regard  of  honour,  and  mild  modesty ; 
There  virtue  reigns  as  queen  in  royal  throne, 
And  giveth  laws  alone. 
The  which  the  base  affections  do  obey, 
And  yield  their  services  unto  her  will ; 
Ne  thought  of  thing  uncomely  ever  may 
Thereto  approach,  to  tempt  her  mind  to  ill. 
Had  ye  once  seen  these  her  celestial  treasures 
And  unrevealed  pleasures,  201 

Then  would  ye  wonder,  and  her  praises  sing. 
That  all  the  woods  should  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring. 

Open  the  temple  gates  unto  my  love. 
Open  them  wide,  that  she  may  enter  in, 
And  all  the  posts  adorn  as  doth  behove. 
And  all  the  pillars  deck  with  garlands  trim, 
For  to  receive  this  Saint  with  honour  due, 
That  Cometh  in  to  you. 
With  trembling  steps  and  humble  reverence 
She  Cometh  in,  before  th'  Almighty's  view ; 
Of  her,  ye  virgins,  learn  obedience,  212 

When  so  ye  come  into  those  holy  places, 
To  humble  your  proud  faces  : 
Bring  her  up  to  th'  high  altar,  that  she  may 
The  sacred  ceremonies  there  partake. 
The  which  do  endless  matrimony  make ; 
And  let  the  roaring  organs  loudly  play 
The  praises  of  the  Lord  in  lively  notes ; 
The  whiles,  with  hollow  throats,  220 

The  choristers  the  joyous  anthem  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  their  echo 


Behold,  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands. 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks 
And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands. 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks 
And  the  pure  snow  with  goodly  vermeil  stain, 
Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain  : 
That  even  th'  angels,  which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain,  230 

Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 
Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seem.s  more  fair, 
The  more  they  on  it  stare. 
But  her  sad  ^  eyes,  still  fast'ned  on  the  ground, 
Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 
That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glance  awry 
Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound. 
Why  blush  ye,  love,  to  give  to  me  your  hand, 
The  pledge  of  all  our  band  ? 
Sing,  ye  sweet  angels,  Alleluia  sing,  240 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo 
ring. 

1  CArir^iic 


AMORETTI 


117 


Now  all  is  done :  bring  home  the  bride  again  ; 
Bring  home  the  triumph  of  our  victory : 
Bring  home  with  you  the  glory  of  her  gain, 
With  joyance  bring  her  and  with  jollity. 
Never  had  man  more  joyful  day  than  this 
Whom  heaven  would  heap  with  bliss ; 
Make  feast  therefore  now  all  this  live-long 

day; 
This  day  for  ever  to  me  holy  is. 
Pour  out  the  wine  without  restraint  or  stay, 
Pour  not  by  cups,  but  by  the  bellyful,       251 
Pour  out  to  all  that  will, 
And  sprinkle  all  the  posts  and  walls  with  wine, 
That  they  may  sweat  and  drunken  be  withal. 
Crown  ye  god  Bacchus  with  a  coronal. 
And  Hymen  also  crown  with  wreaths  of  vine ; 
And  let  the  Graces  dance  unto  the  rest. 
For  they  can  do  it  best : 
The  whiles  the  maidens  do  their  carol  sing, 
To  which  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  their 

echo  ring.  260 

Ring  ye  the  bells,  ye  young  men  of  the  town, 
And  leave  your  wonted  labours  for  this  day : 
This  day  is  holy ;  do  ye  write  it  down. 
That  ye  forever  it  remember  may ; 
This  day  the  sun  is  in  his  chiefest  height. 
With  Barnaby  the  bright. 
From  whence  dechning  daily  by  degrees. 
He  somewhat  loseth  of  his  heat  and  light. 
When  once  the  Crab  behind  his  back  he  sees. 
But  for  this  time  it  ill  ordained  was,  270 

To  choose  the  longest  day  in  all  the  year. 
And  shortest  night,  when  longest  fitter  were : 
Yet  never  day  so  long,  but  late  would  pass. 
Ring  ye  the  bells,  to  make  it  wear  away. 
And  bonfires  make  all  day ; 
And  dance  about  them,  and  about  them  sing. 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo 
ring. 

Ah  !   when  will  this  long  weary  day  have  end, 
And  lend  me  leave  to  come  unto  my  love  ? 
How  slowly  do  the  hours  their  numbers  spend  ! 
How  slowly  does  sad  Time  his  feathers  move  ! 
Haste  thee,  O  fairest  planet,  to  thy  home,   282 
Within  the  western  foam : 
Thy  tired  steeds  long  since  have  need  of  rest. 
Long  though  it  be,  at  last  I  see  it  gloom. 
And  the  bright  evening-star  with  golden  crest 
Appear  out  of  the  East. 
Fair  child  of  beauty  !   glorious  lamp  of  love  ! 
That  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  in  ranks  dost  lead, 
And  guidest  lovers  through  the  nightes  dread. 
How  cheerfully  thou  lookest  from  above,  291 


And  seem'st  to  laugh  atween  thy  twinkling 

light, 
As  joying  in  the  sight 
Of  these  glad  many,  which  for  joy  do  sing. 
That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  their 

echo  ring ! 

Now  cease,  ye  damsels,  your  delights  forepast ; 
Enough  it  is  that  all  the  day  was  yours : 
Now  day  is  done,  and  night  is  nighing  fast, 
Now  brmg  the  bride  into  the  bridal  bowers. 
The  night  is  come,  now  soon  her  disarray,  300 
.And  in  her  bed  her  lay ; 
Lay  her  in  lilies  and  in  violets, 
And  silken  curtains  over  her  display, 
And  odoured  sheets,  and  Arras  coverlets. 
Behold  how  goodly  my  fair  love  does  lie, 
In  proud  humility ! 
Like  unto  Maia,  whenas  Jove' her  took 
In  Tempe,  lying  on  the  flowery  grass, 
'Twixt  sleep  and  wake,  after  she  weary  was 
With  bathing  in  the  AcidaHan  brook.  310 

Now  it  is  night,  ye  damsels  may  be  gone, 
And  leave  my  love  alone. 
And  leave  likewise  your  former  lay  to  sing : 
The  woods  no  more  shall  answer,  nor  your  echo 
ring. 

Song!  made  in  lieu  of  Juany  ornaments,      427 

With  which  my  love  should  duly  have  been  decked, 

Which  cutting  ojf  through  hasty  accidents. 

Ye  would  not  stay  your  due  time  to  expect,   430 

But  promised  both  to  recompense ; 

Be  unto  her  a  goodly  ornament, 

And  for  short  time  an  endless  monument! 

AMORETTI 

vni 

More  than  most  fair,  full  of  the  living  fire 

Kindled  above  unto  the  Maker  near ; 

No  eyes,  but  joys,  in  which  all  powers  con- 
spire. 

That  to  the  world  naught  else  be  counted  dear ; 

Through  your  bright  beams  doth  not  the 
blinded  guest 

Shoot  out  his  darts  to  base  affections  wound ; 

But  angels  come,  to  lead  frail  minds  to  rest 

In  chaste  desires,  on  heavenly  beauty  bound. 

You  frame  my  thoughts,  and  fashion  me 
within ; 

You  stop  my  tongue,  and  teach  my  heart  to 
speak ;  10 


11} 


EDMUND    SPENSER 


You  calm  the  storm  that  passion  did  begin, 
Strong  through  your  cause,  but  by  your  virtue 
weak. 
Dark  is  the  world  where  your  light  shined 

never ; 
Well  is  he  born  that  may  behold  you  ever. 

XXIV 

Like  as  a  ship,  that  through  the  ocean  wide 
By  conduct  of  some  star  doth  make  her  way, 
Whenas  a  storm  hath   dimmed  her  trusty 
guide,  / 

Out  of  her  course  doth  wander  far  astray ; 
So  I,  whose  star,  that  wont  with  her  bright  ray 
Me  to  direct,  with  clouds  is  overcast. 
Do  wander  now,  in  darkness  and  dismay. 
Through  hidden  perils  round  about  me  placed ; 
Yet  hope  I  well  that,  when  this  storm  is  past, 
My  Helice,  the  lodestar  of  my  life,  lo 

Will  shine  again,  and  look  on  me  at  last, 
With  lovely  light  to  clear  my  cloudy  grief : 
Till  then  I  wander  careful,  comfortless, 
In  secret  sorrow  and  sad  pensiveness. 

PROTHALAMION 

Calm  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling 

air 
Sweet  breathing  Zephyrus  did  softly  play, 
A  gentle  spirit,  that  lightly  did  delay 
Hot  Titan's  beams,  which  then  did  glister  fair ; 
When  I  (whom  sullen  care, 
Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitless  stay 
In  princes'  court,  and  expectation  vain 
Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  do  fly  away, 
Like  empty  shadows,  did  afflict  my  brain) 
Walked  forth,  to  ease  my  pain,  lo 

Along  the  shore  of  silver  streaming  Thames ; 
Whose  rutty  ^  bank,  the  which  his  river  hems, 
Was  painted  all  with  variable  flowers. 
And  all  the  meads  adorned  with  dainty  gems, 
Fit  to  deck  maidens'  bowers. 
And  crown  their  paramours, 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames !    run  softly,  till  I  end  my 
song. 

There,  in  a  meadow,  by  the  river's  side, 
A  flock  of  nymphs  I  chanced  to  espy,  20 

All  lovely  daughters  of  the  flood  thereby, 
With  goodly  greenish  locks,  all  loose  untied, 


As  each  had  been  a  bride : 

And  each  one  had  a  little  wicker  basket, 

Made  of  fine  twigs,  entrailed  curiously. 

In  which  they  gathered  flowers  to  fill  their 

flasket. 
And  with  fine  fingers  cropt  full  feateously  ^ 
The  tender  stalks  on  high. 
Of  every  sort  which  in  that  meadow  grew 
They  gathered  some ;   the  violet,  paUid  blue. 
The  little  daisy,  that  at  evening  closes,        31 
The  virgin  lily,  and  the  primrose  true. 
With  store  of  vermeil  roses. 
To  deck  their  bridegroom's  posies, 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames !    run  softly,  tiU  I  end  my 
song. 

With  that,  I  saw  two  swans  of  goodly  hue 

Come  softly  swimming  down  along  the  Lee ;  38 

Two  fairer  birds  I  yet  did  never  see  ; 

The  snow  which  doth  the  top  of  Pindus  strew 

Did  never  whiter  shew, 

Nor  Jove  himself,  when  he  a  swan  would  be 

For  love  of  Leda,  whiter  did  appear ; 

Yet  Leda  was,  they  say,  as  white  as  he. 

Yet  not  so  white  as  these,  nor  nothing  near ; 

So  purely  white  they  were. 

That  even  the  gentle  stream,  the  which  them 

bare, 
Seemed  foul  to  them,  and  bade  his  billows 

spare 
To  wet  their  silken  feathers,  lest  they  might 
Soil  their  fair  plumes  with  water  not  so  fair. 
And  mar  their  beauties  bright,  51 

That  shone  as  heaven's  fight, 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames !    run  softly,  tiU  I  end  my 

song. 

Eftsoons  the  nymphs,  which  now  had  flowers 

their  fiU, 
Ran  all  in  haste  to  see  that  silver  brood. 
As  they  came  floating  on  the  crystal  flood ; 
Whom  when  they  saw,  they   stood  amazed 

still, 
Their  wondering  eyes  to  fiU ;  59 

Them  seemed  they  never  saw  a  sight  so  fair 
Of  fowls  so  lovely,  that  they  sure  did  deem 
Them  heavenly  bom,  or  to  be  that  same  pair 
Which  through  the  sky  draw  Venus'  silver 

team ; 
For  sure  they  did  not  seem 
To  be  begot  of  any  earthly  seed, 


^  rooty 


^  neatly 


PROTHALAMION 


119 


But  ralher  angels,  or  of  angels'  breed ; 

Yet  were  they  bred  of  summer's  heat,  they 

say. 
In  sweetest  season,  when  each  flower  and  weed 
The  earth  did  fresh  array  ; 
So  fresh  they  seemed  as  day,  70 

Even  as  their  bridal   day,   which    was    not 
long : 
Sweet  Thames !    rim  softly,  till  I  end  my 
song. 

Then  forth  they  all  out  of  their  baskets  drew 
Great   store  of  flowers,   the  honour  of   the 

field, 
That  to  the  sense  did  fragrant  odours  yield. 
All  which  upon  those  goodly  birds  they  threw, 
And  all  the  waves  did  strew, 
That  like  old  Peneus'  waters  they  did  seem, 
When  down  along  by  pleasant  Tempe's  shore, 
Scattered  with  flowers,  through  Thessaly  they 

stream,  80 

That  they  appear,  through  lilies'  plenteous 

store, 
Like  a  bride's  chamber  floor. 
Two  of  those  nymphs,  meanwhile,  two  gar- 
lands bound 
Of  freshest  flowers  which  in  that  mead  they 

found, 
The  which  presenting  all  in  trim  array, 
Their     snowy    foreheads     therewithal     they 

crowned. 
Whilst  one  did  sing  this  lay, 
Prepared  against  that  day, 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames !    run  softly,  till  I  end  my 

song.  90 

"Ye  gentle  birds  !   the  world's  fair  ornament. 
And  heaven's  glory,  whom  this  happy  hour 
Doth  lead  unto  your  lover's  blissful  bower, 
Joy  may  you  have,  and  gentle  hearts'  content 
Of  your  love's  couplement ; 
And  let  fair  Venus,  that  is  queen  of  love. 
With  her  heart-quelling  son  upon  you  smile, 
Whose  smile,  they  say,  hath  virtue  to  remove 
All  love's  dislike,  and  friendship's  faulty  guile 
For  ever  to  assoil ;  100 

Let    endless    peace    your    steadfast     hearts 

accord. 
And  blessed  plenty  wait  upon  your  board ; 
And    let    your    bed  with    pleasures    chaste 

abound, 
That  fruitful  issue  may  to  you  afford, 
Which  may  your  foes  confound, 
And  make  your  joys  redound 


Upon  your  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames  !    run  softly,  till  I  end  my 
song." 

So  ended  she ;   and  all  the  rest  around 

To  her  redoubled  that  her  undersong,         1 1  o 

W' hich  said  their  bridal  day  should  not  be  long : 

And  gentle  Echo  from  the  neighbour  ground 

Their  accents  did  resound. 

So  forth  those  joyous  birds  did  pass  along, 

Adown  the  Lee,  that  to  them  murmured  low, 

As  he  would  speak,  but  that  he  lacked   a 

tongue, 
Yet  did  by  signs  his  glad  affection  show. 
Making  his  stream  run  slow. 
And  all  the  fowl  which  in  his  flood  did  dwell 
'Gan  flock  about  these  twain,  that  did  excel 
The  rest,  so  far  as  Cynthia^  doth  shend  -   121 
The  lesser  stars.     So  the}',  enranged  well, 
Did  on  those  two  attend. 
And  their  best  service  lend. 
Against  their  wedding  day,  which  was  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames !    run  softly,  till  I  end  my 

song. 

At  length  they  all  to  merry  London  came. 
To  merry  London,  my  most  kindly  nurse. 
That  to  me  gave  this  life's  first  native  source ; 
Though  from  another  place  I  take  my  name, 
An  house  of  ancient  fame:  131 

There  v.'hen  they  came,  whereas  ^  those  bricky 

towers 
The  which  on  Thames'  broad,  aged  back  do 

ride. 
Where  now  the  studious  la\^yers  have  their 

bowers. 
There  whilom  wont  the  Templar  Knights  to 

bide. 
Till  they  decayed  through  pride : 
Next  whereunto  there  stands  a  stately  place. 
Where  oft  I  gained  gifts  and  goodly  grace 
Of  that  great  lord  which  therein  wont  to  dwell. 
Whose  want  too  well  now  feels  my  friendless 

case ;  i 40 

But  ah  !   here  fits  not  well 
Old  woes,  but  joys,  to  tell, 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames !    run  softly,  till  I  end  my 

song. 

Yet  therein  now  doth  lodge  a  noble  peer. 
Great  England's  glory,  and  the  world's  wide 
wonder. 


the  moon 


^  shame         ^  where 


I20 


EDMUND    SPENSER 


Whose  dreadful  name  late  through  all  Spain 

did  thunder, 
And  Hercules'  two  pillars  standing  near 
Did  make  to  quake  and  fear : 
Fair  branch  of  honour,  flower  of  cTiivalry  !   1 50 
That  fillest  England  with  thy  triumph's  fame, 
Joy  have  thou  of  thy  noble  victory. 
And  endless  happiness  of  thine  own  name, 
That  promiseth  the  same  ; 
That  through  thy  prowess  and  victorious  arms 
Thy  country  may  be  freed  from  foreign  harms  ; 
And  great  Elisa's  glorious  name  may  ring 
Through  all  the  world,  filled  with  thy  wide 

alarms, 
Which  some  brave  muse  may  sing 
To  ages  following,  160 

Upon  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames  '    run  softly,  till  I  end  my 

song. 

From  those  high  towers  this  noble  lord  issuing, 

Like  radiant  Hesper  when  his  golden  hair 

In  th'  ocean  billows  he  hath  bathed  fair, 

Descended  to  the  river's  open  viewing, 

With  a  great  train  ensuing. 

Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  be  seen 

Two  gentle  knights  of  lovely  face  and  feature 

Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  any  queen,   170 

With  gifts  of  wit,  and  ornaments  of  nature. 

Fit  for  so  goodly  stature, 

That  like  the  twins  of  Jove  they  seemed  in 

sight, 
Which    deck    the   baldrick   of    the   heavens 

bright ; 
They  two,  forth  pacing  to  the  river's  side. 
Received  those  two  fair  brides,  their  love's 

delight ; 
Which,  at  th'  appointed  tide, 
Each  one  did  make  his  bride,  178 

Against  their  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames  !    run  softly,  till  I  end  my 

song. 


From  AN  HYMN  IN  HONOUR  OF 
BEAUTY 

What  time  this  world's  great  Workmaster  did 

cast 
To  make  all  things  such  as  we  now  behold,  30 
It  seems  that  he  before  his  eyes  had  placed 
A  goodly  pattern,  to  whose  perfect  mould 
He  fashioned  them  as  comely  as  he  could. 
That  now  so  fair  and  seemly  they  appear 
As  nought  may  be  amended  anywhere.        35 


That  wondrous  pattern,  wheresoe'er  it  be, 
Whether  in  earth  laid  up  in  secret  store. 
Or  else  in  heaven,  that  no  man  may  it  see 
With  sinful  eyes,  for  fear  it  to  deflore,^ 
Is  perfect  Beauty,  which  all  men  adore ;      40 
Whose  face  and  feature  doth  so  much  excel 
All  mortal  sense,  that  none  the  same  may  tell. 

Thereof  as  every  earthly  thing  partakes 
Or  more  or  less,  by  influence  divine. 
So  it  more  fair  accordingly  it  makes,  45 

And  the  gross  matter  of  this  earthly  mine 
Which  clotheth  it,  thereafter  doth  refine. 
Doing  away  the  dross  which  dims  the  light 
Of  that  fair  beam  which  therein  is  empight.^ 

For,  through  infusion  of  celestial  power        50 
The  duller  earth  it  quickeneth  with  delight. 
And  life-full  spirits  privily  doth  pour 
Through  all  the  parts,  that  to  the  looker's  sight 
They  seem  to  please.     That  is  thy  sovereign 

might, 
O  Cyprian  queen  !    which,  flowing  from  the 

beam 
Of  thy  bright  star,  thou  into  them  dost  stream. 

That  is  the  thing  which  giveth  pleasant  grace 
To  all  things  fair,  that  kindleth  lively  fire. 
Light  of  thy  lamp  ;  which,  shining  in  the  face. 
Thence  to  the  soul  darts  amorous  desire,  60 
And  robs  the  hearts  of  those  which  it  admire  ; 
Therewith  thou  pointest  thy  son's  poisoned 

arrow. 
That  wounds  the  life,  and  wastes  the  inmost 


How  vainly  then  do  idle  wits  invent 
That  beauty  is  nought  else  but  mixture  made 
Of  colours  fair,  and  goodly  temp'rament '    66 
Of  pure  complexions,  that  shall  quickly  fade 
And  pass  away,  like  to  a  summer's  shade ; 
Or  that  it  is  but  comely  composition  69 

Of  parts  well  measured,  with  meet  disposition  ! 

Hath  white  and  red  in  it  such  wondrous  power. 
That  it  can  pierce  through  th'  eyes  unto  the 

heart. 
And  therein  stir  such  rage  and  restless  stour,* 
As  nought  but  death  can  stint  his  dolour's 

smart  ? 
Or  can  proportion  of  the  outward  part         75 
Move  such  affection  in  the  inward  mind, 
That  it  can  rob  both  sense,  and  reason  blind? 

'  sully      "^  placed      ^  mixture       *  strife 


AN   HYMN    OF    HEAVENLY    BEAUTY 


121 


Why  do  not  then  the  blossoms  of  the  field, 
Which  are  arrayed  with  much  more  orient  hue, 
And  to  the  sense  most  dainty  odours  yield,  80 
Work  like  impression  in  the  looker's  view  ? 
Or  why  do  not  fair  pictures  like  power  shew, 
In  which  of ttimes  we  nature  see  of  ^  art 
Excelled  in  perfect  limning  every  part  ?       84 

But  ah  !  believe  me,  there  is  more  than  so. 
That  works  such  wonders  in  the  minds  of  men  ; 
I,  that  have  often  prov'd,  too  well  it  know, 
And  whoso  list  the  like  assays  to  ken 
Shall  find  by  trial,  and  confess  it  then. 
That  Beauty  is  not,  as  fond  men  misdeem,  go 
An  outward  show  of  things  that  only  seem. 

For  that  same  goodly  hue  of  white  and  red, 
With  which  the  cheeks  are  spruikled,  shall 

decay. 
And  those  sweet  rosy  leaves,  so  fairly  spread 
Upon  the  lips,  shall  fade  and  fall  away         95 
To  that  they  were,  even  to  corrupted  clay : 
That  golden  wire,  those  sparkling  stars  so 

bright 
Shall  turn  to  dust,  and  lose  their  goodly  light. 

Bub  that  fair  lamp,  from  whose  celestial  ray 
That  light  proceeds  which  kindleth  lovers'  fire, 
Shall  never  be  extinguished  nor  decay;      loi 
But  when  the  vital  spirits  do  expire, 
Unto  her  native  planet  shall  retire ; 
For  it  is  heavenly  born  and  cannot  die, 
Being  a  parcel  of  the  purest  sky.  105 


So  every  spirit,  as  it  is  most  pure,  127 

And  hath  in  it  the  more  of  heavenly  light , 
So  it  the  fairer  body  doth  procure 
To  habit  in,  and  it  more  fairly  dight  ^         130 
With  cheerful  grace  and  amiable  sight ; 
For  of  the  soul  the  body  form  doth  take ; 
For  soul  is  form,  and  doth  the  body  make. 

Therefore,  wherever  that  thou  dost  behold 
A  comely  corps, ^  with  beauty  fair  endued,  135 
Know  this  for  certain,  that  the  same  doth  hold 
A  beauteous  soul,  with  fair  conditions  thewed,^ 
Fit  to  receive  the  seed  of  virtue  strewed ; 
For  all  that  fair  is,  is  by  nature  good ; 
That  is  a  sign  to  know  the  gentle  blood.     140 

Yet  oft  it  falls  that  many  a  gentle  mind 
Dwells  in  deformed  tabernacle  drowned, 


Either  by  chance,  against  the  course  of  kind. 
Or  through  unaptness  in  the  substance  found, 
Which  it  assumed  of  some  stubborn  ground, 
That  will  not  yield  unto  her  form's  direction, 
But  is  deformed  with  some  foul  imperfection. 

And  oft  it  falls  (ay  me,  the  more  to  rue  !) 
That  goodly  beauty,  albe  heavenly  borne, 
Is  foul  abused,  and  that  celestial  hue,         150 
Which  doth  the  world  with  her  delight  adorn, 
Made  but  the  bait  of  sin,  and  sinners'  scorn. 
Whilst  every  one  doth  seek  and  sue  to  have  it, 
But  every  one  doth  seek  but  to  deprave  it. 

Yet  nathemore  ^  is  that  fair  beauty's  blame. 
But  theirs  that  do  abuse  it  unto  ill:  156 

Nothing  so   good,   but   that   through   guilty 

shame 
May  be  corrupt,  and  wrested  unto  will : 
Natheless  the  soul  is  fair  and  beauteous  still. 
However  flesh's  fault  it  filthy  make ;  160 

For  things  immortal  no  corruption  take. 

From  AN  HYMN  OF  HEAVENLY 
BEAUTY 

The  means,  therefore,  which  unto  us  is  lent, 
Him  to  behold,  is  on  his  works  to  look. 
Which  he  hath  made  in  beauty  excellent. 
And  in  the  same,  as  in  a  brazen  book,        130 
To  read  enregistered  in  every  nook 
His  goodness,  which  his  beauty  doth  declare ; 
For  all  that's  good  is  beautiful  and  fair. 

Thence  gathering  plumes  of  perfect  specula- 
tion. 
To  imp  the  wings  of  thy  high-flying  mind,  135 
Mount  up  aloft,  through  heavenly  contempla- 
tion. 
From  this  dark  world,  whose  damps  the  soul 

do  blind. 
And  like  the  native  brood  of  eagle's  kind. 
On  that  bright  Sun  of  Glory  fix  thine  eyes. 
Cleared  from  gross  mists  of  frail  infirmities. 

Humbled  with  fear  and  awful  reverence,     141 
Before  the  footstool  of  his  Majesty, 
Throw   thyself  down,  with   trembling  inno- 
cence, 
Ne  dare  look  up  with  corruptible  eye 
On  the  dread  face  of  that  great  Deity,         145 
For  fear  lest,  if  he  chance  to  look  on  thee. 
Thou  turn  to  nought,  and  quite  confoimded  be. 


^  by    ^  adorn    ^  body    *  qualities  endowed 


^  none  the  more 


122 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY 


But  lowly  fall  before  his  mercy-seat, 
Close  covered  with  the  Lamb's  integrity 
From  the  just  wrath  of  his  avengeful  threat  150 
That  sits  upon  the  righteous  throne  on  high ; 
His  throne  is  buUt  upon  Eternity, 
More  firm  and  durable  than  steel  or  brass, 
Or  the  hard  diamond,  which  them  both  doth 
pass. 

His  sceptre  is  the  rod  of  Righteousness,      155 
With  which  he  bruiseth  all  his  foes  to  dust 
And  the  great  Dragon  strongly  doth  repress 
Under  the  rigour  of  his  judgment  just ; 
His  seat  is  Truth,  to  which  the  faithful  trust. 
From  whence  proceed  her  beams  so  pure  and 
bright  1 60 

That  all  about  him  sheddeth  glorious  light. 

:^  ric  *  *  :i:  *  * 

Ah,  then,  my  hungry  soul !    which  long  hast 

fed 
On  idle  fancies  of  thy  foolish  thought. 
And,  with  false  beauty's  flattering  bait  misled. 
Hast  after  vain  deceitful  shadows  sought,   291 
Which  all  are  fled,  and  now  have  left  thee 

nought 
But  late  repentance  through  thy  follies'  prief ;  ^ 
Ah  !  cease  to  gaze  on  matter  of  thy  grief : 

And  look  at  last  up  to  that  Sovereign  Light, 
From  whose  pure  beams  all  perfect  beauty 

springs,  296 

That  kindleth  love  in  every  godly  spright, 
Even  the  love  of  God  ;   which  loathing  brings 
Of   this   vile   world   and    these   gay-seeming 

things : 
With  whose  sweet  pleasures  being  so  possessed, 
Thy  straying  thoughts  henceforth  forever  rest. 

SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY  (i  554-1586) 

ASTROPHEL   AND   STELLA 

I 

Loving  in  truth,  and  fain  ^  in  verse  my  love  to 

show, 
That  she,  dear  she,  might  take  some  pleasure 

of  my  i^ain,  — 
Pleasure  might  cause  her  read,  reading  might 

make  her  know, 
Knowledge  might  pity  win,  and  pity  grace 

obtain,  — 

^  proof        ^  desirous 


I  sought  fit  words  to  paint  the  blackest  face 
of  woe ; 

Studying  inventions  fine,  her  wits  to  enter- 
tain. 

Oft  turning  others'  leaves,  to  see  if  thence 
would  flow 

Some  fresh  and  fruitful  showers  upon  my  sun- 
burn'd  brain. 

But  words  came  halting  forth,  wanting  In- 
vention's stay ; 

Invention,  Nature's  child,  fled  step-dame 
Study's  blows ;  10 

And  others'  feet  still  seem'd  but  strangers  in 
my  way. 

Thus,  great  with  child  to  speak,  and  helpless 
in  my  throes, 

Biting  my  truant  pen,  beating  myself  for 
spite ; 

"Fool,"  said  my  Muse  to  me,  "look  in  thy 
heart,  and  write." 

XV 

You  that  do  search  for  every  purling  spring 
Which  from  the  ribs  of  old  Parnassus  flows, 
And  every  flower,  not  sweet  perhaps,  which 

grows 
Near  thereabouts,  into  your  poesie  wring ;  ^ 
Ye  that  do  dictionary's  method  bring 
Into  your  rimes,  running  in  rattling  rows ; 
You  that  poor  Petrarch's  long-deceased  woes 
With  new-born  sighs  and  denizen'd   wit   do 

sing ; 
You  take  wrong  ways ;   those  far-fet^  helps  be 

such 
As  do  bewray  a  want  of  inward  touch,^        10 
And  sure,  at  length  stol'n  goods  do  come  to 

light : 
But  if,   both  for  your  love  and  skUl,  your 

name 
You  seek  to  nurse  at  fullest  breasts  of  Fame, 
Stella  behold,  and  then  begin  to  endite. 

XXXI 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st 

the  skies ! 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face ! 
What,  may  it  be  that  even  in  heav'nly  place 
That  busy  archer  '^  his  sharp  arrows  tries  ! 
Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case, 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks ;   thy  languished  grace, 

^  force     ^  far-fetched     ^  feeling     ^  Cupid 


HYMN   TO    APOLLO 


123 


To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries.^ 
Then,  ev'n  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me. 
Is  constant  love  deem'd  there  but  want  of 

wit  ? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  lov'd,  and  yet       12 
Those   lovers   scorn    whom    that   love   doth 

possess  ? 
Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness? 


XXXIX 

Come,  Sleep !    0  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of 

peace, 
The  baiting-place^  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe. 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
Th'  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and 

low ; 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the 

prease  ^ 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth 

throw : 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease ; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sv.-eetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  of  noise  and  blind  of  light,     10 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head : 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy^  grace,  thou  shaft  in  me, 
Livelier  then  else-w^here,  Stella's  image  see. 

XLI 

Having  this  day  my  horse,   my  hand,   my 

lance 
Guided  so  well,  that  I  obtain'd  the  prize. 
Both  by  the  judgment  of  the  English  eyes 
And  of  some  sent  from  that  sweet  enemy 

France ; 
Horsemen  my  skill  in  horsemanship  advance, 
Town  folks  my  strength;    a  daintier  judge 

applies 
His  praise  to  sleight  which  from  good  use 

doth  rise ; 
Some  lucky  wits  impute  it  but  to  chance ; 
Others,  because  of  both  sides  I  do  take  9 

IVIy  blood  from  them  who  did  excell  in  this, 
Think  Nature  me  a  man-at-arms  did  make. 
How  far  they  shot  awry  !  the  true  cause  is, 
Stella  looked  on,  and  from  her  heav'nly  face 
Sent  forth  the  beams  which  made  so  fair  my 

race. 


THE   NIGHTINGALE 

The  nightingale,  as  soon  as  April  bringeth 
Unto  her  rested  sense  a  perfect  waking. 
While  late  bare  earth,  proud  of  new  clothing, 

springeth, 
Sings  out  her  woes,  a  thorn  her  song-book 

making, 
And  mournfully  bewailing,  5 

Her  throat  in  tunes  expresseth 
What  grief  her  breast  oppresseth 
For  Tereus'  force  on  her  chaste  will  prevailing. 
O  Philomela  fair,  O  take  some  gladness, 
That  here  is  juster  cause  of  painful  sadness : 
Thine  earth  now  springs,  mine  fadeth :         11 
Thy  thorn  without,  my  thorn  my  heart  in- 

vadeth. 

HYMN  TO  APOLLO 

Apollo  great,  whose  beams  the  greater  world 

do  light. 
And  in  our  little  world  do  clear  our  inw-ard 

_  sight. 
Which  ever  shine,  though  hid  from  earth  by 

earthly  shade. 
Whose  lights  do  ever  live,  but  in  our  darkness 

fade; 
Thou  god  whose  youth  was  decked  with  spoil 

of  Python's  skin  5 

(So  humble  knowledge  can  throw  down  the 

snakish  sin) ; 
Latona's  son,  whose  birth  in  pain  and  travail 

long 
Doth  teach,  to  learn  the  good  what  travails 

do  belong ; 
In  travail  of  our  life   (a  short  but  tedious 

space) , 
While  brickie  ^  hour-glass  runs,  guide  thou  our 

panting  pace :  10 

Give  us  foresightful  minds ;   give  us  minds  to 

obey 
What  foresight  tells ;  our  thoughts  upon  thy 

knov/ledge  stay. 
Let  so  our  fruits  grow  up  that  Nature  be  main- 
tained. 
But  so  our  hearts  keep  dow'n,  with  vice  they 

be  not  stained. 
Let  this  assured  hold  our  judgments  over- 
take. 
That  nothing  wins  the  heaven  but  what  doth 

earth  forsake.  16 


^  reveals     -  place  of  refreshment     ^  throng 


brittle 


124 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY 


ARCADIA 


BOOK  I.     CHAP.   I 


And  now  they  were  already  come  upon  the 
stays/  when  one  of  the  sailors  descried  a 
galley  which  came  with  sails  and  oars  directly 
in  the  chase  of  them,  and  straight  perceived 
it  was  a  well-known  pirate,  who  hunted,  not 
only  for  goods,  but  for  bodies  of  men,  which 
he  employed  either  to  be  his  galley-slaves  or 
to  sell  at  the  best  market.  Which  when  the 
master  understood,  he  commanded  forthwith 
to  set  on  all  the  canvas  they  could  and  fly 
homeward,  leaving  in  that  sort  poor  Pyrocles, 
so  near  to  be  rescued.  But  what  did  not 
Musidorus  say?  what  did  he  not  offer,  to 
persuade  them  to  venture  the  fight?  But 
fear,  standing  at  the  gates  of  their  ears,  put 
back  all  persuasions ;  so  that  he  had  nothmg 
to  accompany  Pyrocles  but  his  eyes,  nor  to 
succour  him  but  his  wishes.  Therefore  pray- 
ing for  him,  and  casting  a  long  look  that  way, 
he  saw  the  galley  leave  the  pursuit  of  them 
and  turn  to  take  up  the  spoils  of  the  other 
wreck ;  and,  lastly,  he  might  well  see  them 
lift  up  the  young  man  ;  and,  "Alas  !"  said  he 
to  himself,  "dear  Pyrocles,  shall  that  body 
of  thine  be  enchained?  Shall  those  victori- 
ous hands  of  thine  be  commanded  to  base 
offices?  Shall  virtue  become  a  slave  to  those 
that  be  slaves  to  viciousness?  Alas,  better 
had  it  been  thou  hadst  ended  nobly  thy  noble 
days.  What  death  is  so  evil  as  unworthy 
servitude?"  But  that  opinion  soon  ceased 
when  he  saw  the  galley  setting  upon  another 
ship,  which  held  long  and  strong  fight  with 
her ;  for  then  he  began  afresh  to  fear  the  life 
of  his  friend,  and  to  wish  well  to  thc'pirates, 
whom  before  he  hated,  lest  in  their  ruin  he 
might  perish.  But  the  fishermen  made  such 
speed  into  the  haven  that  they  absented  his 
eyes  from  beholding  the  issue ;  where  being 
entered,  he  could  procure  neither  them  nor 
any  other  as  then  ^  to  put  themselves  into  the 
sea ;  so  that,  being  as  full  of  sorrow  for  being 
unable  to  do  anything  as  void  of  counsel  how 
to  do  anything,  besides  that  sickness  grew 
something  upon  him,  the  honest  shepherds 
Strephon  and  Claius  (who,  being  themselves 
true  friends,  did  the  more  perfectly  judge  the 
justness  of  his  sorrow)   advise  him  that  he 

^  come  upon  the  stay.s  =  go  about  from  one 
tack  to  another   '^  as  then  =  at  the  time 


should  mitigate  somewhat  of  his  woe,  shice 
he  had  gotten  an  amendment  in  fortune,  being 
come  from  assured  persuasion  of  his  death  to 
have  no  cause  to  despair  of  his  life,  as  one 
that  had  lamented  the  death  of  his  sheej) 
should  after  know  they  were  but  strayed, 
would  receive  pleasure,  though  readily  he 
knew  not  where  to  find  them. 

CHAP.   II 

"Now,  sir,"  said  they,  "thus  for  ourselves 
it  is.  We  are,  in  profession,  but  shepherds, 
and,  in  this  country  of  Laconia,  little  better 
than  strangers,  and,  therefore,  neither  in  skill 
nor  ability  of  power  greatly  to  stead  you. 
But  what  we  can  present  unto  you  is  this : 
Arcadia,  of  which  country  we  are,  is  but  a 
little  way  hence,  and  even  upon  the  next  con- 
fines. 

There  dwelleth  a  gentleman,  by  name 
Kalander,  who  vouchsafeth  much  favour  unto 
us ;  a  man  who  for  his  hospitality  is  so  much 
haunted  ^  that  no  news  stir  but  come  to  his 
ears  ;  for  his  upright  dealing  so  beloved  of  his 
neighbours  that  he  hath  many  ever  ready 
to  do  him  their  uttermost  service,  and,  by  the 
great  goodwill  our  Prince  bears  him,  may 
soon  obtain  the  use  of  his  name  and  credit, 
which  hath  a  principal  sway,  not  only  in  his 
own  Arcadia,  but  in  all  these  countries  of 
Peloponnesus  ;  and,  which  is  worth  all,  all  these 
things  give  him  not  so  much  power  as  his 
nature  gives  him  will  to  benefit,  so  that  it 
seems  no  music  is  so  sweet  to  his  ear  as  de- 
served thanks.  To  him  we  wiU  bring  you, 
and  there  you  may  recover  again  your  health, 
without  which  you  cannot  be  able  to  make 
any  diligent  search  for  your  friend,  and, 
therefore  but  in  that  respect,  you  must  labour 
for  it.  Besides,  we  are  sure  the  comfort  of 
courtesy  and  ease  of  wise  counsel  shall  not 
be  wanting." 

Musidorus  (who,  besides  he  was  merely  ^ 
unacquainted  in  the  country,  had  his  wits 
astonished  ^  with  sorrow)  gave  easy  consent 
to  that  from  which  he  saw  no  reason  to  dis- 
agree ;  and  therefore,  defraying  ^  the  mariners 
with  a  ring  bestowed  upon  them,  they  took 
their  journey  together  through  Laconia,  Claius 
and  Strephon  by  course  carrying  his  chest  for 
him,  Musidorus  only  bearing  in  his  counte- 
nance  evident   marks   of   a   sorrowful   mind 

^  visited    -  entirely    ^  stricken     *  paying 


ARCADIA 


125 


supported  with  a  weak  body  ;  which  they  per- 
ceiving, and  knowing  that  the  violence  of 
sorrow  is  not,  at  the  first,  to  be  striven  withal 
(being  like  a  mighty  beast,  sooner  tamed  with 
following  than  overthrown  by  withstanding) 
they  gave  way  unto  it  for  that  day  and  the 
next,  never  troubling  him,  either  with  asking 
questions  or  finding  fault  with  his  melancholy, 
but  rather  fitting  to  his  dolour  dolorous  dis- 
courses of  their  own  and  other  folk's  misfor- 
tunes. Which  speeches,  though  they  had  not 
a  lively  entrance  to  his  senses,  shut  up  in  sor- 
row, yet,  like  one  half  asleep,  he  took  hold  of 
much  of  the  matters  spoken  unto  him,  so  as 
a  man  may  say,  ere  sorrow  was  aware,  they 
made  his  thoughts  bear  away  something  else 
beside  his  own  sorrow,  which  wrought  so  in 
him  that  at  length  he  grew  content  to  mark 
their  speeches,  then  to  marvel  at  such  wit  in 
shepherds,  after  to  like  their  company,  and 
lastly  to  vouchsafe  conference ;  so  that  the 
third  day  after,  in  the  time  that  the  morning 
did  strow  roses  and  violets  in  the  heavenly 
floor  against  the  coming  of  the  sun,  the  night- 
ingales, striving  one  with  the  other  which 
could  in  most  dainty  variety  recount  their 
wrong-caused  sorrow,  made  them  put  off  their 
sleep ;  and,  rising  from  under  a  tree,  which 
that  night  had  been  their  pavilion,  they  went 
on  their  journey,  which  by  and  by  welcomed 
IMusidorus'  eyes,  wearied  with  the  wasted 
soil  of  Laconia,  with  delightful  prospects. 
There  were  hills  which  garnished  their  proud 
heights  with  stately  trees;  humble  valleys 
whose  base  estate  seemed  comforted  with 
refreshing  of  silver  rivers  ;  meadows  enamelled 
with  all  sorts  of  eye-pleasing  flowers  ;  thickets 
v.hich,  being  lined  with  most  pleasant  shade, 
were  witnessed  so  to  by  the  cheerful  disposi- 
tion of  many  well-tuned  birds ;  each  pasture 
stored  with  sheep,  feeding  with  sober  security, 
v.hile  the  pretty  lambs,  with  bleating  oratory, 
craved  the  dams'  comfort :  here  a  shepherd's 
boy  piping,  as  though  he  should  never  be  old  ; 
there  a  young"  shepherdess  knitting,  and 
v.-ithal  singing,  and  it  seemed  that  her  voice 
comforted  her  hands  to  work,  and  her  hands 
kept  time  to  her  voice's  music.  As  for  the 
houses  of  the  country  (for  many  houses  came 
under  their  eye)  they  were  all  scattered,  no 
two  being  one  by  the  other,  and  yet  not  so 
far  off  as  that  it  barred  mutual  succour :  a 
show,  as  it  were,  of  an  accompanable  ^  soli- 


tariness, and  of  a  civiP  wildness.  "I  pray 
you,"  said  IMusidorus,  then  first  unsealing 
his  long-silent  lips,  "what  countries  be  these 
we  pass  through,  which  are  so  diverse  in  show, 
the  one  wanting  no  store,'-'  the  other  having 
no  store  but  of  want?" 

"The  country,"  answered  Claius,  "where 
you  were  cast  ashore,  and  now  are  passed 
through,  is  Laconia,  not  so  poor  by  the 
barrenness  of  the  soil  (though  in  itself  not 
passing  fertile)  as  by  a  civil  war,  which,  being 
these  two  years  within  the  bowels  of  that 
estate,  between  the  gentlemen  and  the  peas- 
ants (by  them  named  helots)  hath  in  this  sort, 
as  it  were,  disfigured  the  face  of  nature  and 
made  it  so  unhospitall  as  now  you  have  found 
it ;  the  towns  neither  of  the  one  side  nor  the 
other  wilhngly  opening  their  gates  to  strangers, 
nor  strangers  willingly  entering,  for  fear  of 
being  mistaken. 

"But  this  country,  where  now  you  set  your 
foot,  is  Arcadia;  and  even  hard  by  is  the 
house  of  Kalander,  whither  we  lead  you: 
this  country  being  thus  decked  with  peace 
and  (the  child  of  peace)  good  husbandry. 
These  houses  you  see  so  scattered  are  of  men, 
as  we  two  are,  that  live  upon  the  commodity 
of  their  sheep,  and  therefore,  in  the  division 
of  the  Arcadian  estate,  are  termed  shepherds ; 
a  happy  people,  wanting  ^  little,  because  they 
desire  not  much." 

"What  cause,  then,"  said  Musidorus, 
"made  you  venture  to  leave  this  sweet  life 
and  put  yourself  in  yonder  unpleasant  and 
dangerous  realm?"  "Guarded  with  pov- 
erty," answered  Strephon,  "and  guided  with 
love."  "But  now,"  said  Claius,  "since  it 
hath  pleased  you  to  ask  anything  of  us,  whose 
baseness  is  such  as  the  very  knowledge  is 
darkness,  give  us  leave  to  know  something 
of  you  and  of  the  young  man  you  so  much  la- 
ment, that  at  least  we  may  be  the  better  in- 
structed to  inform  Kalander,  and  he  the 
better  know  how  to  proportion  his  entertain- 
ment." Musidorus,  according  to  the  agree- 
ment between  Pyrocles  and  him  to  alter 
their  names,  answered  that  he  called  himself 
Palladius,  and  his  friend  Daiphantus.  "But, 
till  I  have  him  again,"  said  he,  "I  am  indeed 
nothing,  and  therefore  my  story  is  of  nothing. 
His  entertainment,  since  so  good  a  man  he  is, 
cannot  be  so  low  as  I  account  my  estate; 
and,  in  simi,  the  sum  of  all  his  courtesy  may 


companionable 


civilized     ^  plenty     ^  lacking 


126 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY 


be  to  help  me  by  some  means  to  seek  my 
friend." 

They  perceived  he  was  not  wilhng  to  open 
himself  further,  and  therefore,  without 
further  questioning,  brought  him  to  the  house  ; 
about  which  they  might  see  (with  fit  consider- 
ation both  of  the  air,  the  prospect,  and  the 
nature  of  the  ground)  all  such  necessary 
additions  to  a  great  house  as  might  well  show 
Kalander  knew  that  provision  is  the  founda- 
tion of  hospitality,  and  thrift  the  fuel  of  mag- 
nificence. The  house  itself  was  built  of  fair 
and  strong  stone,  not  affecting  so  much  any 
extraordinary  kind  of  fineness  as  an  honour- 
able representing  of  a  firm  stateliness ;  the 
lights,  doors,  and  stairs  rather  directed  to  the 
use  of  the  guest  than  to  the  eye  of  the  artificer, 
and  yet  as  the  one  chiefly  heeded,  so  the  other 
not  neglected  ;  each  place  handsome  without 
curiosity,  and  homely  without  loathsomeness  ; 
not  so  dainty  as  not  to  be  trod  on,  nor  yet 
slubbered  up  ^  with  good-fellowship ;  ^  all 
more  lasting  than  beautiful,  but  that  the  con- 
sideration of  the  exceeding  lastingness  made 
the  eye  believe  it  was  exceeding  beautiful ; 
the  servants,  not  so  many  in  number  as 
cleanly  in  apparel  and  serviceable  in  behav- 
iour, testifying  even  in  their  countenances 
that  their  master  took  as  well  care  to  be  served 
as  of  them  that  did  serve.  One  of  them  was 
forthwith  ready  to  welcome  the  shepherds, 
as  men  who,  though  they  were  poor,  their 
master  greatly  favoured ;  and  understanding 
by  them  that  the  young  man  v/ith  them  was 
to  be  much  accounted  of,  for  that  they  had 
seen  tokens  of  more  than  common  greatness, 
howsoever  now  eclipsed  with  fortune,  he  ran 
to  his  master,  who  came  presently  forth,  and 
pleasantly  welcoming  the  shepherds,  but  es- 
pecially applying  him  to  Musidorus,  Strephon 
privately  told  him  all  what  he  knew  of  him, 
and  particularly  that  he  found  this  stranger 
was  loth  to  be  known. 

"No,"  said  Kalander,  speaking  aloud,  "I 
am  no  herald  to  inquire  of  men's  pedigrees; 
it  sufficeth  me  if  I  know  their  virtues ;  which, 
if  this  young  man's  face  be  not  a  false  witness, 
do  better  apparel  his  mind  than  you  have  done 
his  body."  While  he  was  speaking,  there 
came  a  boy,  in  show  like  a  merchant's  prentice, 
who,  taking  Strephon  by  the  sleeve,  delivered 
him  a  letter,  written  jointly  both  to  him  and 
Claius  from  Urania ;    which   they  no  sooner 


had  read,  but  that  with  short  leave-taking 
of  Kalander,  who  quickly  guessed  and  smiled 
at  the  matter,  and  once  again,  though  hastily, 
recommending  the  young  man  unto  him,  they 
went  away,  leaving  Musidorus  even  loth  to 
part  with  them,  for  the  good  conversation 
he  had  of  them,  and  obligation  he  accounted 
himself  tied  in  unto  them ;  and  therefore, 
they  delivering  his  chest  unto  him,  he  opened 
it,  and  would  have  presented  them  with  two 
very  rich  jewels,  but  they  absolutely  refused 
them,  telling  him  they  were  more  than  enough 
rewarded  in  the  knowing  of  him,  and  without 
hearkening  unto  a  reply,  like  men  whose  hearts 
disdained  all  desires  but  one,  gat  speedily 
away,  as  if  the  letter  had  brought  wings  to 
make  them  fly.  But  by  that  sight  Kalander 
soon  judged  that  his  guest  was  of  no  mean 
calling ;  ^  and  therefore  the  more  respectfully 
enter tainmg  him,  Musidorus  found  his  sick- 
ness, which  the  fight,  the  sea,  and  late  travel 
had  laid  upon  him,  grow  greatly,  so  that  fear- 
ing some  sudden  accident,  he  delivered  the 
chest  to  Kalander,  which  was  full  of  most 
precious  stones,  gorgeously  and  cmmingly 
set  in  divers  manners,  desiring  him  he  would 
keep  those  trifles,  and  if  he  died,'  he  would 
bestow  so  much  of  it  as  was  needful  to  find 
out  and  redeem  a  young  man  naming  him- 
self Daiphantus,  as  then  in  the  hands  of  La- 
conian  pirates. 

But  Kalander  seeing  him  faint  more  and 
more,  with  careful  speed  conveyed  him  to  the 
most  commodious  lodging  in  his  house  ;  where, 
being  possessed  with  an  extreme  burning  fever, 
he  continued  some  while  with  no  great  hope 
of  life ;  but  youth  at  length  got  the  victory  of 
sickness,  so  that  in  six  weeks  the  excellency 
of  his  returned  beauty  was  a  credible  ambas- 
sador of  his  health,  to  the  great  jo}^  of  Kal- 
ander, who,  as  in  this  time  he  had  by  certain 
friends  of  his,  that  dwelt  near  the  sea  in 
Messenia,  set  forth  a  ship  and  a  galley  to  seek 
and  succour  Daiphantus,  so  at  home  did  he 
omit  nothing  which  he  -thought  might  either 
profit  or  gratify  Palladius. 

For,  having  found  in  him  (besides  his  bodily 
gifts,  beyond  the  degree  of  admiration)  by 
daily  discourses,  which  he  delighted  himself 
to  have  with  him,  a  mind  of  most  excellent 
composition  (a  piercing  wit,  quite  void  of 
ostentation,  high-erected  thoughts  seated  in 
a  heart  of  courtesy,  an  eloquence  as  sweet  in 


*  made  slovenly        ^  revelry 


rank 


JOHN    LYLY 


127 


the  uttering  as  slow  to  come  to  the  uttering, 
a  behaviour  so  noble  as  gave  a  majesty  to 
adversity,  and  all  in  a  man  whose  age  could 
not  be  above  one-and-twenty  years),  the 
good  old  man  was  even  enamoured  with  a 
fatherly  love  towards  him,  or  rather  became 
his  servant  by  the  bonds  such  virtue  laid  upon 
him  ;  once,  he  acknowledged  himself  so  to  be, 
by  the  badge  of  diligent  attendance. 

JOHN   LYLY  (1554-1606) 
From   EUPHUES   AND    HIS   ENGLAND 

"I  perceive,  Camilla,  that  be  your  cloth 
never  so  bad,  it  will  take  some  colour,  and 
your  cause  never  so  false,  it  will  bear  some 
show  of  probability,  wherein  you  manifest  the 
right  nature  of  a  woman,  who  having  no  way 
to  win,  thinketh  to  overcome  with  words. 
This  I  gather  by  your  answer,  that  beauty 
may  have  fair  leaves,  and  foid  fruit,  that  all 
that  are  amiable  are  not  honest,  that  love 
proceedeth  of  the  woman's  perfection,  and  the 
man's  follies,  that  the  trial  looked  for,  is  to 
perform  whatsoever  they  promise,  that  in 
mind  he  be  virtuous,  in  body  comely,  such  a 
husband  in  my  opinion  is  to  be  wished  for, 
but  not  looked  for.  Take  heed,  Camilla, 
that  seeking  all  the  wood  for  a  straight  stick 
you  choose  not  at  the  last  a  crooked  staS,  or 
prescribing  a  good  coimsel  to  others,  thou 
thyself  foUow  the  worst :  much  like  to  Chius, 
who  selling  the  best  wine  to  others,  drank 
himself  of  the  lees." 

"Truly,"  quoth  Camilla,  "my  wool  was 
black,  and  therefore  it  could  take  no  other 
colour,  and  my  cause  good,  and  therefore 
admitteth  no  cavil :  as  for  the  rules  I  set  down 
of  love,  they  were  not  coined  of  me,  but 
learned,  and,  being  so  true,  believed.  If  my 
fortune  be  so  ill  that,  searching  for  a  wand,  I 
gather  a  cammock,^  or,  selling  wine  to  other,  I 
drink  vinegar  myself,  I  must  be  content,  that 
of  the  worst,  poor  help,  patience,^  which  by  so 
much  the  more  is  to  be  borne,  by  how  much 
the  more  it  is  perforce." 

As  Surius  was  speaking,  the  Lady  Flavia 
prevented  him,  saying,  "It  is  time  that  you 
break  off  your  speech,  lest  we  have  nothing  to 
speak,  for  should  you  wade  any  farther,  you 

^  crooked  stick  ^  =  with  the  only  contentment 
possible  at  the  worst,  the  poor  help  patience 


would  both  waste  the  night  and  leave  us  no 
time,  and  take  our  reasons  and  leave  us  no 
matter ;  that  every  one  therefore  may  say 
somewhat,  we  command  you  to  cease ;  that 
you  have  both  said  so  well,  we  give  you 
thanks." 


The  Lady  Flavia  speaking  in  his  cast,^ 
proceeded  in  this  manner : 

"Truly,  Martins,  I  had  not  thought  that  as 
yet  your  colt's  tooth  stuck  in  your  mouth,"  or 
that  so  old  a  truant  in  love,  could  hitherto 
remember  his  lesson.  You  seem  not  to  infer 
that  it  is  requisite  they  should  meet,  but  being 
in  love  that  it  is  convenient,  lest,  falling  into 
a  mad  mood,  they  pine  in  their  own  peevish- 
ness. Why  then  let  it  follow,  that  the  drunk- 
ard which  surfeiteth  with  wine  be  always 
quaifing,  because  he  liketh  it,  or  the  epicure 
which  glntteth  himself  with  meat  be  ever 
eating,  for  that  it  contenteth  him,  not  seeking 
at  any  time  the  means  to  redress  their  vices, 
but  to  renew  them.  But  it  fareth  with  the 
lover  as  it  doth  with  hun  that  poureth  in  much 
wine,  who  is  ever  more  thirsty  than  he  that 
drinketh  moderately,  for  having  once  tasted 
the  delights  of  love,  he  desireth  most  the  thing 
that  hurteth  him  most,  not  laying  a  plaster 
to  the  wound,  but  a  corrosive. 

"I  am  of  this  mind,  that  if  it  be  dangerous, 
to  lay  flax  to  the  fire,  salt  to  the  e}'es,  sulphur 
to  the  nose,  that  then  it  cannot  be  but  perilous 
to  let  one  lover  come  in  presence  of  the  other." 
Surius  overhearing  the  lady,  and  seeing  her  so 
earnest,  ^.Ithough  he  were  more  earnest  in  his 
suit  to  Camilla,  cut  her  off  with  these  words : 

"Good  Madam,  give  me  leave  either  to 
depart,  or  to  speak,  for  in  truth  you  gall  me 
more  with  these  terms,  than  you  wist,^  in 
seeming  to  inveigh  so  bitterly  against  the 
meeting  of  lovers,  which  is  the  onl}^  marrow 
of  love,  and  though  I  doubt  not  but  that 
Martius  is  sufficiently  armed  to  answer  you, 
yet  would  I  not  have  those  reasons  refelled,'' 
which  I  loathe  to  have  repeated.  It  may  be 
you  utter  them  not  of  malice  you  bear  to  love, 
but  only  to  move  controversy  where  there  is 
no  question :  ^  for  if  thou  en\'y  to  have  lovers 
meet,  why  did  you  grant  us;  if  allow  it,  why 
seek  you  to  separate  us?" 

^  st3'le,  manner  ^  i.e.  I  had  not  thought  that 
you  still  retained  the  wanton  tendencies  of  your 
youth     ^  know     *  refuted     *  difference  of  opinion 


128 


JOHN   LYLY 


The  good  lady  could  not  refrain  from 
laughter,  when  she  saw  Surius  so  angry,  who 
in  the  midst  of  his  own  tale,  was  troubled  with 
hers,  whom  she  thus  again  answered. 

"I  cry  you  mercy ,^  gentleman,  I  had  not 
thought  to  have  catched  you,  when  I  fished  for 
another,  but  I  perceive  now  that  with  one 
bean  it  is  easy  to  get  two  pigeons,  and  with 
one  bait  to  have  divers  bites.  I  see  that 
others  may  guess  where  the  shoe  wrings, 
besides  him  that  wears  it."  "Madam," 
quoth  Surius,  "you  have  caught  a  frog,  if 
I  be  not  deceived,  and  therefore  as  good  it 
were  not  to  hurt  him,  as  not  to  eat  him,  but 
if  all  this  while  you  angled  to  have  a  bite  at 
a  lover,  you  should  have  used  no  bitter  medi- 
cines, but  pleasant  baits." 

"I  cannot  tell,"  answered  Flavia,  "whether 
my  bait  were  bitter  or  not,  but  sure  I  am  I 
have  the  fish  by  the  gill,  that  doth  me  good." 
Camilla  not  thinking  to  be  silent,  put  in  her 
spoke  as  she  thought  into  the  best  wheel, 
saying, 

"Lady,  your  cunning  may  deceive  you  in 
fishing  with  an  angle,  therefore  to  catch  him 
you  would  have,  you  were  best  to  use  a  net." 
"A  net !"  quoth  Flavia,  "I  need  none,  for  my 
fish  playeth  in  a  net  already."  With  that 
Surius  began  to  wince,  replying  immediately, 
"  So  doth  many  a  fish,  good  lady,  that  slippeth 
out,  when  the  fisher  thinketh  him  fast  in,  and 
it  may  be,  that  either  your  net  is  too  weak  to 
hold  him,  or  your  hand  too  wet."  "A  wet 
hand,"  quoth  Flavia,  "will  hold  a  dead  her- 
ring:" "Aye,"  quoth  Surius,  "but  eels  are  no 
herrings."     "But  lovers  are,"  said  FJavia. 

Surius  not  willing  to  have  the  grass  mown, 
whereof  he  meant  to  make  his  hay,  began 
thus  to  conclude : 

"  Good  Lady,  leave  off  fishing  for  this  time, 
and  though  it  be  Lent,  rather  break  a  statute 
which  is  but  penal,  than  sew  ^  a  pond  that  may 
be  perpetual."  "  I  am  content,"  quoth  Flavia, 
"rather  to  fast  for  once,  than  to  want  a  pleas- 
ure forever:  yet,  Surius,  betwixt  us  two,  I 
will  at  large  prove,  that  there  is  nothing  in 
love  more  venomous  than  meeting,  which 
filleth  the  mind  with  grief  and  the  body  with 
diseases:  for  having  the  one,  he  cannot  fail 
of  the  other.  But  now,  Philautus  and  niece 
Francis,  since  I  am  cut  off,  begin  you :  but 
be  short,  because  the  time  is  short,  and  that 
I  was  more  short  than  I  would." 


APELLES'    SONG 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards  for  kisses ;   Cupid  paid. 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows. 

His  mother's  doves  and  team  of  sparrows : 

Loses  them  too  ;   then  down  he  throws  5 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how); 

With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin  ; 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win.  10 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes ; 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love,  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 

What  shall,  alas  !  become  of  me  ? 

SPRING'S  WELCOME 

What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail  ? 

0  'tis  the  ravished  nightingale. 
"Jug,  jug,  jug,  jug,  tereu,"  she  cries. 
And  still  her  woes  at  midnight  rise. 

Brave  prick-song  !  who  is't  now  we  hear  ?      5 
None  but  the  lark  so  shrill  and  clear ; 
Now  at  heaven's  gates  she  claps  her  wings. 
The  morn  not  waking  till  she  sings. 

Hark,  hark,  with  what  a  pretty  throat 
Poor  robin  redbreast  tunes  his  note;  10 

Hark  how  the  jolly  cuckoos  sing. 
Cuckoo,  to  welcome  in  the  spring ; 
Cuckoo,  to  welcome  in  the  spring  ! 

FAIRY   REVELS 

Omnes.     Pinch   him,   pinch   him   black   and 
blue; 
Saucy  mortals  must  not  view 
What  the  queen  of  stars  is  doing, 
Nor  pry  into  our  fairy  wooing. 

1  Fairy.     Pinch  him  blue  — ■  5 

2  Fairy.     And  pinch  him  black  — 

3  Fairy.     Let  him  not  lack 

Sharp  nails  to  pinch  him  blue  and 

red. 
Till  sleep  has  rocked  his  addlehead. 

4  Fairy.     For  the  trespass  he  hath  done,     10 

Spots  o'er  all  his  flesh  shall  run. 
Kiss  Endymion,  kiss  his  eyes, 
Then  to  our  midnight  heydeguyes.^ 


^  I  beg  your  pardon       "^  drain,  empty 


^  countrv  dances 


THOMAS    LODGE 


129 


THOMAS   LODGE    (i558?-i625) 

From   ROS.ALYNDE:     EUPHUES' 
GOLDEN  LEGACY 

They  came  no  sooner  nigh  the  folds,  but 
they  might  see  where  their  discontented 
forester  was  walking  in  his  melancholy.  As 
soon  as  AJiena  saw  him,  she  smiled,  and  said 
to  Ganimede:  "Wipe  your  eyes,  sweeting, 
for  yonder  is  your  sweetheart  this  morning, 
in  deep  prayers  no  doubt  to  Venus,  that  she 
ma}'  make  you  as  pitiful  as  he  is  passionate. 
Come  on,  Ganimede,  I  pray  thee  let's  have  a 
little  sport  with  him."  "Content,"  quoth 
Ganimede,  and  with  that,  to  waken  him  out 
of  his  deep  memento,^  he  -  began  thus  : 

"Forester,  good  fortune  to  thy  thoughts, 
and  ease  to  thy  passions  !  What  .makes  you 
so  early  abroad  this  morn,  in  contemplation, 
no  doubt,  of  your  Rosalynde?  Take  heed, 
forester,  step  not  too  far;  the  ford  may  be 
deep,  and  you  slip  over  the  shoes.  I  tell  thee, 
flies  have  their  spleen,  the  ants  choler,  the 
least  hairs  shadows,  and  the  smallest  loves 
great  desires.  Tis  good,  forester,  to  love, 
but  not  to  overlove,  lest,  in  loving  her  that 
likes  not  thee,  thou  fold  thyself  in  an  endless 
labyrinth."  Rosader  seeing  the  fair  shep- 
herdess and  her  pretty  swain,  in  whose  com- 
pany he  felt  the  greatest  ease  of  his  care,  he 
returned  them  a  salute  on  this  manner: 

"  Gentle  shepherds,  all  hail,  and  as  healthful 
be  your  flocks  as  you  happy  in  content.  Love 
is  restless,  and  my  bed  is  but  the  cell  of  my 
bane,  in  that  there  I  find  busy  thoughts  and 
broken  slumbers.  Here,  although  every- 
where passionate,^  yet  I  brook  love  with  more 
patience,  in  that  every  object  feeds  mine  eye 
with  variety  of  fancies.  When  I  look  on 
Flora's  beauteous  tapestry,  checkered  with  the 
pride  ni  all  her  treasure,  I  call  to  mind  the 
fair  face  of  Rosalynde,  whose  heavenly  hue 
exceeds  the  rose  and  the  lily  in  their  highest 
excellence.  The  brightness  of  Phoebus'  shine 
puts  me  in  mind  to  think  of  the  sparkling 
flames  that  flew  from  her  eyes  and  set  my 
heart  first  on  fire ;  the  sweet  harmony  of  the 
birds  puts  me  in  remembrance  of  the  rare, 
melody  of  her  voice,  which  like  the  Syren 
enchanteth   the   ears   of    the   hearer.     Thus 

'  meditation  ^  he  =  Rosalynde  disguised  as 
Ganimede     '  troubled 


in  contemplation  I  salve  my  sorrows,  with 
applying  the  perfection  of  every  object  to  the 
excellence  of  her  qualities." 

"She  is  much  beholding  imto  you,"  quoth 
Aliena,  "and  so  much  that  I  have  oft  wished 
with  myself  that  if  I  should  ever  prove  as 
amorous  as  CEnone,  I  might  find  as  faithful  a 
Paris  as  yourself." 

"How  say  you  by  this  Item,  forester?" 
quoth  Ganimede.  "The  fair  shepherdess 
favours  you,  who  is  mistress  of  so  many  flocks. 
Leave  off,  man,  the  supposition  of  Rosalynde's 
love,  whenas,  watching  at  her,  you  rove  be- 
yond the  moon  ;  and  cast  your  looks  upon  my 
mistress,  who  no  doubt  is  as  fair  though  not  so 
royal.  One  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in 
the  wood ;  better  possess  the  love  of  Aliena, 
than  catch  frivolouslv  at  the  shadow  of  Rosa- 
lynde." 

"I'll  tell  thee,  boy,"  quoth  RosaSer;  "so 
is  my  fancy  fixed  on  my  Rosalynde,  that  were 
thy  mistress  as  fair  as  Leda  or  Danae,  whom 
Jove  courted  in  transformed  shapes,  mine 
eyes  would  not  vouch  ^  to  entertain  their 
beauties ;  and  so  hath  Love  locked  me  in  her 
perfections,  that  I  had  rather  only  contem- 
plate in  her  beauties,  than  absolutely  possess 
the  excellence  of  any  other." 

"Venus  is  to  blame,  forester,  if,  having  so 
true  a  servant  of  you,  she  reward  you  not 
with  Rosah'nde,  if  Rosalynde  were  more  fairer 
than  herself.  But  leaving  this  prattle,  now 
ril  put  you  in  mind  of  your  promise  about 
those  sonnets  which  you  said  were  at  home 
in  your  lodge."  "I  have  them  about  me," 
quoth  Rosader;  "let  us  sit  down,  and  then 
you  shall  hear  what  a  poetical  fury  Love  will 
infuse  into  a  man."  With  that  they  sat  down 
upon  a  green  bank  shadowed  with  fig  trees, 
and  Rosader,  fetching  a  deep  sigh,  read  them 
this  sonnet : 

Rosader 's  Sonnet 

In  sorrow's  cell  I  laid  me  down  to  sleep, 
But  waking  woes  were  jealous  of  mine  eyes. 
They  made  them  watch,  and  bend  themselves 

to  weep ; 
But  weeping  tears  their  want  could  not  suffice. 
Yet  since  for  her  they  wept  who  guides  my 

heart. 
They,  weeping,  smile  and  triumph  in  their 
smart. 

^  condescend 


I30 


THOMAS    LODGE 


Of  these  my  tears  a  fountain  fiercely  springs, 
Where   Venus   bains  ^   herself  incensed   with 

love; 
Where  Cupid  boweth  his  fair  feathered  wings. 
But  I  behold  what  pains  I  must  approve. 
Care  drinks  it  dry ;     but  when  on  her  I 

think, 
Love  makes  me  weep  it  full  unto  the  brink. 

Meanwhile  my  sighs  yield  truce  vmto  my  tears, 
By   them   the   winds   increased   and   fiercely 

blow ; 
Yet  when  I  sigh,  the  flame  more  plain  appears, 
And  by  their  force  with  greater  power  doth 
glow. 
Amidst  these  pains  all  Phoenix-like  I  thrive, 
Since  Love  that  yields  me  death  may  life 
revive. 

,  Rosader,  en  esperance.^ 

"Now  surely,  forester,''  quoth  Aliena, 
"when  thou  madest  this  sonnet,  thou  wert  in 
some  amorous  quandary,  neither  too  fearful, 
as  despairing  of  thy  mistress'  favours,  nor  too 
gleesome,  as  hoping  in  thy  fortunes."  "I 
can  smile,"  quoth  Ganimede,  "at  the  sonet- 
toes,  canzones,  madrigals,  rounds  and  rounde- 
lays, that  these  pensive  patients  pour  out, 
when  their  eyes  are  more  full  of  wantonness 
than  their  hearts  of  passions.  Then,  as  the 
fishers  put  the  sweetest  bait  to  the  fairest  fish, 
so  these  Ovidians,^  holding  Amo  in  their 
tongues,  when  their  thoughts  come  at  hap- 
hazard, write  that  they  be  wrapped  in  an  end- 
less labyrinth  of  sorrow,  when,  walking  in 
the  large  lease  of  liberty,  they  only  have  their 
humours  in  their  inkpot.  If  they  find  women 
so  fond,^  that  they  will  with  such  painted 
lures  come  to  their  lust,  then  they  triumph  till 
they  be  full  gorged  with  pleasures ;  and  then 
fly  they  away,  like  ramage  kites,  to  their  own 
content,  leaving  the  tame  fool,  their  mistress, 
full  of  fancy,  yet  without  ever  a  feather.  If 
I  hey  miss  (as  dealing  with  some  wary  wanton, 
that  wants  not  such  a  one  as  themselves,  but 
spies  their  subtilty),  they  end  their  amours 
with  a  few  feigned  sighs ;  and  so  their  excuse 
is,  their  mistress  is  cruel,  and  they  smother 
passions  with  patience.  Such,  gentle  forester, 
we  may  deem  you  to  be,  that  rather  pass 
away  the  time  here  in  these  woods  with  writing 
amorets,  than  to  be  deeply  enamoured,  as 

*  bathes  ^  in  hope  'devotees  of  Ovid's  Art  of 
Love    '^  foolish    ^  untamed  hawks 


you  say,  of  your  Rosalynde.  If  you  be  such 
a  one,  then  I  pray  God,  when  you  think  your, 
fortunes  at  the  highest,  and  your  desires  to  be 
most  excellent,  then  that  you  may  with  Ixion 
embrace  Juno  in  a  cloud,  and  have  nothing 
but  a  marble  mistress  to  release  your  martyr- 
dom ;  but  if  you  be  true  and  trusty,  eye- 
pained  and  heart-sick,  then  accursed  be 
Rosalynde  if  she  prove  cruel ;  for,  forester, 
(I  flatter  not)  thou  art  worthy  of  as  fair  as 
she."  Aliena,  spying  the  storm  by  the  wind, 
smiled  to  see  how  Ganimede  flew  to  the  fist 
without  any  call ;  but  Rosader,  who  took 
him  flat  for  a  shepherd's  swain,  made  him 
this  answer : 

"Trust  me,  swain,"  quoth.  Rosader,  "but 
my  canzon  ^  was  written  in  no  such  humour ; 
for  mine  eye  and  my  heart  are  relatives,  the 
one  drawing  fancy  ^  by  sight,  the  other  enter- 
taining he¥  by  sorrow.  If  thou  sawest  my 
Rosalynde,  with  what  beauties  Nature  hath 
favoured  her,  with  what  perfection  the  heav- 
ens hath  graced  her,  with  what  qualities  the 
Gods  have  endued  her,  then  wouldst  thou  say, 
there  is  none  so  fickle  that  could  be  fleeting 
unto  her.  If  she  had  been  ^^neas'  Dido,  had 
Venus  and  Juno  both  scolded  him  from  Car- 
thage, yet  her  excellence,  despite  of  them, 
would  have  detained  him  at  Tyre.  If  Phyllis 
had  been  as  beauteous,  or  Ariadne  as  virtu- 
ous, or  both  as  honourable  and  excellent  as 
she,  neither  had  the  philbert  tree  sorrowed  in 
the  death  of  despairing  Phyllis,  nor  the  stars 
have  been  graced  wath  Ariadne,  but  Demo- 
phoon  and  Theseus  had  been  trusty  to  their 
paragons.  I  will  tell  thee,  swain,  if  with  a 
deep  insight  thou  couldst  pierce  into  the 
secret  of  my  loves,  and  see  what  deep  impres- 
sions of  her  idea  affection  hath  made  in  my 
heart,  then  wouldst  thou  confess  I  were  pass- 
ing passionate,  and  no  less  endued  with  ad- 
mirable patience."  "Why,"  quoth  Aliena, 
"needs  there  patience  in  Love?"  "Or  else 
in  nothing,"  quoth  Rosader  ;  "  for  it  is  a  rest- 
less sore  that  hath  no  ease,  a  canker  that  still 
frets,  a  disease  that  taketh  away  all  hope  of 
sleep.  If,  then,  so  many  sorrows,  sudden  joys, 
momentary  pleasures,  continual  fears,  daily 
griefs,  and  nightly  woes  be  found  in  love,  then 
is  not  he  to  be  accounted  patient,  that  smoth- 
ers all  these  passions  with  silence?"  "Thou 
speakest  by  experience,"  quoth  Ganimede, 
"and   therefore   we  hold   all   thy   words  for 

'  a  kind  of  song        ^  love 


ROBERT  GREENE 


131 


axioms.  But  is  love  such  a  lingering  mal- 
ady?" "It  is,"  quoth  he,  "either  extreme 
or  mean,  according  to  the  mind  of  the  party 
that  entertains  it;  for  as  the  weeds  grow 
longer  untouched  than  the  pretty  flowers, 
and  the  flint  lies  safe  in  the  quarry,  when  the 
emerald  is  suffering  the  lapidary's  tool,  so 
mean  men  are  freed  from  Venus'  injuries, 
when  kings  are  environed  with  a  labyrinth 
of  her  cares.  The  whiter  the  lawn  is,  the 
deeper  is  the  mole,^  the  more  purer  the  chrys- 
olite the'  sooner  stained ;  and  such  as  have 
their  hearts  fuU  of  honour,  have  their  loves 
fuU  of  the  greatest  sorrows.  But  in  whomso- 
ever," quoth  Rosader,  "he  fixeth  his  dart, he 
never  leaveth  to  assault  him,  till  either  he  hath 
won  him  to  folly  or  fancy ;  for  as  the  moon 
never  goes  without  the  star  Lunisequa,^  so  a 
lover  never  goeth  without  the  unrest  of  his 
thoughts.  For  proof  you  shall  hear  another 
fancy  of  my  making."  "Now  do,  gentle 
forester,"  quoth  Ganimede.  And  w^ith  that 
he  read  over  this  sonetto : 

Rosader's  Second  Sonetto 

Turn  T  my  looks  unto  the  skies, 

Love  with  his  arrows  wounds  mine  eyes ; 

If  so  I  gaze  upon  the  ground. 

Love  then  in.every  flower  is  found ; 

Search  I  the  shade  to  fly  my  pain, 

He  meets  me  in  the  shade  again ; 

Wend  I  to  walk  in  secret  grove. 

Even  there  I  meet  with  sacred  Love ; 

If  so  I  bain  ^  me  in  the  spring, 

Even  on  the  brink  I  hear  him  sing ;  10 

If  so  I  meditate  alone. 

He  will  be  partner  of  my  moan  ; 

If  so  I  mourn,  he  weeps  with  me; 

And  where  I  am,  there  will  he  be. 

Whenas  I  talk  of  Rosalynde, 

The  God  from  coyness  waxeth  kind, 

And  seems  in  selfsame  flames  to  fry. 

Because  he  loves  as  well  as  I. 

Sweet  Rosaljmde,  for  pity  rue, 

For- why  ^  than  Love  I  am  more  true ;      20 

He,  if  he  speed  ^  will  quickly  fly, 

But  in  thy  love  I  live  and  die. 

"  How  like  you  this  sonnet  ?  "  quoth  Rosader. 
"  Marry,"  quoth  Ganimede,  "  for  the  pen  well, 
for  the  passion  ill ;  for  as  I  praise  the  one,  I 
pity  the  other  "  .  .  .  . 


^  discolored    spot      ^  Moon-follower 
*  because  ^  succeed 


^  bathe 


ROBERT  GREENE  (i56o?-i592) 

SONG 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  content ; 

The  qvuet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown ; 
Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber  spent ; 
The    poor    estate    scorns    fortune's    angry 
frown : 
Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep, 
such  bliss,  5 

Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss. 

The  homely  house  that  harbours  quiet  rest ; 

The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  nor  care ; 
The  mean  that  'grees  with  country  music  best ; 

The  sweet  consort  of  mirth  and  music's  fare ; 
Obscured  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss  :  1 1 
A  mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom  is. 

PHILOMELA'S   ODE 

Sitting  by  a  river's  side, 

Where  a  silent  stream  did  glide, 

Muse  I  did  of  many  things 

That  the  mind  in  quiet  brings. 

I  'gan  think  how  some  men  deem 

Gold  their  god  ;   and  some  esteem 

Honour  is  the  chief  content 

That  to  man  in  life  is  lent. 

And  some  others  do  contend, 

Quiet  none  like  to  a  friend.  10 

Others  hold  there  is  no  wealth 

Compared  to  a  perfect  health. 

Some  man's  mind  in  quiet  stands, 

When  he  is  lord  of  many  lands. 

But  I  did  sigh,  and  said  all  this 

Was  but  a  shade  of  perfect  bliss ; 

And  in  m}^  thoughts  I  did  approve, 

Nought  so  sweet  as  is  true  love. 

Love  'twixt  lovers  passeth  these, 

W^hen  mouth  kisseth  and  heart  'gres,        20 

With  folded  arms  and  lips  meeting, 

Each  soul  another  sweetly  greeting; 

For  by  the  breath  the  soul  fleeteth, 

And  soul  with  soul  in  kissing  meeteth. 

If  love  be  so  sweet  a  thing. 

That  such  happy  bliss  doth  bring, 

Happy  is  love's  sugared  thrall, 

But  unhappy  maidens  all. 

Who  esteem  your  virgin  blisses 

Sweeter  than  a  wife's  sweet  kisses.  30 

No  such  quiet  to  the  mind 

As  true  Love  with  kisses  kind  ; 


132 


ROBERT    GREENE 


But  if  a  kiss  prove  unchaste, 
Then  is  true  love  quite  disgraced. 
Though  love  be  sweet,  learn  this  of  me. 
No  sweet  love  but  honesty. 

SEPHESTIA'S  SONG  TO  HER  CHILD 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,^  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 
Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy, 
Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy ; 
When  thy  father  first  did  see  5 

Such  a  boy  by  him  and  me. 
He  was  glad,  I  was  woe, 
■    Fortune  changed  made  him  so, 
When  he  left  his  pretty  boy. 
Last  his  sorrow,  first  his  joy.  lo 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 
Streaming  tears  that  never  stint, 
Like  pearl  drops  from  a  flint. 
Fell  by  course  from  his  eyes,  15 

That  one  another's  place  supplies ; 
Thus  he  grieved  in  every  part. 
Tears  of  blood  fell  from  his  heart. 
When  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 
Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy.  20 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee. 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 

The  wanton  smiled,  father  wept. 

Mother  cried,  baby  leapt ; 

More  he  crowed,  more  he  cried,  25 

Nature  could  not  sorrow  hide : 

He  must  go,  he  must  kiss 

Child  and  mother,  baby  bless. 

For  he  left  his  pretty  boy. 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy.  30 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 

THE   SHEPHERD'S   WIFE'S   SONG 

Ah,  what  is  love?     It  is  a  pretty  thing. 
As  sweet  unto  a  shepherd  as  a  king ; 

And  sweeter  too : 
For  kings  have  cares  that  wait  upon  a  crown. 
And   cares  can   make   the  sweetest   love   to 
frown.  5 


Ah  then,  ah  then. 
If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain. 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

His  flocks  are  folded,  he  comes  home  at  night, 
As  merry  as  a  king  in  his  delight ;  i  o 

And  merrier  too : 
For  kings  bethink  them  what  the  state  require, 
Where  ^  shepherds  careless  carol  by  the  fire. 

Ah  then,  ah  then. 
If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain,   1 5 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

He  kisseth  first,  then  sits  as  blithe  to  eat 
His  cream  and  curds  as  doth  the  king  hi? 

meat ; 

And  blither  too : 
For  kings  have  often  fears  when  they  do  sup, 
Where  ^  shepherds  dread  no  poison  in  their 

cup. 

Ah  then,  ah  then,  22 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain. 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

To  bed  he  goes,  as  wanton  then,  I  ween,      25 
As  is  a  king  in  dalUance  with  a  queen  ; 

More  wanton  too : 
For  kings  have  many  griefs  affects  ^  to  rnove. 
Where  ^  shepherds  have  no  greater  grief  than 
love. 

Ah  then,  ah  then,  30 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain. 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain? 

Upon  his  couch  of  straw  he  sleeps  as  sound. 
As  doth  the  king  upon  his  bed  of  down ; 

More  sounder  too  :  35 

For  cares  cause  kings  full  oft  their  sleep  to  spill. 
Where  weary  shepherds  lie  and  snort  their  fill. 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 
If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain. 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

Thus  with  his  wife  he  spends  the  year,  as 
blithe  41 

As  doth  the  king  at  every  tide  or  sithe ;  ^ 

And  blither  too : 
For  kings  have  wars  and  broils  to  take  in  hand 
When   shepherds   laugh   and  love   upon   the 
land.  45 

Ah  then,  ah  then. 
If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain? 


^  a  icrm  of  endear nient  =  spoiled  darling 


^  whereas     ^  emotions     •'  time 


A    GROAT'S    WORTH    OF    WIT 


133 


Fkom    a    GROAT'S    WORTH    OF    WIT, 
BOUGHT    WITH    A    MILLION    OF 
REPENTANCE    • 

On  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  sat  one  that 
heard  his  sorrow,  who  getting  over,  came 
towards  him,  and  brake  off  his  passion. 
When  he  approached,  he  saluted  Roberto  in 
this  sort. 

"  Gentleman,"  quoth  he,  "  (for  so  you  seem) 
I  have  by  chance  heard  you  discourse  some 
part  of  your  grief ;  which  appeareth  to  be 
more  than  you  will  discover,  or  I  can  conceit.^ 
But  if  you  vouchsafe  ^  such  simple  comfort 
as  my  ability  will  yield,  assure  yourself  that 
I  will  endeavour  to  do  the  best,  that  either  may 
procure  your  profit,  or  bring  you  pleasure: 
the  rather,  for  that  I  suppose  you  are  a 
scholar,  and  pity  it  is  men  of  learning  should 
live  in  lack." 

Roberto  wondering  to  hear  such  good  words, 
for  that  this  iron  age  affords  few  that  esteem 
of  virtue,  returned  him  thankfid  gratulations, 
and  (urged  by  necessity)  uttered  his  present 
grief,  beseeching  his  advice  how  he  might  be 
employed.  "Why,  easily,"  quoth  he,  "and 
greatly  to  your  benefit :  for  men  of  my  pro- 
fession get  by  scholars  their  whole  living." 
"What  is  your  profession?"  said  Roberto. 
"Truly,  sir,"  said  he,  "I  am  a  player."  "A 
player,"  quoth  Roberto,  "I  took  you  rather 
for  a  gentleman  of  great  living,  for  if  by  out- 
ward habit  men  should  be  censured,^  I  tell  you 
you  would  be  taken  for  a  substantial  man." 
"So  am  I,  where  I  dwell  (quoth  the  player), 
reputed  able  at  my  proper  cost  to  buUd  a 
windmill.*  What  though  the  world  once  went 
hard  with  me,  when  I  was  fain  to  carry  my 
playing  fardel  *  a-footback  ;  Tempora  mutan- 
tur^  I  know  you  know  the  meaning  of  it  better 
than  I,  but  I  thus  construe  it ;  it  is  otherwise 
now ;  for  my  very  share  in  playing  apparel 
will  not  be  sold  for  two  hundred  pounds." 
"Truly  (said  Roberto)  it  is  strange,  that  you 
should  so  prosper  in  that  vain  practice,  for 
that  it  seems  to  me  your  voice  is  nothing 
gracious."  "Nay  then,"  said  the  player, 
"I  mislike  your  judgment:  why,  I  am  as 
famous  for  Delphrigus,  and  the  King  of 
Fairies,  as  ever  was  any  of  my  time.  The 
Twelve  Labours  of  Hercules  have  I  terribly 
thundered  on  the  stage,  and  placed  three  scenes 

^  conceive  -  supply  to  receive  '  judged  *  pro- 
verbially expensive     ^  bundle     "  Times  change 

AE 


of  the  Devil  on  the  Highway  to  Heaven." 
"Have  ye  so?  (said  Roberto)  then  I  pray  you 
pardon  me."  " Nay,  more  (quoth  the  player), 
I  can  serve  to  make  a  pretty  speech,  for  I  was 
a  country  author;  passing  at  a  moral,^  for 
it  was  I  that  penned  the  Moral  of  Man's  Wit, 
the  Dialogue  of  Dives,  and  for  seven  years 
space  was  absolute  interpreter  of  the  puppets. 
But  now  my  almanac  is  out  of  date. 

The  people  make  no  estimation. 
Of  Morals  teaching  education. 

Was  not  this  pretty  for  a  plain  rhyme  ex- 
tempore? if  ye  will,  ye  shall  have  more." 
"Nay  it  is  enough,"  said  Roberto,  "but  how 
mean  you  to  use  me ?  "  "Why,  sir,  in  making 
plays,"  said  the  other,  "for  which  you  shall  be 
well  paid,  if  you  will  take  the  pains." 


Here  (gentlemen)  break  I  off  Roberto's 
speech  ;  whose  life  in  most  parts  agreeing  with 
mine,  found  one  self  punishment  as  I  have 
done.  Hereafter  suppose  me  the  said  Ro- 
berto, and  I  will  go  on  with  that  he  promised  : 
Greene  will  send  you  now  his  groatsworth  of 
wit,  that  2  never  showed  a  mitesworth  in  his 
life :  and  though  no  man  now  be  by  to  do  me 
good,  yet,  ere  I  die,  I  will  by  my  repentance 
endeavour  to  do  aU  men  good. 


And  therefore  (while  life  gives  leave)  will 
send  warning  to  my  old  consorts,^  which  have 
lived  as  loosely  as  myself,  albeit  weakness  will 
scarce  suffer  me  to  write,  yet  to  my  fellow 
scholars  about  this  City,  will  I  direct  these 
few  ensuing  lines. 

To  those  Gentlemen  his  Quondam  acquaintance, 

that  spend  their  wits  in  making  Plays, 

R.  G.  wisheth  a  better  exercise,  and 

wisdom  to  prevent  his  extremities. 

If  woefid  experience  may  move  you  (gentle- 
men) to  bev/are,  or  unheard-of  wretchedness 
entreat  you  to  take  heed,  I  doubt  not  but  you 
will  look  back  with  sorrow  on  your  time  past, 
and  endeavour  with  repentance  to  spend  that 
which  is  to  come.  Wonder  not  (for  with  thee 
will  I  first  begin),  thou  famous  gracer  of 
tragedians,  that  Greene,  who  hath  said  with 
thee  like  the  fool  in  his  heart,  "There  is  no 
God,"  should  now  give  glory  unto  his  great- 

^  morality  play     -  who     ^  companions 


134 


ROBERT    GREENE 


ness :  for  penetrating  is  his  power,  his  hand 
Hes  heavy  upon  me,  he  hath  spoken  unto  me 
with  a  voice  of  thunder,  and  I  have  felt  he 
is  a  God  that  can  punish  enemies.  Why 
should  thy  excellent  wit,  his  gift,  be  so  blinded, 
that  thou  shouldst  give  no  glory  to  the  giver  ? 
Is  it  pestilent  Machiavellian  policy  that  thou 
hast  studied  ?  O  Punish  ^  folly  !  What  are 
his  rules  but  mere  confused  mockeries,  able  to 
extirpate  in  small  time  the  generation  of  man- 
kind. For  if  Sic  volo,  sic  jubeo,^  hold  in  those 
that  are  able  to  command :  and  if  it  be  lawful 
Fas  et  nefas  ^  to  do  anything  that  is  beneficial, 
only  tyrants  should  possess  the  earth,  and  they 
striving  to  exceed  in  tyrann3^  should  each  to 
other  be  a  slaughter  man ;  till  the  mightiest 
outliviiig  all,  one  stroke  were  left  for  Death, 
that  in  one  age  man's  life  should  end.  The 
brother  *  of  this  Diabolical  Atheism  is  dead, 
and  in  his  life  had  never  the  felicity  he  aimed 
at :  but  as  he  began  in  craft,  lived  in  fear  and 
ended  in  despair.  Qiiam  inscrutahUia  sunt 
Dei  judicia?  ^  This  murderer  of  many 
brethren  had  his  conscience  seared  like  Cain  : 
this  betrayer  of  Him  that  gave  his  life  for  him 
inherited  the  portion  of  Judas :  this  apostata 
perished  as  ill  as  Julian :  and  wilt  thou,  my 
friend,  be  his  disciple?  Look  unto  me,  by 
him  persuaded  to  that  liberty,  and  thou  shalt 
find  it  an  infernal  bondage.  I  know  the  least 
of  my  demerits  merit  this  miserable  death, 
but  willful  striving  against  known  truth,  ex- 
ceedeth  all  the  terrors  of  my  soul.  Defer 
not  (with  me)  till  this  last  point  of  extremity  ; 
for  little  knowest  thou  how  in  the  end  thou 
shalt  be  visited. 

With  thee  I  join  young  Juvenal,  that  biting 
satirist,  that  lastly  with  me  together  writ  a 
comedy.  Sweet  boy,  might  I  advise  thee, 
be  advised,  and  get  not  many  enemies  by 
bitter  words :  inveigh  against  vain  men,  for 
thou  canst  do  it,  no  man  better,  no  man  so 
well :  thou  hast  a  liberty  to  reprove  all,  and 
none  more ;  for,  one  being  spoken  to,  all  are 
offended ;  none  being  blamed,  no  man  is  in- 
jured. Stop  shallow  water  still  running,  it 
will  rage ;  tread  on  a  worm  and  it  will  turn  : 
then  blame  not  scholars  vexed  with  sharp 
lines,  if  they  reprove  thy  too  much  liberty 
of  reproof. 

And  thou  no  less  deserving  than  the  other 

*  Punic,  treacherous  ^  So  I  wish,  so  I  command. 
^  whether  right  or  wrong  ■•  ?  brochcr  =  l^eginner 
^  How  inscrutable  arc  the  judgments  of  God ! 


two,  in  some  things  rarer,  in  nothing  inferior ; 
driven  (as  myself)  to  extreme  shifts,  a  little 
have  I  to  say  to  thee :  and  were  it  not  an  idola- 
trous oath,  I  would  swear  by  sweet  S.  George, 
thou  art  unworthy  better  hap,  sith  ^  thou  de- 
pendest  on  so  mean  a  stay.  Base  minded 
men  all  three  of  you,  if  by  my  misery  ye  be 
not  warned :  for  unto  none  of  you,  like  me, 
sought  those  burrs  to  cleave :  those  puppets, 
I  mean,  that  speak  from  our  mouths,  those 
antics  garnished  in  our  colours.  Is  it  not 
strange  that  I,  to  whom  they  all  have  been 
beholding :  is  it  not  like  that  you,  to  whom 
they  all  have  been  beholding,  shall,  were  ye 
in  that  case  that  I  am  now,  be  both  at  once  of 
them  forsaken  ?  Yes,  trust  them  not :  for 
there  is  an  upstart  Crow,  beautified  with  our 
feathers,  that  with  his  Tiger'' s  heart  wrapped  in 
a  Player's  hide,  supposes  he  is  as  well  able  to 
bombast  out  a  blank  verse  as  the  best  of  you  : 
and  being  an  absolute  Johannes  fac  totum,  is 
in  his  own  conceit  the  only  Shake-scene  in  a 
country.  0  that  I  might  entreat  your  rare  wits 
to  be  employed  in  more  profitable  courses :  and 
let  those  Apes  imitate  your  past  excellence, 
and  never  more  acquaint  them  with  your  ad- 
mired inventions.  I  know  the  best  husband 
of  you  all  will  never  prove  an  usurer,  and  the 
kindest  of  them  all  wdll  never  prove  a  kind 
nurse:  yet  whilst  you  may,  seek  you  better 
masters ;  for  it  is  pity  men  of  such  rare  wits, 
should  be  subject  to  the  pleasures  of  such  rude 
grooms. 

In  this  I  might  insert  two  more,  that  both 
have  writ  against  these  buckram  gentlemen : 
but  let  their  own  works  serve  to  witness 
against  their  own  wickedness,  if  they  per- 
severe to  maintain  any  more  such  peasants. 
For  other  new  comers,  I  leave  them  to  the 
mercy  of  these  painted  monsters,  who  (I 
doubt  not)  will  drive  the  best  minded  to  de- 
spise them :  for  the  rest,  it  skills  not  though 
they  make  a  jest  at  them. 

But  now  return  I  again  to  you  three,  know- 
ing my  misery  is  to  you  no  news :  and  let  me 
heartily  entreat  you  to  be  warned  by  my 
harms.  Delight  not,  as  I  have  done,  in  irre- 
ligious oaths;  for  from  the  blasphemer's 
house  a  curse  shall  not  depart.  Despise 
drunkenness,  which  wasteth  the  wit,  and 
makcth  men  all  equal  unto  beasts.  Fly  lust, 
as  the  deathsman  of  the  soul,  and  defile  not 
the  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost.     Abhor  those 


CHRISTOPHER   MARLOWE 


13s 


epicures,  whose  loose  life  hath  made  religion 
loathsome  to  your  ears ;  and  ^Yhen  they  sooth 
you  with  terms  of  mastership,  remember 
Robert  Greene,  whom  they  have  so  often 
flattered,  perishes  now  for  want  of  comfort. 
Remember,  gentlemen,  your  lives  are  like 
so  many  lighted  tapers,  that  are  with  care  de- 
livered to  all  of  you  to  maintain ;  these  with 
wind-puffed  wrath  may  be  extinguished,  which 
drunkenness  put  out,  which  negligence  let  fall : 
for  man's  time  of  itself  is  not  so  short,  but  it 
is  more  shortened  by  sin.  The  fire  of  my 
light  is  now  at  the  last  snuff,  and  the  want  of 
wherewith  to  sustain  it,  there  is  no  substance 
left  for  life  to  feed  on.  Trust  not  then,  I 
beseech  ye,  to  such  weak  stays :  for  they  are 
as  changeable  in  mind,  as  in  many  attires. 
Well,  my  hand  is  tired,  and  I  am  forced  to 
leave  where  I  would  begin ;  for  a  whole  book 
cannot  contain  these  wrongs,  which  I  am 
forced  to  knit  up  in  some  few  lines  of  words. 

Desirous  that  you  should  live,  though 

himself  be  dying, 

Robert  Greene. 


CHRISTOPHER   MARLOWE  ^ 

(i 564-1 593) 

HERO  AND   LEANDER 

From  THE  FIRST  SESTIAD 

On  Hellespont,  guilty  of  true  love's  blood. 
In  view  and  opposite  two  cities  stood, 
Sea-borderers,  disjoin'd  by  Neptune's  might ; 
The  one  Abydos,  the  other  Sestos  hight. 
At  Sestos  Hero  dwelt ;  Hero  the  fair. 
Whom  young  Apollo  courted  for  her  hair. 
And  offer'd  as  a  dower  his  burning  throne. 
Where  she  should  sit,  for  men  to  gaze  upon. 
The  outside  of  her  garments  were  of  lawn,     9 
The  lining  purple  silk,  with  gilt  stars  drawn ; 
Her  wide  sleeves  green,  and  border'd  with  a 

grove. 
Where  Venus  in  her  naked  glory  strove 
To  please  the  careless  and  disdainful  eyes 
Of  proud  Adonis,  that  before  her  lies ; 
Her  kirtle  blue,  whereon  was  many  a  stain. 
Made  with  the  blood  of  wTetched  lovers  slain. 
Upon  her  head  she  ware  a  myrtle  wreath, 
From  whence  her  veil  reach'd  to  the  ground 

beneath ; 


^  See  also  p.  165. 


Her  veil  was  artificial  flowers  and  leaves, 
Whose  workmanship  both  man  and  beast  de- 
ceives. 
Many  would  praise  the  sweet  smell  as  she 

past, 
When  'twas  the  odour  which  her  breath  forth 

cast ;  2  2 

And  there,  for  honey,  bees  have  sought  in  vain, 
And,  beat  from  thence,  have  Ughted  there 

again. 
About  her  neck  hung  chains  of  pebble-stone. 
Which,  lighten'd  by  her  neck,  like  diamonds 

shone. 
She  ware  no  gloves ;  for  neither  sun  nor  wind 
Would  bum  or  parch  her  hands,  but,  to  her 

mind. 
Or  warm  or  cool  them,  for  they  took  delight 
To  play  upon  those  hands,  they  were  so  white. 
Buskins  of  shells,  all  silver'd,  used  she,         31 
And  branch'd  with  blushing  coral  to  the  knee; 
Where  sparrows  perch'd  of  hollow  pearl  and 

gold. 
Such  as  the  world  would  wonder  to  behold  : 
Those  with  sweet  water  oft  her  handmaid  fills, 
Which  as  she  went,  would  chirrup  through  the 

biUs. 
Some  say,  for  her  the  fairest  Cupid  pin'd. 
And,  looking  in  her  face,  was  strooken  bhnd. 
But  this  is  true ;   so  like  was  one  the  other. 
As  he  imagin'd  Hero  was  his  mother ;  40 

And  oftentimes  into  her  bosom  flew. 
About  her  naked  neck  his  bare  arms  threw, 
And  laid  his  childish  head  upon  her  breast, 
And,  with  still  panting  rock,  there  took  his  rest. 
So  lovely-fair  w'as  Hero,  Venus'  mm. 
As  Nature  wept,  thinking  she  was  xmdone, 
Because  she  took  more  from  her  than  she  left, 
And  of  such  wondrous  beauty  her  bereft : 
Therefore,  in  sign  her  treasure  suifer'd  wrack, 
Since  Hero's  time  hath  half  the  world  been 

black. 
Amorous  Leander,  beautiful  and  young    5 1 
(Whose  tragedy  divine  INIusaeus  sung). 
Dwelt  at  Abydos ;  since  him  dwelt  there  none 
For   whom   succeeding   times   make   greater 

moan. 
His  dangling  tresses,  that  were  never  shorn. 
Had  they  been  cut,  and  unto  Colchos  borne, 
Would  have  allur'd  the  venturous  youth  of 

Greece 
To  hazard  more  than  for  the  golden  fleece. 
Fair  Cynthia  wished  his  arms  might  be  her 

Sphere ; 
Grief  makes  her  pale,  because  she  moves  not 

there. 


136 


CHRISTOPHER    MARLOWE 


His  body  was  as  straight  as  Circe's  wand  ;  61 
Jove  might  have  sipt  out  nectar  from  his  hand. 
Even  as  deUcious  meat  is  to  the  taste, 
So  was  his  neck  in  touching,  and  surpast 
The  white  of  Pelops'  shoulder  :  I  could  tell  ye, 
How  smooth  his  breast  was,  and  how  white 

his  belly ; 
And  whose  immortal  fingers  did  imprint 
That  heavenly  path  with  many  a  curious  dint 
That  runs  along  his  back ;   but  my  rude  pen 
Can  hardly  blazon  forth  the  loves  of  men,   70 
Much  less  of  powerful  gods :   Let  it  suffice 
That  my  slack  Muse  sings  of  Leander's  eyes ; 
Those  orient  cheeks  and  lips,  exceeding  his 
That  leapt  into  the  water  for  a  kiss 
Of  his  own  shadow,  and,  despising  many, 
Died  ere  he  could  enjoy  the  love  of  any. 
Had  wild  Hippolytus  Leander  seen, 
Enamour'd  of  his  beauty  had  he  been. 
His  presence  made  the  rudest  peasant  melt, 
That  in  the  vast  ul^landish  country  dwelt ;  80 
The  barbarous  Thracian  soldier,  mov'd  with 

nought. 
Was   mov'd   with   him,   and  for   his   favour 

sought. 
Some  swore  he  was  a  maid  in  man's  attire, 
For  in  his  looks  were  all  that  men  desire,  — 
A  pleasant-smiling  cheek,  a  speaking  eye, 
A  brow  for  love  to  banquet  royally ; 
And  such  as  knew  he  was  a  man,  would  say, 
"Leander,  thou  art  made  for  amorous  play  ; 
Why  art  thou  not  in  love,  and  loved  of  all? 
Though  thou  be  fair,  yet  be  not  thine  own 

thrall." 
The  men  of  wealthy  Sestos  every  year,     91 
For  his  sake  whom  their  goddess  held  so  dear, 
Rose-cheek'd  Adonis,  kept  a  solemn  feast. 
Thither  resorted  many  a  wandering  guest 
To  meet  their  loves ;    such  as  had  none  at  all 
Came  lovers  home  from  this  great  festival ; 
For  every  street,  like  to  a  firmament, 
Glister'd   with   breathing  stars,   who,   where 

they  went, 
Frighted  the  melancholy  earth,  which  deem'd 
Eternal  heaven  t©  burn,  for  so  it  seem'd     100 
As  if  another  Phaeton  had  got 
The  guidance  of  the  sun's  rich  chariot. 
But,  far  above  the  loveliest.  Hero  shin'd. 
And  stole  away  th'  enchanted  gazer's  mind ; 
For  like  sca-nymphs'  inveigling  harmony, 
So  was  her  beauty  to  the  standers  by  ; 
Nor  that  night-wandering,  pale,  and  watery 

star^ 


(When  yawning  dragons  draw  her  thirling '  car 
From  Latmus'  mount  up  to  the  gloomy  sky. 
Where,  crown'd  with  blazing  light  and  maj- 
esty, no 
She  proudly  sits)  more  over-rules  the  flood 
Than  she  the  hearts  of  those  that  near  her 

stood. 
Even   as,   when   gaudy   nymphs  pursue   the 

chase. 
Wretched  Ixion's  shaggy-footed  race, 
Licens'd  with  savage  heat,  gallop  amain 
From   steep  pine-bearing  mountains   to   the 

plain, 
So  ran  the  people  forth  to  gaze  upon  her, 
And   all   that   view'd    her   were    enamour'd 

on  her. 
And  as,  in  fury  of  a  dreadful  fight j 
Their  fellows  being  slain  or  put  to  flight,    120 
Poor  soldiers  stand  with  fear  of  death  dead- 

strooken, 
So  at  her  presence  all  surpris'd  and  tooken, 
Await  the  sentence  of  her  scornful  eyes ; 
He  whom  she  favours  lives ;  the  other  dies. 
There  might  you  see  one  sigh  ;   another  rage ; 
And  some,  their  violent  passions  to  assuage. 
Compile  sharp  satires ;   but,  alas,  too  late  ! 
For  faithful  love  will  never  turn  to  hate. 
And  many,  seeing  great  princes  were  denied, 
Pin'd  as  they  went,  and  thinking  on  her  died. 
On  this  feast-day  —  O  cursed  day  and  hour  ! — 
Went  Hero  thorough  Sestos,  from  her  tower 
To  Venus'  temple,  where  unhappily. 
As  after  chanc'd,  they  did  each  other  spy. 
So  fair  a  church  as  this  had  Venus  none : 
The  walls  were  of  discolour'd  ^  jasper-stone. 
Wherein  was  Proteus  carved ;    and  over-head 
A  lively  vine  of  green  sea- agate  spread, 
Where   by   one   hand   light-headed   Bacchus 

hung, 
And  with  the  other  wine  from  grapes  out- 
wrung.  140 
Of  crystal  shining  fair  the  pavement  was ; 
The  town  of  Sestos  call'd  it  Venus'  glass : 


And  in  the  midst  a  silver  altar  stood : 
There  Hero,  sacrificing  turtles'  blood. 
Vailed'   to   the   ground,   veiling   her   eyelids 

close ; 
And  modestly  they  opened  as  she  rose.       160 
Thence  flew  Love's  arrow  with   the  golden 

head ; 
And  thus  Leander  was  enamoured. 


'  the  moon 


^  piercing  the  air    ^  vari-colored    '  bent 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


137 


Stone-still  he  stood,  and  evermore  he  gaz'd, 
Till  with  the  fire  that  from  his  countenance 

blaz'd 
Relenting  Hero's  gentle  heart  was  strook  : 
Such  force  and  virtue  hath  an  amorous  look. 

It  lies  not  in  our  power  to  love  or  hate, 
For  will  in  us  is  over-rul'd  by  fate. 
When  two  are  stript,  long  ere  the  course  begin, 
We  wish  that  one  should  lose,  the  other  win ; 
And  one  especially  do  we  affect  171 

Of  two  gold  ingots,  like  in  each  respect : 
The  reason  no  man  knows,  let  it  suffice, 
What  we  behold  is  censur'd  ^  by  our  eyes. 
Where  both  deliberate,  the  love  is  slight : 
Who  ever  lov'd,  that  lov'd  not  at  first  sight? 

WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE 

(1564-1616) 

From  VENUS  AND   ADONIS 

Thus  hoping  that  Adonis  is  alive. 
Her  rash  suspect  ^  sh-e  doth  extenuate  ;^    loio 
And  that  his  beauty  may  the  better  thrive. 
With  Death  she  humbly  doth  insinuate ; 

Tells  him  of  trophies,  statues,  tombs,  and 
stories ; 

His  victories,  his  triumphs,  and  his  glories. 

"O  Jove,"  quoth  she,  "how  much  a  fool  was  I 
To  be  of  such  a  weak  and  silly  mind 
To  wail  his  death  who  lives  and  must  not  die 
Till  mutual  overthrow  of  mortal  kind  ! 

For  he  being  dead,  with  him  is  beauty  slain. 
And,  beauty  dead,  black  chaos  comes  again. 

"Fie,  fie,  fond  love,  thou  art  so  full  of  fear  10 21 
As  one  with   treasure   laden,   hemm'd   with 

thieves ; 
Trifles,  unwitnessed  with  eye  or  ear. 
Thy    coward    heart    with    false    bethinking 
grieves." 
Even  at  this  word  she  hears  a  merry  horn, 
Whereat  she  leaps  that  was  but  late  forlorn. 

As  falcon  to  the  lure,  away  she  flies ; 
The  grass  stoops  not,  she  treads  on  it  so  light ; 
And  in  her  haste  unfortunately  spies 
The  foul  boar's  conquest  on  her  fair  delight ; 
Which  seen,  her  eyes,  as  murder'd  with  the 
view,  1 03 1 

Like  stars  ashamed  of  day,  themselves  with- 
drew ; 

^  judged       ^  suspicion       ^  lessen 


Or,  as  the  snail,  whose  tender   horns  being 

hit, 
Shrinks  backward  in   his    shelly  cave    with 

pain, 
And  there,  all  smother'd  up,  in  shade  doth  sit, 
Long  after  fearing  to  creep  forth  again  ; 
So,  at  his  bloody  view,  her  eyes  are  fled 
Into  the  deep  dark  cabins  of  her  head : 

Where  they  resign  their  office  and  their  light 
To  the  disposing  of  her  troubled  brain ;    1040 
Who  bids  them  still  consort  with  ugly  night. 
And  never  wound  the  heart  with  looks  again  ; 
Who,  like  a  king  perplexed  in  his  throne. 
By  their  suggestion  gives  a  deadly  groan. 

Whereat  each  tributary  subject  quakes ; 

As  when  the  wind,  imprison'd  in  the  ground. 

Struggling    for    passage,    earth's    foundation 

shakes. 
Which  with  cold  terror  doth  men's  minds  con- 
found. 
This  mutiny  each  part  doth  so  surprise 
That  from  their  dark  beds  once  more  leap 
her  eyes;  1050 

And,  being  open'd,  threw  unwilling  light 
Upon   the   wide  wound   that   the   boar  had 

trench'd 
In  his  soft  flank ;   whose  wonted  lily  white 
With  purple  tears,  that  his  wound  wept,  was 

drench'd. 
No  flower  was  nigh,  no  grass,  herb,  leaf,  or 

weed, 
But  stole  his  blood  and  seem'd  with  him  to 

bleed. 

This  solemn  sympathy  poor  \'enus  noteth ; 
Over  one  shoulder  doth  she  hang  her  head ; 
Dumbly  she  passions,  franticly  she  doteth  ; 
She  thinks  he  could  not  die,  he  is  not  dead : 

Her  voice  is  stopt,  her  joints  forget  to  bow  ; 

Her  eyes  are  mad  that  they  have  wept  till 
now.  1062 

Upon  his  hurt  she  looks  so  steadfastly. 
That  her  sight  dazzling  makes  the  wound  seem 

three ; 
And  then  she  reprehends  her  manghng  eye. 
That  makes  more  gashes  where  no  breach 

should  be : 
His  face  seems  twain,  each  several  limb  is 

doubled ; 
For  oft  the  eye  mistakes,  the  brain  being 

troubled. 


138 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


"  My  tongue  cannot  express  my  grief  for  one, 
And  yet,"  quoth  she,  "behold  two  Adons  dead  ! 
My  sighs  are  blown  away,  my  salt  tears  gone, 
Mine  eyes  are  turn'd  to  tire,  my  heart  to  lead  : 

Heavy  heart's  lead,  melt  at  mine  eyes'  red 
fire ! 

So  shall  I  die  by  drops  of  hot  desire. 

"Alas,  poor  world,  what  treasure  hast  thou 

lost ! 
What   face  remains   alive   that's   worth   the 

viewing  ? 
Whose  tongue  is  music  now  ?  what  canst  thou 

boast 
Of  things  long  since,  or  any  thing  ensuing? 
The  flowers  are  sweet,  their  colours  fresh 

and  trim ;  1079 

But  true-sweet  beauty  lived  and  died  with 

him. 

"  Bonnet  nor  veil  henceforth  no  creature  vv^ear  ! 
Nor  sun  nor  wind  will  ever  strive  to  kiss  you  : 
Having  no  fair  to  lose,  you  need  not  fear ; 
The  sun  doth  scorn  you  and  the  wind  doth 
hiss  you : 
But  when  Adonis  lived,  sun  and  sharp  air 
Lurk'd  like  two  thieves,  to  rob  him  of  his 
fair :  ^ 

"And  therefore  would  he  put  his  bonnet  on. 

Under  whose  brim  the  gaudy  sun  would  peep ; 

The  wind  would  blow  it  off  and,  being  gone, 

Play  with  his  locks  :  then  would  Adonis  weep ; 

And  straight,  in  pity  of  his  tender  years. 

They  both  would  strive  who  first  should 

dry  his  tears.  1092 

"To  see  his  face  the  lion  walk'd  along 
Behind  some  hedge,  because  he  woidd  not 

fear  ^  him ; 
To  recreate  himself  when  he  hath  sung. 
The  tiger  would  be  tame  and  gently  hear  him  ; 
If  he  had  spoke,  the  wolf  would  leave  his  prey 
And  never  fright  the  silly  lamb  that  day. 

"When  he  beheld  his  shadow  in  the  brook, 
The  fishes  spread  on  it  their  golden  gills ; 
When  he  was  by,  the  birds  such  pleasure  took. 
That  some  would  sing,  some  other  in  their  bills 
Would   bring   him    mulberries    and    ripe-red 

cherries;  11 03 

He  fed  them  with  his  sight,  they  him  with 

berries. 


^  beauty 


frighten 


"But  this  foul,  grim,  and  urchin-snouted  boar, 
Whose  downward  eye  still  looketh  for  a  grave, 
Ne'er  saw  the  beauteous  livery  that  he  wore  ; 
Witness  the  entertainment  that  he  gave : 
If  he  did  see  his  face,  why  then  I  know 
He  thought  to  kiss  him,  and  hath  kill'd  him 


"  'Tis  true,  'tis  true ;  thus  was  Adonis  slain  : 
He  ran  upon  the  boar  with  his  sharp  spear. 
Who  did  not  whet  his  teeth  at  him  again,  1 1 13 
But  by  a  kiss  thought  to  persuade  him  there ; 
And  nuzzling  in  his  flank,  the  loving  swine 
Sheathed  unaware  the  tusk  in  his  soft  groin. 

"Had  I  been  tooth'd  like  him,  I  must  confess, 
With  kissing  him  I  should  have  kill'd  him  first ; 
But  he  is  dead,  and  never  did  he  bless  11 19 
My  youth  with  his ;  the  more  am  I  accurst." 
With  this,  she  falleth  in  the  place  she  stood, 
And  stains  her  face  with  his  congealed  blood. 

She  looks  upon  his  lips,  and  they  are  pale ; 

She  takes  him  by  the  hand,  and  that  is  cold ; 

She  whispers  in  his  ears  a  heavy  tale, 

As  if  they  heard  the  woeful  words  she  told ; 
She  lifts  the  coffer-lids  that  close  his  eyes. 
Where,  lo,  two  lamps,  burnt  out,  in  darkness 
lies; 

Two  glasses,  where  herself  herself  beheld 
A  thousand  times,  and  now  no  more  reflect ; 
Their  virtue  lost,  wherein  they  late  exceU'd, 
And  every  beauty  robb'd  of  his  effect :       1 13  2 
"Wonder  of  time,"  quoth  she,  "this  is  my 

spite. 
That,  thou  being  dead,  the  day  should  yet 
be  light. 

"Since  thou  art  dead,  lo,  here  I  prophesy: 
Sorrow  on  love  hereafter  shall  attend : 
It  shall  be  waited  on  with  jealousy, 
Find  sweet  beginning,  but  unsavoury  end. 
Ne'er  settled  equally,  but  high  or  low,  1139 
That  all  love's  pleasure  shall  not  match  his 


"It  shall  be  fickle,  false,  and  full  of  fraud, 
Bud  and  be  blasted  in  a  breathing-while ; 
The  bottom  poison,  and  the  top  o'erstrawVP 
With  sweets  that  shall  the  truest  sight  beguile : 
The  strongest  body  shall  it  make  most  weak. 
Strike  ihc  wise  dumb  and  teach  the  fool  to 
speak. 

^  o'erstrewcd 


SONNETS 


139 


"It  shall  be  sparing  and  too  full  of  riot ; 
Teaching  decrepit  age  to  tread  the  measures ; 
The  staring  ruffian  shall  it  keep  in  quiet, 
Pluck  down  the  rich,  enrich  the  poor  with 
treasures;  11 50 

It  shall  be  raging-mad  and  silly-mild, 
Make  the  young  old,  the  old  become  a  child. 

"It  shall  suspect  where  is  no  cause  of  fear; 
It  shall  not  fear  where  it  should  most  mistrust ; 
It  shall  be  merciful  and  too  severe. 
And  most  deceiving  when  it  seems  most  just ; 

Perverse  it  shall  be  where  it  shows  most 
toward ; 

Put  ^  fear  to  valour,  courage  to  the  coward. 

"It  shall  be  cause  of  war  and  dire  events, 
And  set  dissension  'twixt  the  son  and  sire ; 
Subject  and  servile  to  all  discontents,         1 1 6 1 
As  dry  combustious  matter  is  to  fire : 

Sith  in  his  prime  ^  Death  doth  my  love  de- 
stroy, 
They  that  love  best  their  loves  shall  not 
enjoy." 


SONNETS 

XII 

When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  time, 
And  see  the  brave  day  sunk  in  hideous  night ; 
When  I  behold  the  violet  past  prime, 
And  sable  curls  all  silver'd  o'er  with  white; 
'When  lofty  trees  I  see  barren  of  leaves. 
Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd, 
And  summer's  green  all  girded  up  in  sheaves 
Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly  beard. 
Then  of  thy  beauty  do  I  question  make, 
That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must  go, 
Since  sweets  and  beauties  do  themselves  for- 
sake 1 1 
And  die  as  fast  as  they  see  others  grow ; 
And  nothing  'gainst  Time's  scythe  can  make 

defence 
Save  breed  ,3  to  brave  him  when  he  takes  thee 
hence. 

XV 

When  I  consider  every  thing  that  grows 
Holds*  in  perfection  but  a  little  moment, 
That  this  huge  stage  presenteth  nought  but 
shows 


Whereon  the  stars  in  secret  influence  com- 
ment ; 
When  I  perceive  that  men  as  plants  increase, 
Cheered  and  check'd  even  by  the  self-same  sky, 
Vaunt  in  their  youthful  sap,  at  height  decrease, 
And  wear  their  brave  state  out  of  memory ; 
Then  the  conceit  ^  of  this  inconstant  stay 
Sets  you  most  rich  in  youth  before  my  sight,  10 
Where  wasteful  Time  debateth  with  Decay, 
To  change  your  day  of  youth  to  sullied  night ; 
And  all  in  war  with  Time  for  love  of  you. 
As  he  takes  from  you,  I  engraft  you  new. 

XVII 

Who  will  believe  ray  verse  in  time  to  come. 
If  it  were  till'd  with  your  most  high  deserts  ? 
Though  yet,  heaven  knows,  it  is  but  as  a  tomb 
Which  hides  your  life  and  shows  not  half  your 

parts. 
If  I  could  write  the  beauty  of  your  eyes 
And  in  fresh  numbers  number  all  your  graces, 
The  age  to  come  would  say,  "This  poet  lies; 
Such  heavenly  touches  ne'er  touch'd  earthly 

faces." 
So  should  my  papers  yellow'd  with  their  age 
Be  scorn'd  like  old  men  of  less  truth  than 

tongvie, 
And  your  true  rights  be  term'd  a  poet's  rage  1 1 
And  stretched  metre  of  an  antique  song : 
But  were  some  child  of  yours  alive  that  time. 
You  shoidd  live  twice;    in  it  and  in  my 
rhyme. 

XXIX 

When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  aU  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries 
And  look  upon  myself  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured    like    him,    like   him    with    friends 

possess'd, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state,     10 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's 

gate ; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd  such  wealth 

brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with 

kings. 


*give     2  youth     "offspring     ^remains 


^conception,  thought 


I40 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


XXX 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's 

waste : 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless 

night. 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancell'd 

woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd 

sight : 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone. 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er  lo 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 
But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
AU  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end. 

XXXII 

If  thou  survive  my  well-contented  day. 
When  that  churl  Death  my  bones  with  dust 

shall  cover, 
And  shalt  by  fortune  once  more  re-survey 
These  poor  rude  lines  of  thy  deceased  lover, 
Compare  them  with  the  bettering  of  the  time, 
And  though  they  be  outstripp'd  by  every  pen. 
Reserve  them  for  my  love,  not  for  their  rhyme, 
Exceeded  by  the  height  of  happier  men. 
O,  then  vouchsafe  me  but  this  loving  thought : 
"Had  my  friend's  Muse  grown  with  this  grow- 
ing age,  lo 
A  dearer  birth  than  this  his  love  had  brought. 
To  march  in  ranks  of  better  equipage : 
But  since  he  died  and  poets  better  prove, 
Theirs  for  their  style  I'll  read,  his  for  his 
love." 

LV 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme ; 
But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these  con- 
tents 
Than  unswept  stone  besmear'd  with  sluttish 

time. 
When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 
And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry, 
Nor  Mars  his  ^  sword  nor  war's  quick  fire  shall 

burn 
The  living  record  of  your  memory. 

^  Mars's 


'Gainst  death  and  all-oblivious^  enmity 

Shall  you  pace  forth ;    your  praise  shall  still 
find  room  lo 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  aU  posterity 

That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 
So,  till  the  judgement  that  yourself  arise. 
You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lover's  eyes. 

LXIV 

When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defaced 
The  rich  proud  cost  of  outworn  buried  age; 
When  sometime^  lofty  towers  I  see  down-razed 
And  brass  eternal  slave  to  mortal  rage; 
When  I  have  seen  the  hungry  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore. 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  watery  main, 
Increasing  store  with  loss  and  loss  with  store ; 
When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state, 
Or  state  itself  confounded  to  decay ;  lo 

Ruin  hath  taught  me  thus  to  ruminate, 
That  Time  will  come  and  take  my  love  away. 

This  thought  is  as  a  death,  which  cannot 
choose 

But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to  lose. 

LXV 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless 

sea, 
But  sad  mortality  o'er-sways  their  power. 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea, 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower? 
O,  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days,  ^ 
When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout, 
Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  Time  decays  ? 
O  fearful  meditation  !  where,  alack. 
Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from^  Time's  chest  lie 

hid?  TO 

Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot 

back? 
Or  who  his  spoiH  of  beauty  can  forbid? 
O,  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might. 
That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine 

bright. 

LXVI 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry,  — 
As,^  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 
And  needy  nothing^  trimm'd  in  jollity. 
And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 

^  blotting  out  all  things     ^  formerly     '  out  of 
*  spoiling    ^  as,  for  example    ^  i.e.,  one  of  no  merit 


SONNETS 


141 


,\nd  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplaced, 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced, 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  ^  disabled, 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 
And  foUy  doctor-like  controlling  skill,  10 

And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity ,- 
And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill : 

Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be 
gone. 

Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  love  alone. 

LXXI 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to 

dweU : 
Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 
O,  if,  I  say,  you  look  upon  this  verse  9 

When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay. 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse. 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay. 

Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your 
moan 

And  mock  you  with^  me  after  I  am  gone. 

LXXIII 

That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the 

cold. 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds 

sang, 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west. 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away. 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his"*  youth  doth  lie,     10 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd 

by. 

This  thou  perceivest,  which  makes  thy  love 

more  strong,  ■> 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ^ 

ere  long. 

'  power    ^  foolishness    ^  because  of    *  its  =  the 
fire's     ^  give  up 


xcvn 

How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year  ! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days 

seen  ! 
What  old  December's  bareness  ever>'  where  ! 
And  yet  this  time  removed  was  summer's  time. 
The  teeming  autumn,  big  with  rich  increase, 
Bearing  the  wanton  burthen  of  the  prime, 
Like  widow'd  wombs  after  their  lords'  decease : 
Yet  this  abimdant  issue  seem'd  to  me  9 

But  hope  of  orphans  and  unfather'd  fruit ; 
For  summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee. 
And,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute ; 
Or,  if  they  sing,  'tis  with  so  dull  a  cheer 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  winter's 
near.i 

XCVIII 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
When  proud-pied  Aprfl  dress'd  in  all  his  trim 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing. 
That  2  heavy  Saturn  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with 

him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds  nor  the  sweet  smeU 
Of  different  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where 

they  grew ; 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white, 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose ;      10 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seem'd  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away, 
As  with  your  shadow,  I  with  these  did  play. 


XCIX 

The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide : 

Sweet  thief,  whence  didst  thou  steal  thy  sweet 

that  smells, 
If  not  from  my  love's  breath?     The  purple 

pride 
Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion  dwells 
In  my  love's  veins  thou  hast  too  grossly  dyed. 
The  lily  I  condemned  for  thy  hand. 
And  buds  of  marjoram  had  stol'n  thy  hair. 
The  roses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand. 
One  blushing  shame,  another  white  despair ; 
A  third,  nor  red  nor  white,  had  stol'n  of  both 
And  to  his  robbery  had  annex'd  thy  breath ;  1 1 

^  nearness         ^  so  that 


142 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


But,  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  growth 
A  vengeful  canker  eat  him  up  to  death. 
More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  could  see 
But  sweet  or  colour  it  had  stol'n  from  thee. 

CVI 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wast  ed  *  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights. 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights, 
Then,  in  the  blazon  ^  of  sweet  beauty's  best. 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  express'd 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  3'ou  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring ;  10 

And.  for^  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing  : 

For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present 
days, 

Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to 
praise. 

CVII 

Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on  things  to  come. 
Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control, 
Supposed  as  forfeit  to  a  confined  doom. 
The  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse  endured 
And  the  sad  augurs  mock  their  own  presage ; 
Incertainties  now  crown  themselves  assured 
And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  endless  age. 
Nov/  with  the  drops  of  this  most  balmy  time  9 
My  love  looks  fresh,  and  Death  to  me  sub- 
scribes,'* 
Since,  spite  of  him,  I'll  live  in  this  poor  rhyme, 
While  he  insults  o'er  dull  and  speechless  tribes : 
And  thou  in  this  shalt  find  thy  monument, 
When  tyrants'  crests  and  tombs  of  brass  are 
spent. 

CIX 

O,  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart, 

Though  absence  seem'd  my  flame  to  qualify.^ 

As  easy  might  I  from  myself  depart 

As  from  my  soul,  which  in  thy  breast  doth  lie : 

That  is  my  home  of  love  :  if  I  have  ranged, 

Like  him  that  travels  I  return  again, 

Just  to  the  time,  not  with  the  time  exchanged, 

So  that  myself  bring  water  for  my  stain. 

^past       2  (jL'scription       ^because       ^submits 
^  diminish 


Never  believe,  though  in  my  nature  reign'd 
All  frailties  that  besiege  all  kinds  of  blood,  10 
That  it  could  so  preposterously  be  stain'd, 
To  leave  for  nolhing  all  thy  sum  of  good; 
For  nothing  this  wide  universe  I  call, 
Save  thou,  my  rose ;  in  it  thou  art  my  all. 

CX 

Alas,  'tis  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there 
And  made  myself  a  motley  ^  to  the  view, 
Gored  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is 

most  dear, 
Made  old  offences  of  affections  new ; 
Most  true  it  is  that  I  have  look'd  on  truth 
Askance  and  strangely ;   but,  by  all  above, 
These  blenches^  gave  my  heart  another  youth, 
And  worse  essays  proved  thee  my  best  of  love. 
Now  all  is  done,  have  what  shall  have  no  end : 
Mine  appetite  I  never  more  will  grind         10 
On  newer  proof,  to  try  an  older  friend, 
A  god  in  love,  to  whom  I  am  confin'd.^ 
Then  give  me  welcome,  next  my  heaven  the 

best. 
Even  to  thy  pure  and  most  most  loving  breast. 

CXI 

O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 
Than   public   means   which   public   manners 

breeds. 
Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a 

brand. 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand. 
Pity  me  then  and  wish  I  were  renew 'd ; 
Whilst,  like  a  willing  patient,  I  will  drink 
Potions  of  eisel  *  'gainst  my  strong  infection  ; 
No  bitterness  that  I  will  bitter  think,         11 
Nor  double  penance,  to  correct  correction. 
Pity  me  then,  dear  friend,  and  I  assure  ye 
Even  that  your  pity  is  enough  to  cure  me. 

CXVT 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  fixids, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove : 
O,  no  I  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 

^  fool    ^  failures   ^  bound    ^  a  bitter  drink  used 
as  a  prophylactic 


SONGS    FROM    THE    PLAYS 


143 


That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose  worth's^  unknown,  although  his  height 

be  taken. 
Love's  not  Time's  fool,-  though  rosy  lips  and 

cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  ;  10 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

CXL\1 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  m}^  sinful  earth, 
[Amidst]  these  rebel  powers  that  thee  array, 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within  and  suffer  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess. 
Eat  up  thy  charge?  is  this  thy  body's  end? 
Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store ;     10 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more: 

So  shah  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on 
men. 

And  Death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying 
then. 


SONGS   FROM  THE   PLAYS 
From  LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail. 
When  blood  is  nipped  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
Tu-whit,  tu-who  I  a  merry  note. 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  ^  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow. 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw. 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
Tu-whit,  tu-who  !  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


From  A  MIDSUMISIER  NIGHTS  DREAM 

Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  ^  bush,  thorough  brier. 

Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

I  do  wander  everywhere. 

Swifter  than  the  moones  sphere; 

And  I  serve  the  Fairy  Queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green. 

The  cowshps  tall  her  pensioners  -  be ; 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see :  10 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours. 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savours. 

I  must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here, 

And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 


From  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA 

\\Tio  is  Silvia?  what  is  she, 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she ; 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her. 

That  she  might  admired  be.  5 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness. 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness. 
And,  being  help'd,  inhabits  there.  10 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing. 

That  Silvia  is  excelling  ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling : 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring.  1 5 


From  THE   ^MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 

Tell  me,  where  is  fancy  ^  bred. 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head? 
How  begot,  how  nourished? 
Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes,  5 

With  gazing  fed  ;   and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  Ues : 
Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell ; 
I'U  begin  it,  —  Ding-dong,  bell. 

Ding,  dong,  bell.  10 


^  occult  influence      -  dupe      *  cool,  stir 


through     -  body-guard     ^  romantic  lo\-e 


144 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


From   AS   YOU   LIKE   IT 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  he  with  me, 
■  And  turn  ^  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither  !  come  hither  !  come  hither  !    5 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun,  10 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither  !  come  hither  !  come  hither  ! 
Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy  15 

But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


From  AS   YOU  LIKE   IT 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind  ! 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen,  5 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 

Heigh   ho  !   sing,   heigh  ho  !  unto   the  green 

holly : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere 
folly : 
Then,  heigh  ho,  the  holly  ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly.  10 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky  ! 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot ; 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp  15 

As  friend  remembered  not. 

Heigh  ho  !  sing,  heigh  ho  !  etc. 


From  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more ! 

Men  were  deceivers  ever. 
One  foot  in  sea  and  one  on  shore, 

To  one  thing  constant  never : 

^  adapt 


Then  sigh  not  so,  but  let  them  go, 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny. 

Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 

Into  Hey  nonny,  nonny  !  8 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  moe  ^ 

Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy ! 
The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  so, 

Since  summer  first  was  leavy : 
Then  sigh  not  so,  but  let  them  go, 

And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny, 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 

Into  Hey  nonny,  nonny  !  16 


From  TWELFTH  NIGHT 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
O,  stay  and  hear ;    your  true  love's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low : 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting, 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting, 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know.  6 

What  is  love?  'tis  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter ; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty ; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty ,2 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure.  12 


From  TWELFTH   NIGHT 

Come  away,'  come  away,  Death  ! 

And  in  sad  cypress  ^  let  me  be  laid ; 
Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath ; 

I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O,  prepare  it ! 
My  part  of  death,  no  one  so  true 

Did  share  it.  8 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 

On  my  black  coflin  let  there  be  strown  ; 
Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 

My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be 
thrown : 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save. 

Lay  me,  O,  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave. 

To  weep  there  !  ife 

*  more  -  often  and  often  '  come  here  *  a  crape 
used  for  funerals 


SONGS    FROM    THE    PLAYS 


145 


From  HAMLET 

How  should  I  your  true  love  know 

From  another  one? 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff, 

And  his  sandal  shoon.  4 

He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady, 

He  is  dead  and  gone ; 
At  his  head  a  grass-green  turf. 

At  his  heels  a  stone.  8 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow, 

Larded^  with  sweet  flowers. 
Which  bewept  to  the  grave  did  go 

With  true-love  showers.  12 

From   MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE 

Take,  O,  take  those  lips  away. 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn  ; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day. 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn :        4 
But  my  kisses  bring  again. 

Bring  again  ; 
Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain, 

Sealed  in  vain  !  8 

From  CYMBELINE 

Hark,  hark !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phcebus^  'gins  arise. 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ;  4 

And  winking  ]\Iary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes : 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  is, 

]My  lady  sweet,  arise  I  8 

Arise,  arise  ! 

From   CYMBELINE 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  th'  sun. 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages ; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 
Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages : 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust.  6 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  th'  great ; 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke ; 


Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak : 
The  Sceptre,  Learning,  Physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust.  12 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash, 
Nor  th'  all-dreaded  thunder-stone ;  ^ 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan  : 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign "  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust.         18 

No  exorciser  harm  thee  ! 

Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee  ! 
Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee  ! 

Nothing  ill  come  near  thee  ! 
Quiet  consummation  have ; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave  !  24 

From  THE   TEMPEST 
A   SEA    DIRGE 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies : 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes ; 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea  change  5 

Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 

Ding-dong  ! 
Hark  !  now  I  hear  them,  —  Ding-dong,  bell ! 

From  THE   TEMPEST 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie ; 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily.  5 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 


GEORGE    CHAPMAN  (i559?-i634) 

From   THE   TWELFTH   BOOK   OF 
HOMER'S   ODYSSEYS 

This  said,  the  golden-throned  Aurora  rose, 
She ^  her  way  went,  and  I  did  mine  dispose  2  20 
Up  to  my  ship,  weigh'd  anchor,  and  away. 
When  reverend  Circe  help'd  us  to  convey 


^  covered 


-  the  sun 


^thunder-bolt     -surrender     ^  Circe 


146 


GEORGE    CHAPMAN 


Our  vessel  safe,  by  making  well  inclined 
A  seaman's  true  companion,  a  forewind,* 
With  which  she  lill'd  our  sails  ;  when,  fitting  all 
Our  arms  close  by  us,  I  did  sadly  fall 
To  grave  relation  what  concern 'd  in  fate 
My  friends  to  know,  and  told  them  that  the 

state 
Of  our  affairs'  success,  which  Circe  had 
Presaged  to  me  alone,  must  yet  be  made    230 
To  one  nor  only  two  known,  but  to  all ; 
That,  since  their  lives  and  deaths  were  left  to 

fall 
In  their  elections,  they  might  hfe  elect. 
And  give  what  would  preserve  it  fit  effect. 

I  first  inform'd  them,  that  we  were  to  fly 
The  heavenly-singing  Sirens'  harmony, 
And  flower-adorned  meadow ;  and  that  I 
Had  charge  to  hear  their  song,  but  fetter'd  fast 
In  bands,  unfavour'd,  to  th'  erected  mast ; 
From  whence,  if  I  should  pray,  or  use  com- 
mand, 
To  be  enlarged,  they  should  with  much  more 

band 
Contain  my  strugglings.  This  I  simply  told 
To  each  particular,  nor  would  withhold  243 
What  most  enjoin'd  mine  own  affection's  stay. 
That  theirs  the  rather  might  be  taught  t'  obey. 
In  meantime  flew  our  ships,  and  straight  we 

fetch'd 
The     Sirens'   isle ;      a    spleenless  ^    wind   so 

stretch'd 
Her  wings  to  waft  us,  and  so  urged  our  keel. 
But  having  reach'd  this  isle,  we  could  not  feel 
The  least  gasp  of  it,  it  was  stricken  dead,     250 
And  all  the  sea  in  prostrate  slumber  spread : 
The  Sirens'  devil  charm'd  all.     Up  then  flew 
My  friends  to  work,  strook  sail,  together  drew, 
And  under  hatches  stow'd  them,  sat,  and  plied 
Their  polish'd  oars,  and  did  in  curls  divide 
The  white-head  waters.   My  part  then  came  on : 
A  mighty  waxen  cake  I  set  upon, 
Chopp'd  it  in  fragments  with  my  sword,  and 

wrought 
With  strong  hand  every  piece,  till  all  were  soft. 
The  great  power  of  the  sun,  in  such  a  beam  260 
As  then  flew  burning  from  his  diadem. 
To  liquefaction  help'd  us.     Orderly 
I  stopp'd  their  ears :   and  they  as  fair  did  ply 
My  feet  and  hands  with  cords,  and  to  the  mast 
With  other  halsers^  made  me  soundly  fast. 
Then  took  they  seat,  and  forth  our  passage 

strook, 
The  foamy  sea  beneath  their  labour  shook. 


^  favorable  wind 


'  gentle 


^  hawsers 


Row'd  on,  in  reach  of  an  erected^  voice. 
The  Sirens  soon  took  note,  without  our  noise ; 
Tuned  those  sweet  accents  that  made  charms 
so  strong,  270 

And  these  learn 'd  nvimbers  made  the  Sirens' 
song: 
"Come  here,  thou  worthy  of  a  world  of  praise, 
That  dost  so  high  the  Grecian  glory  raise; 
Ulysses!  stay  thy  ship,  and  that  song  hear 
That  none  pass  d  ever  but  it  bent  his  ear, 
But  left  him  ravish' d  and  instructed  more 
By  us,  than  any  ever  heard  before. 
For  we  know  all  things  whatsoever  were 
Ln  wide  Troy  labotir'd;  whatsoever  there 
The  Grecians  and  the  Trojans  both  sustained  280 
By  those  high  issues  that  the  Gods  ordain'd. 
And  whatsoever  all  the  earth  can  show 
T'  inform  a  knowledge  of  desert,  we  know." 

This  they  gave  accent  in  the  sweetest  strain 
That  ever  open'd  an  enamour 'd  vein." 
When  my  const rain'd  heart  needs  would  have 

mine  ear 
Yet  more  delighted,  force  way  forth,  and  hear. 
To  which  end  I  commanded  with  all  sign 
Stern  looks  could  make  (for  not  a  joint  of  mine 
Had  power  to  stir)  my  friends  to  rise,  and  give 
My  hmbs  free  way.     They  freely  strived  to 

■^  drive 
Their  ship  stiU  on.     When,  far  from  will  to. 

loose, 
Eurylochus  and  Perimedes  rose  293 

To  wrap  me  surer,  and  oppress'd  me  more 
With  many  a  halser  than  had  use  before. 
When,  rowing  on  without  ^  the  reach  of  sound, 
My  friends  unstopp'd  their  ears,  and  me  un- 
bound. 
And  that  isle  quite  we  quitted. 

SAMUEL   DANIEL    (1562-1619) 

SONNETS  TO   DELIA 

XIX 

Restore  thy  tresses  to  the  golden  ore ; 
Yield  Cytherea's  son  ^  those  arcs  of  love : 
Bequeath    the   heavens   the    stars    that    I 

adore ; 
And  to  the  orient  do  thy  pearls  remove. 
Yield  thy  hands'  pride  unto  the  ivory  white; 
To    Arabian    odours    give    thy    breathing 
sweet ; 

'  lifted,   i.e.   loud    ^  burst  from    an    enamored 
heart   ^  beyond  ••  Venus'  son,  Cupid 


SAMUEL    DANIEL 


147 


Restore  thy  blush  unto  Aurora  bright ; 

To  Thetis  give  the  honour  of  thy  feet. 
Let  Venus  have  thy  graces  her  resigned ; 

And  thy  sweet  voice  give  back  unto  the 
spheres : 

But  yet  restore  thy  fierce  and  cruel  mind 

To  Hyrcan  tigers  and  to  ruthless  bears.    1 2 
Yield  to  the  marble  thy  hard  heart  again ; 
So  shalt  thou  cease  to  plague  and  I  to  pain. 


LIV 


Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born : 
Relieve  my  languish,  and  restore  the  light ; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care,  return  ! 

And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ill-adventured  youth : 
Let  waking  eyes  suftice  to  wail  their  scorn. 
Without   the   torment   of  the  night's  un- 
truth. 

Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day-desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow ; 
Never  let  rising  sun  approve  ^  you  liars,    1 1 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow. 

Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain ; 

And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 


LV 


Let  others  sing  of  knights  and  paladins 
In  aged  accents  and  untimely  words ; 
Paint  shadows  in  imaginary  lines 
Which  well  the  reach  of  their  high  wits 
records : 
But  I  must  sing  of  thee,  and  those  fair  eyes 
Authentic-    shaU    my  verse    in    time    to 

come ; 
When  yet  th'  unborn  shall  say,  "Lo  v.-here 

she  lies 
Whose  beauty  made  him  speak  that  else 
was  dumb." 
These  are  the  arcs,  the  trophies  I  erect. 
That  fortify  thy  name  against  old  age;     10 
And  these  thy  sacred  virtues  must  protect 
Against  the  dark,  and  Time's  consuming 
rage. 
Though  the  error  of  my  youth  in  them  ap- 
pear, 
Sui£ce   they   shew   I  lived   and   loved    thee 
dear. 


EPISTLE  TO  THE  LADY  MARGARET, 
COUNTESS  OF   CUMBERLAND 

He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his  mind, 
And  rear'd  the  dwelling  of  his  thoughts  so 

strong. 
As  neither  fear  nor  hope  can  shake  the  frame 
Of  his  resolved  pow'rs ;  nor  all  the  wind 
Of  vanity  or  malice  pierce,  to  wrong 
His  settled  peace,  or  to  disturb  the  same : 
WTiat  a  fair  seat  hath  he,  from  whence  he  may 
The  botmdless  wastes  and  v'ilds  of  man  sur- 
vey ! 

And  with  how  free  an  eye  doth  he  look  down 
L'pon  these  lower  regions  of  turmoil !  10 

Where  all  the  storms  of  passions  mainly  beat 
On  flesh  and  blood :    where  honour,  pow'r, 

renown 
Are  only  gay  afflictions,  golden  toil ; 
Where  greatness  stands  upon  as  feeble  feet 
As  frailty  doth  ;  and  only  great  doth  seem 
To  little  minds,  who  do  it  so  esteem. 

He   looks   upon   the   mightiest   monarchs* 

wars 
But  only  as  on  stately  robberies ; 
Where  evermore  the  fortune  that  prevails 
IVIust  be  the  right :   the  ill-succeeding  mars 
The  fairest  and  the  best-fac'd  enterprise.      21 
Great  Pirate  Pompey  lesser  pirates  quails : 
Justice,  he  sees  (as  if  seduced),  still 
Conspires  with  pow'r,  whose  cause  must  not 

be  ill. 

He  sees   the  face  of  Right   t'   appear   as 
manifold 
As  are  the  passions  of  uncertain  man ; 
Who  puts  it  in  all  colours,  all  attires. 
To  serve  his  ends,  and  make  his  courses  hold. 
He  sees,  that  let  deceit  work  what  it  can. 
Plot  and  contrive  base  ways  to  high  desires. 
That  the  all -guiding  Providence  doth  yet     31 
AU  disappoint,  and  mocks  this  smoke  of  wit. 

Nor  is  he  mov'd  with  all    the    thunder- 
cracks 
Of  tyrants'  threats,  or  with  the  surly  brow 
Of  Pow'r,  that  proudly  sits  ^  on  others'  crimes ; 
Charg'd  with  more  crying  sins  than  those  he 

checks. 
The  storms  of  sad  confusion,  that  may  grow- 
Up  in  the  present  for  the  coming  times, 


prove 


^  authenticate 


■  as  judge 


148 


MICHAEL    DRAYTON 


Appal  not  him ;  that  hath  no  side  at  all, 
But  himself,  and  knows  the  worst  can  fall.  40 

Altho'  his  heart,  so  near  allied  to  earth, 
Cannot  but  pity  the  perplexed  state 
Of  troublous  and  distress'd  mortality. 
That  thus  make  way  unto  the  ugly  birth 
Of  their  own  sorrows,  and  do  still  beget 
Affliction  upon  imbecility : 
Yet  seeing  thus  the  course  of  things  must  run. 
He  looks  thereon  not  strange,  but  as  foredone. 

And  whilst  distraught  ambition  compasses, 
And  is  encompass'd  ;   whilst  as  craft  deceives. 
And  is  deceiv'd;    whilst  man  doth  ransack 
man,  51 

And  builds  on  blood,  and  rises  by  distress ; 
And  th'  inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 
To  great-expecting  hopes :   he  looks  thereon, 
As  from  the  shore  of  peace,  with  unwet  eye. 
And  bears  no  venture  in  impiety. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON  (1563-163 1) 
IDEA 

IV 

Bright  Star  of  Beauty  !  on  whose  eyelids  sit 
A     thousand     nymph-like     and     enamoured 

Graces, 
The  Goddesses  of  Memory  and  Wit, 
Which  there  in  order  take  their  several  places. 

In  whose  dear  bosom,  sweet  delicious  Love 
Lays  down  his  quiver,  which  he  once  did  bear. 
Since  he  that  blessed  paradise  did  prove ; 
And  leaves  his  mother's  lap,  to  sport  him 
there. 

Let  others  strive  to  entertain  with  words  ! 
My  soul  is  of  a  braver  mettle  made:  10 

I  hold  that  vile,  which  vulgar  wit  affords. 
In  me's  that  faith  which  Time  cannot  invade  ! 

Let  what  I  praise  be  still  made  good  by 
you ! 

Be  you  most  worthy,  whilst  I  am  most  true  ! 

XX 

An  evil  Spirit  (your  Beauty)  haunts  me  still. 
Wherewith,  alas,  I  have  been  long  possest ; 
Which  ceaseth  not  to  attempt  ^  me  to  each  ill. 
Nor  give  me  once,  but  one  poor  minute's  rest. 

^  tempt 


In  me  it  speaks,  whether  I  sleep  or  wake ; 
And  when  by  means  to  drive  it  out  I  try, 
With  greater  torments  then  it  me  doth  take, 
And  tortures  me  in  most  extremity. 

Before  my  face,  it  lays  down  my  despairs, 
And  hastes  me  on  unto  a  sudden  death  ;       10 
Now  tempting  me,  to  drown  myself  in  tears, 
And  then  in  sighing  to  give  up  my  breath. 

Thus  am  I  still  ^  provoked  to  every  evil. 

By  this  good-wicked  Spirit,  sweet  Angel- 
Devil. 

XXXVII 

Dear  !  why  should  you  command  me  to  my 

rest. 
When  now  the  night  doth  summon  all  to 

sleep  ? 
Methinks  this  time  becometh  lovers  best ! 
Night  was  ordained  together  friends  to  keep. 

How  happy  are  all  other  living  things, 
Which,  through  the  day,  disjoined  by  several 

flight,.. 
The  quiet  evening  yet  together  brings, 
And  each  returns  unto  his  Love  at  night ! 
O  thou  that  art  so  courteous  else  to  all. 
Why  shouldst  thou.   Night,   abuse  me  only 
thus?  10 

That  every  creature  to  his  kirid  dost  call. 
And  yet  'tis  thou  dost  only  sever  us  ! 
Well  could  I  wish  it  would  be  ever  day ; 
If,  when  night  comes,  you  bid  me  go  away  ! 

LXI 

Since  there's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and 

part ! 
Nay,  I  have  done ;  you  get  no  more  of  me  ! 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad,  with  all  my  heart. 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free. 

Shake    hands    for    ever !     Cancel    all    our 
vows ! 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again. 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows, 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain  ! 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breath. 

When,   his  pulse   failing.   Passion  speechless 

lies;  10 

When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes,  — 

Now,  if  thou  wouldst,  when  all  have  given 

him  over, 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet 
recover ! 

*  constantly 


ODE    XII 


149 


ODE  XII 

TO  THE  CAMBRO-BRITANS  AND  THEIR 
HARP,  HIS   BALLAD   OF   AGINCOURT 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance  ; 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry ; 
But  putting  to  the  main. 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 

Furnished  in  warlike  sort,  10 

Marcheth  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour ; 
Skirmishing,  day  by  day. 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  general  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which,  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide, 

To  the  King  sending ;  20 

Which  he  neglects  the  while, 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet,  with  an  angry  smile, 

Their  fall  portending. 


And  turning  to  his  men. 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then 
"Though  they  to  one  be  ten 

Be  not  amazed ! 
Yet  have  we  well  begun : 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  Fame  been  raised  ! 


30 


"And  for  myself,"  cjuoth  he, 
"This  my  full  rest  shall  be: 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me, 

Nor  more  esteem  me  ! 
Victor  I  will  remain. 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain ; 
Never  shall  She  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me  ! 

"Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 
When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 
Under  our  swords  they  fell. 

No  less  our  skill  is, 
Than  when  our  Grandsire  great, 


40 


Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 
Lopped  the  French  lilies." 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 

The  eager  vanward  led ;  50 

With  the  main,  Henry  sped 

Amongst  his  henchmen : 
Exeter  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there  ! 
O  Lord,  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen  ! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone ; 
Armour  on  armour  shone ; 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan : 

To  hear,  was  wonder  ;  60 

That,  with  the  cries  they  make. 
The  very  earth  did  shake ; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake ; 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham, 
Which  didst  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces  ! 
When,  from  a  meadow  by. 
Like  a  storm  suddenly,  70 

The  English  archery 

Stuck  the  French  horses. 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong ; 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long. 
That  like  to  serpents  stung. 

Piercing  the  weather. 
None  from  his  fellow  starts ; 
But,  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts. 

Stuck  close  together.  80 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw. 
And  forth  their  bilboes  ^  drew. 
And  on  the  French  they  flew : 

Not  one  was  tardy. 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent,^ 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went : 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  King, 
His  broad  sword  brandishing,  90 

Down  the  French  host  did  ding, 
As  to  o'erwhelm  it. 


^  swords 


-torn 


t5C> 


FRANCIS    BACON 


And  many  a  deep  wound  lent ; 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 
Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloucester,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood 

With  his  brave  brother. 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another ! 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade ; 
Oxford,  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made, 

Still  as  they  ran  up. 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply ; 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily; 

Ferrers,  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  Day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray; 
Which  Fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry. 
O  when  shall  English  men 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen  ?  ^ 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry  ? 

From  NYMPHIDIA 
THE   COURT  OF   FAIRY 


Her  chariot  ready  straight  is  made 
Each  thing  therein  is  fitting  laid. 
That  she  by  nothing  might  be  stayed. 

For  nought  must  her  be  letting ; 
Four  nimble  gnats  the  horses  were,  • 
Their  harnesses  of  gossamer. 
Fly  Cranion  her  charioteer 

Upon  the  coach-box  getting. 

Her  chariot  of  a  snail's  fine  shell, 
Which  for  the  colours  did  excel, 
The  fair  Queen  Mab  becoming  well, 

So  lively  was  the  limning ; 
The  seat  the  soft  wool  of  the  bee. 
The  cover,  gallantly  to  see, 
The  wing  of  a  pied  butterflce ; 

I  trow  'twas  simple  trimming. 

^  give  a  subject  for  praise 


The  wheels  composed  of  crickets'  bones, 
And  daintily  made  for  the  nonce ; 
For  fear  of  rattling  on  the  stones 

With  thistle-down  they  shod  it ; 
For  all  her  maidens  much  did  fear 
If  Oberon  had  chanc'd  to  hear  150 

That  Mab  his  Queen  should  have  been  there, 

He  would  not  have  abode  it. 

She  mounts  her  chariot  with  a  trice, 
Nor  would  she  stay,  for  no  advice. 
Until  her  maids  that  were  so  nice 

To  wait  on  her  were  fitted ; 
But  ran  herself  away  alone. 
Which  when  they  heard,  there  was  not  one 
But  hasted  after  to  be  gone, 

As  she  had  been  diswitted.  160 

Hop  and  Mop  and  Drop  so  clear 
Pip  and  Trip  and  Skip  that  were 
To  Mab,  their  sovereign,  ever  dear. 

Her  special  maids  of  honour ; 
Fib  and  Tib  and  Pink  and  Pin, 
Tick  and  Quick  and  Jill  and  Jin, 
Tit  and  Nit  and  Wap  and  Win, 

The  train  that  wait  upon  her. 

Upon  a  grasshopper  they  got 

And,  what  with  amble  and  with  trot,  170 

For  hedge  nor  ditch  they  spared  not. 

But  after  her  they  hie  them ; 
A  cobweb  over  them  they  throw, 
To  shield  the  wind  if  it  shovdd  blow ; 
Themselves  they  wisely  could  bestow 

Lest  any  should  espy  them. 


130        FRANCIS   BACON   (1561-1626) 
ESSAYS 

I.    OF   TRUTH 

What  is  Truth  ?  said  jesting  Pilate ;  ^  and 
would  not  stay  for  an  answer.  Certainly 
there  be  that  ^  delight  in  giddiness,  and  count 
it  a  bondage  to  fix  a  belief ;  aft"ecting  free-will 
in  thinking,  as  well  as  in  acting.  And  though 
140  the  sects  of  philosophers  of  that  kind  be  gone, 
yet  there  remain  certain  discoursing  wits 
which  are  of  the  same  veins,^  though  there  be 
not  so  much  blood  in  them  as  was  in  those  of 

^  Cf.  John,  xviii :  38      ^  there  are    those    who 
^  the  same  ways  of  thinking 


ESSAYS 


151 


the  ancients.  But  it  is  not  only  the  difficulty 
and  labour  which  men  take  in  finding  out  of 
truth ;  nor  again  that  when  it  is  found  it  im- 
poseth  upon  men's  thoughts  ;  that  doth  bring 
lies  in  favour ;  but  a  natural  though  corrupt 
love  of  the  lie  itself.  One  of  the  later  school  of 
the  Grecians  examineth  the  matter,  and  is  at 
a  stand  to  think  what  should  be  in  it,  that  men 
should  love  lies,  where  neither  they  make  for 
pleasure,  as  with  poets,  nor  for  advantage,  as 
with  the  merchant ;  but  for  the  lie's  sake. 
But  I  cannot  tell :  this  same  truth  is  a  naked 
and  open  day-light,  that  doth  not  show  the 
masks  and  mummeries  and  triumphs  of  the 
world,  half  so  stately  and  daintily  as  candle- 
lights. Truth  may  perhaps  come  to  the  price 
of  a  pearl ,  that  showeth  best  by  day ;  but  it 
wiU  not  rise  to  the  price  of  a  diamond  or  car- 
buncle, that  showeth  best  in  varied  lights.  A 
mixture  of  a  lie  doth  ever  add  pleasure.  Doth 
any  man  doubt,  that  if  there  were  taken  out 
of  men's  minds  vain  opinions,  flattering 
hopes,  false  valuations,  imaginations  as  one 
would,  and  the  like,  but  it  would  leave  the 
minds  of  a  number  of  men  poor  shrunken 
things,  full  of  melancholy  and  indisposition, 
and  unpleasing  to  themselves  ?  One  of  the 
Fathers,  in  great  severity,  called  poesy  vinum 
dcemonum}  because  it  filleth  the  imagination; 
and  yet  it  is  but  with  the  shadow  of  a  lie. 
But  it  is  not  the  lie  that  passeth  through  the 
mind,  but  the  lie  that  sinketh  in  and  settleth 
in  it,  that  doth  the  hurt ;  such  as  we  spake  of 
before.  But  howsoever  these  things  are  thus 
in  men's  depraved  judgments  and  affections, 
yet  truth,  which  only  doth  judge  itself, 
teacheth  that  the  inquiry  of  truth,  which  is 
the  love-making  or  wooing  of  it,  the  knowl- 
edge of  truth,  which  is  the  presence  of  it,  and 
the  belief  of  truth,  which  is  the  enjoying  of  it, 
is  the  sovereign  good  of  human  nature.  The 
first  Creature  of  God,  in  the  works  of  the  days, 
was  the  light  of  the  sense ;  the  last  was  the 
light  of  reason ;  and  his  Sabbath  work  ever 
since,  is  the  illumination  of  his  Spirit.  First 
he  breathed  light  upon  the  face  of  the  matter 
or  chaos ;  then  he  breathed  light  into  the  face 
of  man ;  and  still  he  breatheth  and  inspireth 
light  into  the  face  of  his  chosen.  The  poet  ^ 
that  beautified  the  sect  ^  that  was  otherwise 
inferior  to  the  rest,  saith  yet  excellently  well : 
It  is  a  pleasure  to  stand  upon  the  share,  and  to 
see  ships  tossed   upon  the  sea;  a  pleasure   to 


sta-nd  in  the  window  of  a  castle,  and  to  see  a 
battle  and  the  adventures  thereof  below;  but  no 
pleasure  is  comparable  to  the  sta}uiing  upon  tiw 
vantage  ground  of  Truth,  (a  hill  not  to  be  com- 
manded,!  and  where  the  air  is  always  clear  and 
serene,)  and  to  see  the  errors,  and  wanderings, 
and  mists,  and  tempests,  in  the  vale  below; 
so  always  that  this  prospect  be  with  pity, 
and  not  with  swelling  or  pride.  Certainly, 
it  is  heaven  upon  earth,  to  have  a  man's  mind 
move  in  charity,  rest  in  providence,  and  turn 
upon  the  poles  of  truth. 

To  pass  from  theological  and  philosophical 
truth,  to  the  truth  of  civil  business ;  it  will  be 
acknowledged  even  by  those  that  practise  it 
not,  that  clear  and  round  dealing  is  the  honour 
of  man's  nature ;  and  that  mixture  of  false- 
hood is  like  allay  ^  in  coin  of  gold  and  silver, 
which  may  make  the  metal  work  the  better, 
but  it  embaseth  it.  For  these  winding  and 
crooked  courses  are  the  goings  of  the  serpent ; 
which  goeth  basely  upon  the  belly,  and  not 
upon  the  feet.  There  is  no  vice  that  doth  so 
cover  a  man  with  shame  as  to  be  found  false 
and  perfidious.  And  therefore  Montaigne 
saith  prettily,  when  he  inquired  the  reason, 
why  the  word  of  the  lie  shoidd  be  such  a  dis- 
grace, and  such  an  odious  charge?  Saith  he, 
//  it  be  well  weighed,  to  say  that  a  man  lieth,  is 
as  much  to  say,  as  that  he  is  brave  towards  God 
and  a  coward  towards  men.  For  a  lie  faces 
God,  and  shrinks  from  man.  Surely  the 
wickedness  of  falsehood  and  breach  of  faith 
cannot  possibly  be  so  highly  expressed,  as  in 
that  it  shall  be  the  last  peal  to  call  the  judg- 
ments of  God  upon  the  generations  of  men ; 
it  being  foretold,  that  when  Christ  cometh, 
he  shall  not  find  faith  upon  the  earth. 

VIII.     OF    JMARRIAGE   AND    SINGLE 
LIFE 

He  that  hath  wife  and  children  hath  given 
hostages  to  fortune  ;  for  they  are  impediments 
to  great  enterprises,  either  of  virtue  or  mis- 
chief. Certainly  the  best  works,  and  of  great- 
est merit  for  the  public,  have  proceeded  from 
the  unmarried  or  childless  men ;  which  both 
in  affection  and  means  have  m.arried  and  en- 
dowed the  pi;blic.  Yet  it  were  great  reason 
that  those  that  have  children  should  have 
greatest  care  of  future  times ;  unto  which  they 


^  devils'  wine     -  Lucretius     ^  Epicureans 


^  looked  down  on  from  a  higher     -  alloy 


152 


FRANCIS    BACON 


know  they  must  transmit  their  dearest  pledges. 
Some  there  are,  who  though  they  lead  a  single 
life,  yet  their  thoughts  do  end  with  themselves, 
and  account  future  times  impertinences.^ 
Nay,  there  are  some  other  that  account  wife 
and  children  but  as  bills  of  charges.  Nay 
more,  there  are  some  foolish  rich  covetous 
men,  that  take  a  pride  in  having  no  children, 
because  they  may  be  thought  so  much  the 
richer.  For  perhaps  they  have  heard  some 
talk.  Such  a  one  is  a  great  rich  man,  and  an- 
other except  to  it.  Yea,  but  he  hath  a  great 
charge  of  children;  as  if  it  were  an  abatement 
to  his  riches.  But  the  most  ordinary  cause  of 
a  single  life  is  liberty,  especially  in  certain 
self-pleasing  and  humorous  ^  minds,  which 
are  so  sensible  of  every  restraint,  as  they  will 
go  near  to  think  their  girdles  and  garters  to  be 
bonds  and  shackles.  Unmarried  men  are  best 
friends,  best  masters,  best  servants ;  but  not 
always  best  subjects ;  for  they  are  light  to 
run  away  ;  and  almost  all  fugitives  are  of  that 
condition.  A  single  life  doth  well  with 
churchmen ;  for  charity  will  hardly  water 
the  ground  where  it  must  first  fill  a  pool.  It 
is  indifferent  for  judges  and  magistrates ;  for 
if  they  be  facile  and  corrupt,  you  shall  have 
a  servant  five  times  worse  than  a  wife.  For 
soldiers,  I  find  the  generals  commonly  in 
their  hortatives^  put  men  in  mind  of  their 
wives  and  children ;  and  I  think  the  despis- 
ing of  marriage  amongst  the  Turks  maketh 
the  vulgar  soldier  more  base.  Certainly  wife 
and  children  are  a  kind  of  discipline  of  hu- 
manity ;  and  single  men,  though  they  may  be 
many  times  more  charitable,  because  their 
means  are  less  exhaust,  yet,  on  the  other 
side,  they  are  more  cruel  and  hardhearted 
(good  to  make  severe  inquisitors),  because 
their  tenderness  is  not  so  oft  called  upon. 
Grave  natures,  led  by  custom,  and  therefore 
constant,  are  commonly  loving  husbands ;  as 
was  said  of  Ulysses,  vetulam  suam  prcctidit 
immortalitati^  Chaste  women  are  often 
proud  and  froward,  as  presuming  upon  the 
merit  of  their  chastity.  It  is  one  of  the  best 
bonds  both  of  chastity  and  obedience  in  the 
wife,  if  she  think  her  husband  wise ;  which 
she  will  never  do  if  she  find  him  jealous. 
Wives  are  young  men's  mistresses;  compan- 
ions for  middle  age ;    and  old  /nen's  nurses. 

^  things  which  do  not  concern  them  ^  notionate 
^  exhortations  ■*  He  preferred  his  old  wife  to  im- 
mortality. 


So  as  a  man  may  have  a  quarrel  ^  to  marry 
when  he  will.  But  yet  he  was  reputed  one 
of  the  wise  men,  that  made  answer  to  the 
question,  when  a  man  should  marry?  A 
young  man  not  yet,  an  elder  man  not  at  all. 
It  is  often  seen  that  bad  husbands  have  very 
good  wives ;  whether  it  be  that  it  raiseth  the 
price  of  their  husband's  kindness  when  it 
comes ;  or  that  the  wives  take  a  pride  in  their 
patience.  But  this  never  fails,  if  the  bad 
husbands  were  of  their  own  choosing,  against 
their  friends'  consent ;  for  then  they  will  be 
sure  to  make  good  their  own  folly. 

XI.    OF   GREAT  PLACE 

Men  in  great  place  are  thrice  servants: 
servants  of  the  sovereign  or  state  ;  servants  of 
fame  ;  and  servants  of  business.  So  as  they 
have  no  freedom ;  neither  in  their  persons, 
nor  in  their  actions,  nor  in  their  times.  It  is 
a  strange  desire,  to  seek  power  and  to  lose 
liberty :  or  to  seek  power  over  others  and  to 
lose  power  over  a  man's  self.  The  rising  unto 
place  is  laborious  ;  and  by  pains  men  come  to 
greater  pains  ;  and  it  is  sometimes  base  ;  and 
by  indignities  men  come  to  dignities.  The 
standing  is  slippery,  and  the  regress  is  either 
a  downfall,  or  at  least  an  eclipse,  which  is  a 
melancholy  thing.  Cum  non  sis  qui  fueris, 
non  esse  cur  velis  vivere.^  Nay,  retire  men 
cannot  when  they  would,  neither  will  they 
when  it  were  reason;  but  are  impatient  of 
privateness,  even  in  age  and  sickness,  which 
require  the  shadow  ;  like  old  townsmen,  that 
will  be  still  ^  sitting  at  their  street  door,  though 
thereby  they  offer  age  to  scorn.  Certainly 
great  persons  had  need  to  borrow  other  men's 
opinions,  to  think  themselves  happy ;  for  if 
they  judge  by  their  own  feeling,  they  cannot 
find  it :  but  if  they  think  with  themselves 
what  other  men  think  of  them,  and  that  other 
men  would  fain  be  as  they  are,  then  they  are 
happy  as  it  were  by  report ;  when  perhaps 
they  find  the  contrary  within.  For  they  are 
the  first  that  find  their  own  griefs,  though 
they  be  the  last  that  find  their  own  faults. 
Certainly  men  in  great  fortunes  are  strangers 
to  themselves,  and  while  they  are  in  the  puzzle 
of  business  they  have  no  time  to  tend  their 
health   either   of   body   or   mind.     Illi  mors 

^  reason  ^  When  you  are  no  longer  what  you 
were,  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  wish  to 
live,     ^  always 


ESSAYS 


153 


gravis  incubat,  qui  notus  nimis  omnibus, 
ignotus  maritur  sibi}  In  place  there  is  li- 
cense to  do  good  and  evil ;  whereof  the  latter 
is  a  curse :  for  in  evil  the  best  condition  is 
not  to  will ;  the  second  not  to  can.  But 
power  to  do  good  is  the  true  and  lawful  end 
of  aspiring.  For  good  thoughts  (though  God 
accept  them)  yet  towards  men  are  little  better 
than  good  dreams,  except  they  be  put  in  act ; 
and  that  cannot  be  without  power  and  place, 
as  the  vantage  and  commanding  ground. 
Merit  and  good  works  is  the  end  of  man's 
motion ;  and  conscience  of  the  same  is  the 
accomplishment  of  man's  rest.  For  if  a 
man  can  be  partaker  of  God's  theatre,  he 
shall  likewise  be  partaker  of  God's  rest.  Et 
conversiis  Deus,  ut  asplccret  opera  qucB  fecerunt 
manus  suce,  vidit  quod  omnia  essent  bona 
nimis;  ^  and  then  the  Sabbath.  In  the  dis- 
charge of  thy  place  set  before  thee  the  best 
examples ;  for  imitation  is  a  globe*  of  precepts. 
And  after  a  time  set  before  thee  thine  own 
example ;  and  examine  thyself  strictly 
whether  thou  didst  not  best  at  first.  Neglect 
not  also  the  examples  of  those  that  have 
carried  themselves  ill  in  the  same  place ;  not 
to  set  off  thyself  by  taxing  their  memory, 
but  to  direct  thyself  what  to  avoid.  Reform 
therefore,  without  bravery  or  scandal  of 
former  times  and  persons ;  but  yet  set  it 
down  to  thyself  as  well  to  create  good  prece- 
dents as  to  follow  them.  Reduce  things  to 
the  first  institution,  and  observe  wherein  and 
how  they  have  degenerate ;  ^  but  yet  ask 
counsel  of  both  times ;  of  the  ancient  time, 
what  is  best ;  and  of  the  latter  time,  what  is 
fittest.  Seek  to  make  thy  course  regular, 
that  men  may  know  beforehand  what  they 
may  expect ;  but  be  not  too  positive  and 
peremptory ;  and  express  thyself  well  when 
thou  digressest  from  thy  rule.  Preserve  the 
right  of  thy  place ;  but  stir  not  questions  of 
jurisdiction :  and  rather  assume  thy  right  in 
silence  and  de  J  ado,  than  voice  it  with  claims 
and  challenges.  Preserve  likewise  the  rights 
9i  inferior  places ;  and  think  it  more  honour 
to  direct  in  chief  than  to  be  busy  in  all.  Em- 
brace and  invite  helps  and  advices  touching 
the  execution  of  thy  place ;   and  do  not  drive 

^  It  is  a  sad  fate  for  a  man  to  die  too  well  known 
to  everybody  else,  and  still  unknown  to  himself. 
^  And  God  turned  to  look  upon  the  works  which 
his  hands  had  made,  and  saw  that  all  were  very 
good.     *  world  *  degenerated 


away  such  as  bring  thee  information,  as 
meddlers;  but  accept  of  them  in  good  part. 
The  vices  of  authority  are  chiefly  four;  de- 
lays, corruption,  roughness,  and  facility. 
For  delays;  give  easy  access;  keep  times 
appointed ;  go  through  with  that  which  is  in 
hand,  and  interlace  not  business  but  of  neces- 
sity. For  corruption  ;  do  not  only  bind  thine 
own  hands  or  thy  servants'  hands  from  tak- 
ing, but  bind  the  hands  of  suitors  also  from 
offering.  For  integrity  used  doth  the  one; 
but  integrity  professed,  and  with  a  manifest 
detestation  of  bribery,  doth  the  other.  And 
avoid  not  only  the  fault,  but  the  suspicion. 
Whosoever  is  found  variable,  and  changeth 
manifestly  without  manifest  cause,  giveth 
suspicion  of  corruption.  Therefore  always 
when  thou  changest  thine  opinion  or  course, 
profess  it  plainly,  and  declare  it,  together 
with  the  reasons  that  move  thee  to  change ; 
and  do  not  think  to  steal  it.  A  servant  or  a 
favourite,  if  he  be  inward,^  and  no  other 
apparent  cause  of  esteem,  is  commonly 
thought  but  a  by-way  to  close  corruption. 
For  roughness ;  it  is  a  needless  cause  of  dis- 
content :  severity  breedeth  fear,  but  rough- 
ness breedeth  hate.  Even  reproofs  from 
authority  ought  to  be  grave,  and  not  taunting. 
As  for  facility ;  it  is  worse  than  bribery. 
For  bribes  come  but  now  and  then ;  but  if 
importunity  or  idle  respects  lead  a  man,  he 
shall  never  be  without.  As  Salomon  saith. 
To  respect  persons  is  not  good  ;  for  such  a  man 
will  transgress  for  a  piece  of  bread.  It  is  most 
true  that "  was  anciently  spoken,  A  place 
showeth  the  man.  And  it  showeth  some  to 
the  better,  and  some  to  the  worse.  Omnium 
consensu  capax  imperii,  nisi  imperasset,'^  saith 
Tacitus  of  Galba;  but  of  Vespasian  he  saith. 
Solus  imperantium,  Vespasianus  mutatus  in 
melius :  *  though  the  one  was  meant  of  suffi- 
ciency, the  other  of  manners  and  affection. 
It  is  an  assured  sign  of  a  worthy  and  generous 
spirit,  whom  honour  amends.  For  honour  is, 
or  should  be,  the  place  of  virtue ;  and  as  in 
nature  things  move  violently  to  their  place 
and  calmly  in  their  place,  so  virtue  in  ambi- 
tion is  violent,  in  authority  settled  and  calm. 
All  rising  to  great  place  is  by  a  winding  stair ; 
and  if  there  be  factions,  it  is  good  to  side  a 

^  intimate  ^  A  man  whom  everybody  would 
have  thought  fit  for  empire  if  he  had  not  been 
emperor.  *  He  was  the  only  emperor  whom  the 
possession  of  power  changed  for  the  better. 


I.^^ 


FRANCIS    BACON 


man's  self  whilst  he  is  in  the  rising,  and  to 
balance  himself  when  he  is  placed.  Use  the 
memory  of  thy  predecessor  fairly  and  ten- 
derly ;  for  if  thou  dost  not,  it  is  a  debt  will 
sure  be  paid  when  thou  art  gone.  If  thou 
have  colleagues,  respect  them,  and  rather  call 
them  when  they  look  not  for  it,  than  exclude 
them  when  they  have  reason  to  look  to  be 
called.  Be  not  too  sensible  or  too  remember- 
ing of  thy  place  in  conversation  and  private 
answers  to  suitors ;  but  let  it  rather  be  said, 
When  he  sits  in  place  he  is  another  man. 

XVI.     OF  ATHEISM 

I  had  rather  believe  all  the  fables  in  the 
Legend,  and  the  Talmud,  and  the  Alcoran, 
than  that  this  universal  frame  is  without  a 
mind.  And  therefore  God  never  wrought 
miracle  to  convince  atheism,  because  his  ordi- 
nary works  convince  it.  It  is  true,  that  a  little 
philosophy  inclineth  man's  mind  to  atheism ; 
but  depth  in  philosophy  bringeth  men's  minds 
about  to  religion.  For  while  the  mind  of  man 
looketh  upon  second  causes  scattered,  it  may 
sometimes  rest  in  them,  and  go  no  further; 
but  when  it  beholdeth  the  chain  of  them,  con- 
federate and  linked  together,  it  must  needs 
fly  to  Providence  and  Deity.  Nay,  even  that 
school  which  is  most  accused  of  atheism  doth 
most  demonstrate  religion ;  that  is,"  the  school 
of  Leucippus  and  Democritus  and  Epicurus. 
For  it  is  a  thousand  times  more  credible,  that 
four  mutable  elements,  and  one  immutable 
fifth  essence,  duly  and  eternally  placed,^  need 
no  God,  than  that  an  army  of  infinite  small 
portions  or  seeds  unplaced,^  should  have  pro- 
duced this  order  and  beauty  without  a  divine 
marshal.  The  Scripture  saith,  The  fool  hath 
said  in  his  heart,  there  is  no  God  ;  it  is  not  said. 
The  fool  hath  thought  in  his  heart;  so  as  he 
rather  saith  it  by  rote  to  himself,  as  that^  he 
would  have,  than  that  he  can  throughly  be- 
lieve it,  or  be  persuaded  of  it.  For  none 
deny  there  is  a  God,  but  those  for  whom  it 
maketh  ■*  that  there  were  no  God.  It  ap- 
peareth  in  nothing  more,  that  atheism  is 
rather  in  the  lip  than  in  the  heart  of  man, 
than  by  this ;  that  atheists  will  ever  be  talk- 
ing of  that  their  opinion,  as  if  they  fainted  in 
it  within  themselves,  and  would  be  glad  to  be 

^  the  current  theory  in  Bacon's  time  ^  the 
theory  ascribed  to  the  philosophers  just  mentioned 
"*  what  ^  would  be  advantageous 


strengthened  by  the  consent  of  others.  Nay 
more,  you  shall  have  atheists  strive  to  get 
disciples,  as  it  fareth  with  other  sects.  And, 
which  is  most  of  all,  you  shall  have  of  them 
that  wiU  suffer  for  atheism,  and  not  recant ; 
whereas  if  they  did  truly  think  that  there 
were  no  such  thing  as  God,  why  should  they 
trouble  themselves?  Epicurus  is  charged 
that  he  did  but  dissemble  for  his  credit's 
sake,  when  he  affirmed  there  were  blessed 
natures,  but  such  as  enjoyed  themselves 
without  having  respect  to  the  government  of 
the  world.  Wherein  they  say  he  did  tempo- 
rise; though  in  secret  he  thought  there  was 
no  God.  But  certainly  he  is  traduced ;  for 
his  words  are  noble  and  divine :  Non  Deos 
vidgi  negate  profanum ;  scd  vulgi  opiniones 
Diis  appUcare  profanum}  Plato  could  have 
said  no  more.  And  although  he  had  the  con- 
fidence to  deny  the  administration,  he  had  not 
the  power  to  deny  the  nature.  The  Indians 
of  the  west  have  names  for  their  particular 
gods,  though  they  have  no  name  for  God :  as 
if  the  heathens  should  have  had  the  names 
Jupiter,  Apollo,  JNIars,  etc.,  but  not  the  word 
Deus ;  which  shows  that  even  those  barbar- 
ous people  have  the  notion,  though  they  have 
not  the  latitude  and  extent  of  it.  So  that 
against  atheists  the  very  savages  take  part 
with  the  very  subtlest  philosophers.  The 
contemplative  atheist  is  rare:  a  Diagoras,  a 
Bion,  a  Lucian  perhaps,  and  some  others ; 
and  yet  they  seem  to  be  more  than  they  are ; 
for  that  all  that  impugn  a  received  religion 
or  superstition  are  by  the  adverse  part 
branded  with  the  name  of  atheists.  But  the 
great  atheists  indeed  are  hypocrites ;  which 
are  ever  handling  holy  things,  but  without 
feeling ;  so  as  they  must  needs  be  cauterised  - 
in  the  end.  The  causes  of  atheism  are: 
divisions  in  religion,  if  they  be  many;  for 
any  one  main  division  addeth  zeal  to  both 
sides ;  but  many  divisions  introduce  atheism. 
Another  is,  scandal  of  priests  ;  when  it  is  come 
to  that  which  St.  Bernard  saith,  Non  est  jam 
dicere,  lit  popidus  sic  sacerdos ;  quia  nee  sfc 
popidus  nt  sacerdos.^  A  third  is,  custom  of 
profajue  scoffing  in  holy  matters ;  which  doth 

^  There  is  no  profanity  in  refusing  to  believe  in 
the  Gods  of  the  vulgar ;  the  profanity  is  in  believ- 
ing of  the  Gods  what  the  vulgar  believe  of  them. 
^  made  callous  ^  One  cannot  now  say,  the  priest 
is  as  the  people,  for  the  truth  is  that  the  people 
are  not  so  bad  as  the  priest. 


ESSAYS 


155 


by  little  and  little  deface  the  reverence  of 
religion.  And  lastly,  learned  times,  specially 
with  peace  and  prosperity ;  for  troubles  and 
adversities  do  more  bow  men's  minds  to  reli- 
gion. They  that  deny  a  God  destroy  man's 
nobility ;  for  certainly  man  is  of  kin  to  the 
beasts  by  his  body ;  and,  if  he  be  not  of  kin 
to  God  by  his  spirit,  he  is  a  base  and  ignoble 
creature.  It  destroys  likewise  magnanimity, 
and  the  raising  of  hvunan  nature ;  for  take  an 
example  of  a  dog,  and  mark  what  a  generosity 
and  courage  he  will  put  on  when  he  finds 
himself  maintained  by  a  man ;  who  to  him 
is  instead  of  a  God,  or  melior  nature  ;  ^  which 
courage  is  manifestly  such  as  that  creature, 
without  that  confidence  of  a  better  nature 
than  his  own,  could  never  attain.  So  man, 
when  he  resteth  and  assureth  himself  upon 
divine  protection  and  favour,  gathereth  a 
force  and  faith  which  human  nature  in  itself 
could  not  obtain.  Therefore,  as  atheism  is 
in  all  respects  hateful,  so  in  this,  that  it  de- 
priveth  human  nature  of  the  means  to  exalt 
itself  above  human  frailty.  As  it  is  in  par- 
ticular persons,  so  it  is  in  nations.  Never 
was  there  such  a  state  for  magnanimity  as 
Rome.  Of  this  state  hear  what  Cicero  saith  : 
Qiiam  volumus  licet,  patres  conscripti,  nos 
omemiis,  tamen  nee  nuniero  Hispanos,  nee 
robare  Gallos,  nee  calliditate  Pcenos,  nee 
artibus  Grcecos,  nee  denique  hoc  ipso  hujus  gentis 
et  terras  domestico  nativoque  sensu  Italos  ipsos 
ei  Latinos ;  sed  pietate,  ac  religione,  atque  hac 
una  sapientia,  quod  Deoruni  immortalium 
numine  omnia  regi  gubernarique  perspeximus, 
omnes  gentes  nationesque  superavimus? 

XXIII.     OF  WISDOIM    FOR   A   MIAN'S 
SELF 

An  ant  is  a  wise  creature  for  itself,  but  it  is 
a  shrewd  ^  thing  in  an  orchard  or  garden. 
And  certainly  men  that  are  great  lovers  of 

^  a  higher  being  ^  Pride  ourselves  as  we  may 
upon  our  country,  yet  are  we  not  in  number  su- 
perior to  the  Spaniards,  nor  Ln  strength  to  the 
Gauls,  nor  in  cunning  to  the  Carthaginians,  nor  to 
the  Greeks  in  arts,  nor  to  the  Italians  and  Latins 
themselves  in  the  homely  and  native  sense  which 
belongs  to  this  nation  and  land ;  it  is  in  piety  only 
and  religion,  and  the  wisdom  of  regarding  the 
providence  of  the  Immortal  Gods  as  that  which 
rules  and  governs  all  things,  that  we  have  sur- 
passed all  nations  and  peoples.     ^  bad 


themselves  waste  the  public.  Divide  with 
reason  between  self-love  and  society ;  and  be 
so  true  to  thyself,  as .  thou  be  not  false  to 
others;  specially  to  thy  king  and  country. 
It  is  a  poor  centre  of  a  man's  actions,  himself. 
It  is  right  ^  earth.  For  that '  only  stands 
fast  upon  his  own  centre ;  whereas  all  things 
that  have  affinity  with  the  heavens,  move 
upon  the  center  of  another,  which  they  benefit. 
The  referring  of  all  to  a  man's  self  is  more 
tolerable  in  a  sovereign  prince ;  because  them- 
selves are  not  only  themselves,  but  their  good 
and  evil  is  at  the  peril  of  the  public  fortune. 
But  it  is  a  desperate  evil  in  a  servant  to  a 
prince,  or  a  citizen  in  a  republic.  For  what- 
soever affairs  pass  such  a  man's  hands,  he 
crooketh  them  to  his  own  ends ;  which  must 
needs  be  often  eccentric  to  ^  the  ends  of  his 
master  or  state.  Therefore  let  princes,  or 
states,  choose  such  servants  as  have  not  this 
mark ;  except  they  mean  their  servdce  should 
be  made  but  the  accessary.  That  which 
maketh  the  efi'ect  more  pernicious  is  that  all 
proportion  is  lost.  It  were  disproportion 
enough  for  the  servant's  good  to  be  preferred 
before  the  master's;  but  yet  it  is  a  greater 
extreme,  when  a  little  good  of  the  servant 
shall  carry  things  against  a  great  good  of 
the  master's.  And  yet  that  is  the  case  of  bad 
officers,  treasurers,  ambassadors,  generals,  and 
other  false  and  corrupt  servants ;  which  set  a 
bias  ^  upon  their  bowl,  of  their  own  petty  ends 
and  envies,  to  the  overthrow  of  their  master's 
great  and  important  aft'airs.  And  for  the 
most  part,  the  good  such  servants  receive  is 
after  the  model  ^  of  their  own  fortune ;  but  the 
hurt  they  sell  for  that  good  is  after  the  model 
of  their  master's  fortune.  And  certainly  it  is 
the  nature  of  extreme  self-lovers,  as  they 
will  set  an  house  on  fire,  and  it  were  but  to 
roast  their  eggs;  and  yet  these  men  many 
times  hold  credit  with  their  masters,  because 
their  study  is  but  to  please  them  and  profit 
themselves;  and  for  either  respect  they  will 
abandon  the  good  of  their  affairs. 

Wisdom  for  a  man's  self  is,  in  many 
branches  thereof,  a  depraved  thing.  It  is 
the  wisdom  of  rats,  that  will  be  sure  to  leave 
a  house  somewhat  before  it  fall.  It  is  the 
wisdom  of  the  fox,  that  thrusts  out  the  badger, 

^  very  ^  the  earth,  according  to  the  Ptolemaic 
theory  ^  not  having  the  same  centre  as  *  a  weight 
placed  in  a  bowl  (ball  for  bowling)  to  make  it  take 
a  curved  course     ^  size 


156 


FRANCIS    BACON 


who  digged  and  made  room  for  him.  It  is 
the  wisdom  of  crocodiles,  that  shed  tears 
when  they  would  devour.  But  that  which 
is  specially  to  he  noted  is,  that  those  which 
(as  Cicero  says  of  Pompey)  are  sui  amantcs, 
sine  rivali,^  are  many  times  unfortunate. 
And  whereas  they  have  all  their  time  sacri- 
ficed to  themselves,  they  become  in  the  end 
themselves  sacrifices  to  the  inconstancy  of 
fortune ;  whose  wings  they  thought  by  their 
self-wisdom  to  have  pinioned. 

XXVII.     OF  FRIENDSHIP 

It  had  been  hard  for  him  that  spake  it  to 
have  put  more  truth  and  untruth  together  in 
few  words,  than  in  that  speech.  Whosoever  is 
delighted  in  solitude  is  either  a  wild  beast  or  a 
god.  For  it  is  most  true  that  a  natural  and 
secret  hatred  and  aversation  towards  society 
in  any  man,  hath  somewhat  of  the  savage 
beast ;  but  it  is  most  untrue  that  it  should 
have  any  character  at  all  of  the  divine  nature ; 
except  it  proceed,  not  out  of  a  pleasure  in 
solitude,  but  out  of  a  love  and  desire  to  se- 
quester a  man's  self  for  a  higher  conversa- 
tion :  such  as  is  found  to  have  been  falsely 
and  feignedly  in  some  of  the  heathen ;  as 
Epimenides  the  Candian,  Numa  the  Roman, 
Empedocles  the  Sicilian,  and  ApoUonius  of 
Tyana ;  and  truly  and  really  in  divers  of  the 
ancient  hermits  and  holy  fathers  of  the  church. 
But  little  do  men  perceive  what  solitude  is, 
and  how  far  it  extendeth.  For  a  crowd  is 
not  company ;  and  faces  are  but  a  gallery  of 
pictures ;  and  talk  but  a  tinkling  cymbal, 
where  there  is  no  love.  The  Latin  adage 
meeteth  with  it  a  little:  Magna  civitas, 
magna  solitudo,'^  because  in  a  great  town 
friends  are  scattered ;  so  that  there  is  not  that 
fellowship,  for  the  most  part,  which  is  in  less 
neighbourhoods.  But  we  may  go  further, 
and  affirm  most  truly  that  it  is  a  mere  and 
miserable  solitude  to  want  true  friends ; 
without  which  the  world  is  but  a  wilderness ; 
and  even  in  this  sense  also  of  solitude,  who- 
soever in  the  frame  of  his  nature  and  affec- 
tions is  unfit  for  friendship,  he  taketh  it  of 
the  beast,  and  not  from  humanity. 

A  principal  fruit  of  friendship  is  the  ease 
and  discharge  of  the  fulness  and  swellings  of 
the  heart,  which  passions  of  all  kinds  do  cause 

^  lovers  of  thenj.selves,  without  rival  ^  A  great 
town  is  a  great  solitude. 


and  induce.  We  know  diseases  of  stoppings 
and  suffocations  are  the  most  dangerous  in 
the  body  ;  and  it  is  not  much  otherwise  in  the 
mind ;  you  may  take  sarza  to  open  the  liver, 
steel  to  open  the  spleen,  flowers  of  sulphur  for 
the  lungs,  castoreum  for  the  brain ;  but  no 
receipt  ^  openeth  the  heart,  but  a  true  friend  ; 
to  whom  you  may  impart  griefs,  joys,  fears, 
hopes,  suspicions,  counsels,  and  whatsoever 
lieth  upon  the  heart  to  oppress  it,  in  a  kind 
of  civil  2  shrift  or  confession. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  to  observe  how  high  a 
rate  great  kings  and  monarchs  do  set  upon 
this  fruit  of  friendship  whereof  we  speak :  so 
great,  as  they  purchase  it  many  times  at  the 
hazard  of  their  own  safety  and  greatness. 
For  princes,  in  regard  of  the  distance  of  their 
fortune  from  that  of  their  subjects  and  ser- 
vants, cannot  gather  this  fruit,  except  (to 
make  themselves  capable  thereof)  they  raise 
some  persons  to  be  as  it  were  companions  and 
almost  equals  to  themselves,  which  many 
times  sorteth  to  ^  inconvenience.  The  mod- 
ern languages  give  unto  such  persons  the 
name  of  favourites,  or  privadocs ;  *  as  if  it 
were  matter  of  grace,  or  conversation.  But 
the  Roman  name  attaineth  the  true  use  and 
cause  thereof,  naming  them  participes  cura- 
rmn;^  for  it  is  that  which  tieth  the  knot. 
And  we  see  plainly  that  this  hath  been  done, 
not  by  weak  and  passionate  princes  only, 
but  by  the  wisest  and  most  politic  that  ever 
reigned ;  who  have  oftentimes  joined  to 
themselves  some  of  their  servants ;  whom 
both  themselves  have  called  friends,  and  al- 
lowed others  likewise  to  call  them  in  the  same 
manner ;  using  the  word  which  is  received 
between  private  men. 

L.  Sylla,  when  he  commanded  Rome,  raised 
Pompey  (after  surnamed  the  Great)  to  that 
height,  that  Pompey  vaunted  himself  for 
Sylla's  over-match.  For  when  he  had  carried 
the  consulship  for  a  friend  of  his,  against  the 
pursuit  *»  of  Sylla,  and  that  Sylla  did  a  little 
resent  thereat,  and  began  to  speak  great, 
Pompey  turned  upon  him  again,  and  in  effect 
bade  him  be  quiet ;  for  that  more  men  adored 
the  sun  rising  than  the  sun  setting.  With 
Julius  Caesar,  Decimus  Brutus  had  obtained 
that  interest,  as  he  set  him  down  in  his  testa- 
ment for  heir  in  remainder  after  his  nephew. 
And  this  was  the  man  that  had  power  with 

'  recipe  ^  non-religious  '  results  in  *  intimates 
*  sharers  of  cares    ''  candidacy 


ESSAYS 


157 


him  to  draw  him  forth  to  his  death.  For  when 
Caesar  would  have  discharged  the  senate,  in 
regard  of  some  ill  presages,  and  specially  a 
dream  of  Calpurnia ;  this  man  lifted  him 
gently  by  the  arm  out  of  his  chair,  telling  him 
he  hoped  he  would  not  dismiss  the  senate  till 
his  wife  had  dreamt  a  better  dream.  And  it 
seemeth  his  favour  was  so  great,  as  Antonius, 
in  a  letter  which  is  recited  verbatim  in  one  of 
Cicero's  Philippics,  calleth  him  venefica,  witch  ; 
as  if  he  had  enchanted  Caesar.  Augustus 
raised  Agrippa  (though  of  mean  birth)  to 
that  height,  as  when  he  consulted  with 
Maecenas  about  the  marriage  of  his  daughter 
Julia,  Maecenas  took  the  liberty  to  tell  him, 
that  he  must  either  marry  his  daughter  to 
Agrippa,  or  take  away  his  life:  there  was  no 
third  way,  he  had  made  him  so  great.  With 
Tiberius  Caesar,  Sejanus  had  ascended  to  that 
height,  as  they  two  were  termed  and  reckoned 
as  a  pair  of  friends.  Tiberius  in  a  letter  to 
him  saith,  ho'c  pro  amicitia  nostra  non  occul- 
iavi ;  ^  and  the  whole  senate  dedicated  an 
altar  to  Friendship,  as  to  a  goddess,  in  re- 
spect of  the  great  dearness  of  friendship  be- 
tween them  two.  The  like  or  more  was  be- 
tween Septimius  Severus  and  Plautianus. 
For  he  forced  his  eldest  son  to  marry  the 
daughter  of  Plautianus ;  and  would  often 
maintain  Plautianus  in  doing  affronts  to  his 
son ;  and  did  write  also  in  a  letter  to  the 
senate,  by  these  words :  /  love  the  man  so  well, 
as  I  wish  he  may  over-live  me.  Now  if  these 
princes  had  been  as  a  Trajan  or  a  Marcus 
Aurelius,  a  man  might  have  thought  that  this 
had  proceeded  of  an  abundant  goodness  of 
nature ;  but  being  men  so  wise,  of  such 
strength  and  severity  of  mind,  and  so  ex- 
treme lovers  of  themselves,  as  all  these  were, 
it  proveth  most  plainly  that  they  found  their 
own  felicity  (though  as  great  as  ever  hap- 
pened to  mortal  men)  but  as  an  half  piece, 
except  they  mought  ^  have  a  friend  to  make  it 
entire ;  and  yet,  which  is  more,  they  were 
princes  that  had  wives,  sons,  nephews ;  and 
yet  all  these  could  not  supply  the  comfort  of 
friendship. 

It  is  not  to  be  forgotten  what  Commineus ' 
observeth  of  his  first  master,  Duke  Charles 
the  Hardy ;  namely,  that  he  would  communi- 
cate his  secrets  with  none ;    and  least  of  all, 

^  These  things,  because  of  our  friendship,  I 
have  not  concealed  from  you.  ^  might  ^  Philippe 
de  Commines,  a  French  statesman 


those  secrets  which  troubled  him  most. 
Whereupon  he  goeth  on  and  saith  that  towards 
his  latter  time  that  closeness  did  impair  and  a 
little  perish  his  understanding.  Surely  Com- 
mineus mought  have  made  the  same  judg- 
ment also,  if  it  had  pleased  him,  of  his  second 
master,  Lewis  the  Eleventh,  whose  closeness 
was  indeed  his  tormentor.  The  parable  of 
Pythagoras^  is  dark,  but  true;  Cor  ne  edito: 
Eat  not  the  heart.  Certainly,  if  a  man  would 
give  it  a  hard  phrase,  those  that  want  friends 
to  open  themselves  unto  are  cannibals  of 
their  own  hearts.  But  one  thing  is  most 
admirable  (wherewith  I  will  conclude  this 
first  fruit  of  friendship),  which  is,  that  this 
communicating  of  a  man's  self  to  his  friend 
works  two  contrary  effects ;  for  it  redoubleth 
joys,  and  cutteth  griefs  in  halfs.  For  there 
is  no  man  that  imparteth  his  joys  to  his 
friend,  but  he  joyeth  the  more :  and  no  man 
that  imparteth  his  griefs  to  his  friend,  but 
he  grieveth  the  less.  So  that  it  is  in  truth  of 
operation  upon  a  man's  mind,,  of  like  virtue 
as  the  alchemists  use  to  attribute  to  their  stone 
for  man's  body ;  that  it  worketh  all  contrary 
effects,  but  still  to  the  good  and  benefit  of 
nature.  But  yet  without  praying  in  aid  -  of 
alchemists,  there  is  a  manifest  image  of  this 
in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature.  For  in 
bodies,  union  strengtheneth  and  cherisheth 
any  natural  action ;  and  on  the  other  side 
weakeneth  and  dulleth  any  violent  impres- 
sion :   and  even  so  is  it  of  minds. 

The  second  fruit  of  friendship  is  healthful 
and  sovereign  for  the  understanding,  as  the 
first  is  for  the  affections.  For  friendship 
maketh  indeed  a  fair  day  in  the  affections, 
from  storm  and  tempests ;  but  it  maketh  day- 
light in  the  understanding,  out  of  darkness 
and  confusion  of  thoughts.  Neither  is  this 
to  be  understood  only  of  faithful  counsel, 
which  a  man  receiveth  from  his  friend;  but 
before  you  come  to  that,  certain  it  is  that  who- 
soever hath  his  mind  fraught  with  many 
thoughts,  his  wits  and  understanding  do  clar- 
ify and  break  up,  in  the  communicating  and 
discoursing  with  another;  he  tosseth  his 
thoughts  more  easily;  he  marshalleth  them 
more  orderly ;  he  seeth  how  they  look  when 
they  are  turned  into  words :  finally,  he  waxeth 
wiser  than  himself ;  and  that  more  by_  an 
hour's  discourse  than  by  a  day's  meditation. 
It  was  well  said  by  Themistocles  to  the  king 

^  a  Greek  philosopher     -  calling  in  as  advocates 


158 


FRANCIS    BACON 


of  Persia,  That  speech  was  like  cloth  of  Arras, 
opened  and  put  abroad;  whereby  the  imagery 
doth  appear  in  figure;  whereas  in  thoughts 
they  lie  but  as  in  packs.  Neither  is  this  sec- 
ond fruit  of  friendship,  in  opening  the  under- 
standing, restrained  only  to  such  friends  as 
are  able  to  give  a  man  counsel ;  (they  indeed 
are  best) ;  but  even  without  that,  a  man 
learneth  of  himself,  and  bringeth  his  own 
thoughts  to  light,  and  whetteth  his  wits  as 
against  a  stone,  which  itself  cuts  not.  In  a 
word,  a  man  were  better  relate  himself  to  a 
statua  *  or  picture,  than  to  suffer  his  thoughts 
to  pass  in  smother. 

Add  now,  to  make  this  second  fruit  of  friend- 
ship complete,  that  other  point  which  lieth 
more  open  and  falleth  within  vulgar  ^  observa- 
tion ;  which  is  faithful  counsel  from  a  friend. 
Heraclitus  saith  well  in  one  of  his  enigmas, 
Dry  light  is  ever  the  best.  And  certain  it  is, 
that  the  light  that  a  man  receiveth  by  counsel 
from  another,  is  drier  and  purer  than  that 
which  Cometh,  from  his  own  understanding 
and  judgment ;  which  is  ever  infused  and 
drenched  in  his  affections  and  customs.  So  as 
there  is  as  much  difference  between  the  coun- 
sel that  a  friend  giveth,  and  that  a  man 
giveth  himself,  as  there  is  between  the  coun- 
sel of  a  friend  and  of  a  flatterer.  For  there  is 
no  such  flatterer  as  is  a  man's  self ;  and  there 
is  no  such  remedy  against  flattery  of  a  man's 
self,  as  the  liberty  of  a  friend.  Counsel  is  of 
two  sorts :  the  one  concerning  manners,  the 
other  concerning  business.  For  the  first, 
the  best  preservative  to  keep  the  mind  in 
health  is  the  faithful  admonition  of  a  friend. 
The  calling  of  a  man's  self  to  a  strict  account 
is  a  medicine,  sometime,  too  piercing  and 
corrosive.  Reading  good  books  of  morality 
is  a  little  flat  and  dead.  Observing  our  faults 
in  others  is  sometimes  unproper  for  our  case. 
But  the  best  receipt^  (best,  I  say,  to  work,  and 
best  to  take)  is  the  admonition  of  a  friend. 
It  is  a  strange  thing  to  behold  what  gross 
errors  and  extreme  absurdities  many  (espe- 
cially of  (he  greater  sort)  do  commit,  for  want 
of  a  friend  to  tell  them  of  them  ;  to  the  great 
damage  both  of  their  fame  and  fortune:  for, 
as  St.  James  saith,  they  arc  as  men  that  look 
sometimes  into  a  glass,  and  presently  forget 
their  own  shape  and  favour.  As  for  business, 
a  rnan  may  think,  if  he  will,  that  two  eyes 
see  no  more  than  one;    or   that  a  gamester 


statue 


common       ^  prescription 


seeth  always  more  than  a  looker-on ;  or  that 
a  man  in  anger  is  as  wise  as  he  that  hath  said 
over  the  four  and  twenty  letters ;  or  that  a 
musket  may  be  shot  off  as  well  upon  the  arm 
as  upon  a  rest ;  and  such  other  fond  and  high 
imaginations,  to  think  himself  all  in  all.  But 
when  all  is  done,  the  help  of  good  counsel  is 
that  which  setteth  business  straight.  And  if 
any  man  think  that  he  will  take  counsel,  but  it 
shall  be  by  pieces ;  asking  counsel  in  one  busi- 
ness of  one  man,  and  in  another  business  of 
another  man ;  it  is  well,  (that  is  to  say,  better 
perhaps  than  if  he  asked  none  at  all ;)  but  he 
runneth  two  dangers :  one,  that  he  shall  not  be 
faithfully  counselled ;  for  it  is  a  rare  thing, 
except  it  be  from  a  perfect  and  entire  friend, 
to  have  counsel  given,  but  such  as  shall  be 
bowed  and  crooked  to  some  ends  which  he 
hath  that  giveth  it.  The  other,  that  he  shall 
have  counsel  given,  hurtful  and  unsafe, 
(though  with  good  meaning,)  and  mixed  partly 
of  mischief  and  partly  of  remedy ;  even  as  if 
you  would  call  a  physician  that  is  thought 
good  for  the  cure  of  the  disease  you  complain 
of,  but  is  unacquainted  with  your  body  ;  and 
therefore  may  put  you  in  way  for  a  present 
cure,  but  overthroweth  your  health  in  some 
other  kind ;  and  so  cure  the  disease  and  kill 
the  patient.  But  a  friend  that  is  wholly  ac- 
quainted with  a  man's  estate  will  beware,  by 
furthering  any  present  business,  how  h^  dash- 
eth  upon  other  inconvenience.  And  there- 
fore rest  not  upon  scattered  counsels;  they 
will  rather  distract  and  mislead,  than  settle 
and  direct. 

After  these  two  noble  fruits  of  friendship 
(peace  in  the  affections,  and  support  of  the 
judgment)  followeth  the  last  fruit ;  which 
is  like  the  pomegranate,  full  of  many  kernels ; 
I  mean  aid  and  bearing  a  part  in  all  actions 
and  occasions.  Here  the  best  way  to  repre- 
sent to  life  the  manifold  use  of  friendship,  is 
to  cast  and  see  how  many  things  there  are 
which  a  man  cannot  do  himself ;  and  then  it 
will  appear  that  it  was  a  sparing  speech  of  the 
ancients,  to  say,  that  a  friend  is  another  him- 
self;  for  that  a  friend  is  far  more  than  himself. 
Men  have  their  time,  and  die  many  times  in 
desire  of  some  things  which  they  principally 
take  to  heart ;  the  bestowing  of  a  child,  the 
finishing  of  a  work,  or  the  like.  If  a  man  have 
a  true  friend,  he  may  rest  almost  secure  ihat 
the  care  of  those  things  will  continue  after 
him.  So  that  a  man  hath,  as  it  were,  two 
lives  in  his  desires.     A  man  hath  a  body,  and 


ESSAYS 


159 


that  body  is  conjGmed  to  a  place ;  but  where 
friendship  is,  all  olfices  of  Hfe  are  as  it  were 
granted  to  him  and  his  deputy.  For  he  may 
exercise  them  by  his  friend.  How  many 
things  are  there  which  a  man  cannot,  with 
any  face  or  comeliness,  say  or  do  himself? 
A  man  can  scarce  allege  his  own  merits  with 
modesty,  much  less  extol  them ;  a  man  cannot 
sometimes  brook  to  supplicate  or  beg ;  and  a 
number  of  the  like.  But  all  these  things  are 
graceful  in  a  friend's  mouth,  which  are 
blushing  in  a  man's  own.  So  again,  a  man's 
person  hath  many  proper  relations  which  he 
cannot  put  off.  A  man  cannot  speak  to  his 
son  but  as  a  father ;  to  his  wife  but  as  a  hus- 
band ;  to  his  enemy  but  upon  terms :  whereas 
a  friend  may  speak  as  the  case  requires,  and 
not  as  it  sorteth  ^  with  the  person.  But  to 
enumerate  these  things  were  endless ;  I  have 
given  the  rule,  where  a  man  cannot  fitly  play 
his  own  part ;  if  he  have  not  a  friend,  he  may 
quit  the  stage. 

XLII.     OF  YOUTH  AND   AGE 

A  man  that  is  young  in  years  may  be  old  in 
hours,  if  he  have  lost  no  time.  But  that  hap- 
peneth  rarely.  Generally,  youth  is  like  the 
fir.st  cogitations,  not  so  wise  as  the  second. 
For  there  is  a  youth  in  thoughts,  as  well  as  in 
ages.  And  yet  the  invention  of  young  men 
is  more  lively  than  that  of  old ;  and  imagina- 
tions stream  into  their  minds  better,  and  as  it 
were  more  divinely.  Natures  that  have  much 
heat  and  great  and  violent  desires  and  pertur- 
bations, are  not  ripe  for  action  till  they  have 
passed  the  meridian  of  their  years ;  as  it  was 
with  Julius  Cisar,  and  Septimius  Severus. 
Of  the  latter  of  whom  it  is  said  J uvcnhitem 
egit  erroribus,  imo  furoribus,  plenam?  And 
yet  he  was  the  ablest  emperor,  almost,  of  all 
the  list.  But  reposed  natures  may  do  well  in 
youth.  As  it  is  seen  in  Augustus  Cajsar, 
Cosmus  Duke  of  Florence,  Gaston  de  Fois, 
and  others.  On  the  other  side,  heat  and 
vivacity  in  age  is  an  excellent  composition 
for  business.  Young  men  are  fitter  to  invent 
than  to  judge ;  fitter  for  execution  than  for 
counsel ;  and  fitter  for  new  projects  than  for 
settled  business.  For  the  experience  of  age, 
in  things  that  fall  within  the  compass  of  it, 
directeth  them ;    but  in  new  things,  abuseth 

'  agrees  ^  He  passed  a  youth  full  of  errors ; 
yea,  of  madnesses. 


them.  The  errors  of  young  men  are  the  ruin 
of  business ;  but  the  errors  of  aged  men 
amount  but  to  this,  that  more  might  have 
been  done,  or  sooner.  Young  men,  in  the 
conduct  and  manage  of  actions,  embrace 
more  than  they  can  hold  ;  slir  more  than  they 
can  quiet ;  fly  to  the  end,  without  considera- 
tion of  the  means  and  degrees ;  pursue  some 
few  principles  which  they  have  chanced  upon 
absurdly ;  care  ^  not  to  innovate,  which 
draws  unknown  inconveniences  ;  use  extreme 
remedies  at  first ;  and,  that  which  doubleth 
all  errors,  will  not  acknowledge  or  retract 
them  ;  like  an  unready  horse,  that  will  neither 
stop  nor  turn.  Men  of  age  object  too  much, 
consult  too  long,  adventure  too  little,  repent 
too  soon,  and  seldom  drive  business  home  to 
the  full  period,  but  content  themselves  with 
a  mediocrity  of  success.  Certainly  it  is  good 
to  compound  employ^nents  of  both ;  for  that 
will  be  good  for  the  present,  becavise  the  vir- 
tues of  either  age  may  correct  the  defects  of 
both ;  and  good  for  succession,  that  3^oung 
men  may  be  learners,  while  men  in  age  are 
actors  ;  and,  lastly,  good  for  extern  accidents, 
because  authority  followeth  old  men,  and 
favour  and  popularity  youth.  But  for  the 
moral  part,  perhaps  youth  will  have  the  pre- 
eminence, as  age  hath  for  the  politic.  A  cer- 
tain rabbin,  upon  the  text,  Your  young  men 
shall  see  visions,  aiid  your  old  men  shall  dream 
dreams,  inf  erreth  that  young  men  are  admitted 
nearer  to  God  than  old,  because  vision  is  a 
clearer  revelation  than  a  dream.  And  cer- 
tainly, the  more  a  man  drinketh  of  the  world, 
the  more  it  intoxicateth :  and  age  doth  profit 
rather  in  the  powers  of  understanding,  than 
in  the  virtues  of  the  will  and  affections. 
There  be  some  have  an  over-early  ripeness  in 
their  years,  which  fadeth  betimes.  These  are, 
first,  such  as  have  brittle  wits,  the  edge  where- 
of is  soon  turned ;  such  as  was  Hermogenes  the 
rhetorician,  whose  books  are  exceeding  subtle ; 
who  afterwards  waxed  stupid.  A  second  sort 
is  of  those  that  have  some  natural  dispositions 
which  have  better  grace  in  youth  than  in  age  ; 
such  as  is  a  fluent  and  luxuriant  speech ;  which 
becomes  youth  well,  but  not  age :  so  Tully 
saith  of  Hortensius,  Idem  matiebat,  neque  idem 
dccebat.-  The  third  is  of  such  as  take  too  high 
a  strain  at  the  first,  and  are  magnanimous 
more  than»  tract   of  years  can  uphold.     As 

^  hesitate.     ^  He  continued  the  same,  when  the 
same  was  not  becoming. 


i6o 


MINOR    POETRY 


was  Scipio  Africanus,  of  whom  Livy  saith  in 
effect,  Ultima  primis  cedebant} 

MINOR   POETRY 

MY    MIND    TO    ME    A    KINGDOM    IS 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is, 

Such  present  joys  therein  I  find 
That  it  excels  all  other  bliss 

That  earth  affords  or  grows  by  kind : 
Though  much  I  want  which  most  would  have, 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave.  6 

No  princely  pomp,  no  wealthy  store, 

No  force  to  win  the  victory. 
No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 

No  shape  to  feed  a  loving  eye ;  lo 

To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall : 
For  why  ?     My  mind  doth  serve  for  all. 

I  see  how  plenty  [surfeits]  oft. 
And  hasty  climbers  soon  do  fall ; 

I  see  that  those  which  are  aloft  15 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all ; 

They  get  with  toil,  they  keep  with  fear: 

Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  bear. 

Content  to  live,  this  is  my  stay ; 

I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice ;  20 

I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway ; 

Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  supplies : 
Lo,  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king, 
Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  do  crave ;       25 

I  little  have,  and  seek  no  more. 
They  are  but  poor,  though  much  they  have. 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store : 
They  poor,  I  rich  ;   they  beg,  I  give  ; 
They  lack,  I  leave  ;  they  pine,  I  live.  30 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss ; 

I  grudge  not  at  another's  pain ; 
No  worldly  waves  my  mind  can  toss ; 

My  state  at  one  doth  still  remain  : 
I  fear  no  foe,  I  fawn  no  friend ;  35 

I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  my  end. 

Some  weigh  their  pleasure  by  their  lust, 
Their  wisdom  by  their  rage  of  wjll ; 

Their  treasure  is  their  only  trust ; 

A  cloaked  craft  their  store  of  skill :  40 

^  His  last  actions  were  not  equal  to  his  first. 


But  all  the  pleasure  that  I  find 
Is  to  maintain  a  quiet  mind. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease ; 

My  conscience  clear  my  chief  defence ; 
I  neither  seek  by  bribes  to  please,  45 

Nor  by  deceit  to  breed  offence : 
Thus  do  I  live  ;   thus  will  I  die ; 
Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  I  ! 

—  Sir  Edward  Dyer  (i55o?-i6o7) 

THE   SILENT  LOVER 


Passions    are    liken'd    best    to    floods    and 

streams : 
The   shallow   murmur,   but   the   deep   are 

dumb. 
So,  when  affection  yields  discourse,  it  seems 
The  bottom  is  but   shallow  whence  they 

come. 
They  that  are  rich  in  words,  in  words  discover 
That  they  are  poor  in  that  which  makes  a 

lover.  6 

II 

Wrong  not,  sweet  empress  of  my  heart. 

The  merit  of  true  passion. 
With  thinking  that  he  feels  no  smart, 

That  sues  for  no  compassion. 

Silence  in  love  bewrays  more  woe  5 

Than  words,  though  ne'er  so  witty : 

A  beggar  that  is  dumb,  you  know, 
May  challenge  double  pity. 

Then  wrong  not,  dearest  to  my  heart, 
My  true,  though  secret  passion  ;  10 

He  smarteth  most  that  hides  his  smart. 
And  sues  for  no  compassion. 

—  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1552  ?-i6i8) 

THE   CONCLUSION 

Even  such  is  time,  that  takes  in  trust 

Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have. 
And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust ; 

Who  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 
When  we  have  wander'd  all  our  ways,  5 

Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days : 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 

—  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (i552?-i6i8) 


MINOR    POETRY 


i6i 


SONG  OF   PARIS  AND   CENONE 

CEnone.  Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 
As  fair  as  any  may  be ; 
The  fairest  shepherd  on  our  green, 
A  love  for  any  lady. 
Paris.      Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair,       5 
x\s  fair  as  any  may  be ; 
Thy  love  is  fair  for  thee  alone, 
And  for  no  other  lady. 
CEn.    My  love  is  fair,  my  love  is  gay. 

As  fresh  as  bin  the  flowers  in  May, 
And  of  my  love  my  roundelay,  1 1 

]VIy  merrv',  merrs^  roundelay. 
Concludes  with  Cupid's  curse,  — 

"They  that  do  change  old  love  for 
new. 
Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse  !"     15 
Ambo  Simul.  They  that  do  change,  etc. 
(En.    Fair  and  fair,  etc. 
Par.   Fair  and  fair,  etc. 

Thy  love  is  fair,  etc. 
CEn.    My  love  can  pipe,  my  love  can  sing,  20 
My  love  can  many  a  pretty  thing, 
And  of  his  lovely  praises  ring 
My  merry,  merry  roundelays. 

Amen  to  Cupid's  curse,  — 
"They  that  do  change,"  etc.  25 

Par.   They  that  do  change,  etc. 
Ambo.   Fair  and  fair,  etc. 

—  George  Peele  (1558?-! 597?) 

HARVESTISIEN  A-SINGING 

All  ye  that  lovely  lovers  be, 

Pray  you  for  me : 

Lo,  here  we  come  a-sowing,  a-sowing. 

And  sow  sweet  fruits  of  love  ; 

In  your  sweet  hearts  well  may  it  prove  !     5 

Lo,  here  we  come  a-reaping,  a-reaping, 
To  reap  our  harvest-fruit ! 
And  thus  we  pass  the  year  so  long, 
And  never  be  we  mute. 

—  George  Peele  (i558?-i597?) 

FAREWELL  TO   ARMS 

His  golden  locks  time  hath  to  silver  turned  ; 

0  time  too  swift,  O  swiftness  never  ceasing  ! 
His  youth   'gainst   time  and  age  hath  ever 
spurned, 
But  spurned  in  vain ;    youth  waneth  by 
increasing : 


Beauty,  strength,  youth,  are  flowers  but  fad- 
ing seen ;  5 
Duty,  faith,  love,  are  roots,  and  ever  green. 

His  helmet  now  shall  make  a  hive  for  bees. 
And,  lovers'  sonnets  turned  to  holy  psalms, 

A  man-at-arms  must  now  serve  on  his  knees, 
And  feed  on  prayers,  which  are  age  his'- 
alms : 

But  though  from  court  to  cottage  he  depart, 

His  saint  is  sure  of  his  unspotted  heart.        12 

And  when  he  saddest  sits  in  homely  cell. 
He'll  teach  his  swains  this  carol  for  a  song.  — 
"Blessed  be  the  hearts  that  wish  my  sovereign 

well,  I  s 

Cursed  be  the  souls  that  think  her  any 

wrong." 
Goddess,  allow  this  aged  man  his  right. 
To  be  your  beadsman  now  that  was  your 

knight. 

—  George  Peele  (1558?-!  597?) 

THE   BURNING  BABE 

4 

As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night  stood  shivering  in 

the  snow. 
Surprised  I  was  with  sudden  heat  which  made 

my  heart  to  glow ; 
And  lifting  up  a  fearful  eye  to  view  what  fire 

was  near, 
A  pretty  babe  all  burning  bright  did  in  the 

air  appear, 
WTio  scorched  -wdth  exceeding  heat  such  floods 

of  tears  did  shed,  5 

As   though    His   floods    should    quench    His 

flames  with  what  ^  His  tears  were  fed ; 
"Alas  !"  quoth  He,  "but  newly  born,  in  fiery 

heats  I  fry. 
Yet  none  approach  to  warm  their  hearts  or 

feel  my  fire  but  I ! 
My  faultless  breast  the  furnace  is,  the  fuel 

wounding  thorns ; 
Love  is  the  fire  and  sighs  the  smoke,   the 

ashes  shame  and  scorns  ;  10 

The  fuel  Justice  layeth  on,  and  Mercy  blows 

the  coals ; 
The  metal  in  this  furnace  wrought  are  men's 

defiled  souls ; 
For  which,  as  now  on  fire  I  am,  to  work  them 

to  their  good. 
So  will  I  melt  into  a  bath,  to  wash  them  in 

my  blood:" 

'  age's         ^  that  with  which 


l62 


ENGLAND'S    HELICON 


With  this  He  vanish'd  out  of  sight,  and  swiftly 
shrunk  away,  15 

And  straight  I  called  into  mind  that  it  was 
Christmas-day. 
—  Robert  Southwell  (i56i?-i595) 

CHERRY-RIPE 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face 

Where  roses  and  white  lilies  blow ; 
A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place, 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  flow : 

There   cherries   grow    which   none   may 
buy  5 

Till  "Cherry-ripe"  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 
Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows,  9 

They  look  like  rosebuds  fill'd  with  snow ; 
Yet  them  nor  peer  nor  prince  can  buy 
Till  "Cherry-ripe"  themselves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still ;  ^ 
Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand 
Threat 'ning  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  attempt  with  eye  or  hand  16 

Those  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh 
Till  "Cherry-ripe"  themselves  do  cry. 
—  Thomas  Campion  (d.  i6iq) 

ENGLAND'S   HELICON    (1600) 

PHYLLIDA  AND    CORYDON 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

In  a  morn  by  break  of  day. 

Forth  I  walk'd  by  the  wood-side, 

When  as  May  was  in  his  pride : 

There  I  spied  all  alone,  5 

Phyllida  and  Cory  don. 

IVluch  ado  there  was,  God  wot ! 

He  would  love  and  she  would  not. 

She  said,  never  man  was  true ; 

He  said,  none  was  false  to  you.  10 

He  said,  he  had  loved  her  long ; 

She  said,  love  should  have  no  wrong. 

Corydon  would  kiss  her  then  ; 

She  said,  maids  must  kiss  no  men. 

Till  they  did  for  good  and  all ;  15 

Then  she  made  the  shepherd  call 

^  constantly 


All  the  heavens  to  witness  truth : 

Never  loved  a  truer  youth. 

Thus  with  many  a  pretty  oath. 

Yea  and  nay,  and  faith  and  troth,         20 

Such  as  silly  ^  shepherds  use 

When  they  will  not  love  abuse. 

Love  which  had  been  long  deluded, 

Was  with  kisses  sweet  concluded  ; 

And  Phyllida,  with  garlands  gay,  25 

Was  made  the  Lady  of  the  May. 

—  N.  Breton  (i545?-i626?) 

AS  IT  FELL  UPON  A  DAY 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day, 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade, 

Which  a  group  of  myrtles  made, 

Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  sing,  5 

Trees  did  grow  and  plants  did  spring, 

Everything  did  banish  moan, 

Save  the  nightingale  alone  ; 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 

Lean'd  her  breast  against  a  thorn,  10 

And  there  sung  the  dolefull'st  ditty, 

That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 

"Fie,  fie,  fie  !"  now  would  she  cry; 

"Teru,  teru  !"  ^  by-and-by. 

That  to  hear  her  so  complain  15 

Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain ; 

For  her  griefs  so  lively  showTi 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

Ah,  thought  I,  thou  mourn'st  in  vain. 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain.  20 

Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee  ; 

Ruthless  beasts,  they  will  not  cheer  thee; 

King  Pandion  ^  he  is  dead. 

All  thy  friends  are  lapp'd  in  lead; 

All  thy  fellow  birds  do  sing,  25 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing  ; 

Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee. 

None  alive  will  pity  me. 

— Ignoto 

PHYLLIDA'S     LOVE-CALL     TO      HER 
CORYDON,   AND   HIS   REPLYING 

Phyl.  Corydon,  arise  my  Corydon  ! 

Titan  shineth  clear. 
Cor.    Who  is  it  that  calleth  Corydon  ? 

Who  is  it  that  I  hear? 

^  simple  and  good      ^  Cf.  note  on  Sidney's  The 
Nightingale    ^  the  father  of  Philomela  and  Progne 


ENGLAND'S    HELICON 


163 


Phyl.  Phyllida,  thy  true  love,  calleth  thee,    5 
.\rise  then,  arise  then  ; 

Arise  and  keep  thy  flock  with  me  ! 
Cor.     PhyUida,  my  true  love,  is  it  she? 

I  come  then,  I  come  then,  9 

I  come  and  keep  my  flock  with  thee. 

Phyl.  Here  are  cherries  ripe  for  my  Corydon  ; 

Eat  them  for  my  sake. 
Cor.     Here's  my  oaten  pipe,  my  lovely  one, 

Sport  for  thee  to  make. 
Phyl.  Here  are  threads,  my  true  love,  fine  as 
silk,  15 

To  knit  thee,  to  knit  thee, 

A  pair  of  stockings  white  as  milk. 
Cor.     Here  are  reeds,  my  true  love,  fine  and 
neat, 
To  make  thee,  to  make  thee, 
A  bonnet  to  withstand  the  heat. 

Phyl.  I  will  gather  flowers,  my  Corydon,    21 

To  set  in  thy  cap. 
Cor.     I  will  gather  pears,  my  lovely  one, 

To  put  in  thy  lap. 
Phyl.  I  will  buy  my  true  love  garters  gay, 

For  Sundays,  for  Sundays,  26 

To  wear  about  his  legs  so  tall. 
Cor.     I  will  buy  my  true  love  yellow  say,^ 

For  Sundays,  for  Sundays, 

To  wear  about  her  middle  small. 

Phyl.  When  my  Cor>-don  sits  on  a  hill,       31 

IMaking  melody  — 
Cor.     When    my    lovely    one    goes    to    her 
wheel. 
Singing  cheerily  — 
Phyl.  Sure    methinks    my    true    love    doth 
excel 
For  sweetness,  for  sweetness. 

Our  Pan,  that  old  Arcadian  knight. 

Cor.     And  methinks  my  true  love  bears  the 

bell 

For  clearness,  for  clearness,  39 

Beyond  the  nymphs  that  be  so 

bright. 

Phyl.  Had  my  Corydon,  my  Corydon, 
Been,  alack  !  her  swain  — 

Cor.     Had  my  lovely  one,  my  lovely  one, 
Been  in  Ida  plain  — 

Phyl.  Cynthia  Endymion  had  refused,        45 
Preferring,  preferring. 
My  Cor>-don  to  play  withal. 


35 


Cor.     The  queen  of  love  had  been  excused 
Bequeathing,  bequeathing. 

My  Phyllida  the  golden  ball.      50 

Phyl.  Yonder  comes  my  mother,  Corydon, 

Whither  shaU  I  fly  ? 
Cor.     Under  yonder  beech,  my  lovely  one, 

While  she  passeth  by. 
Phyl.  Say  to  her  thy  true  love  was  not  here ; 
Remember,  remember,  56 

To-morrow  is  another  day. 
Cor.     Doubt  me  not,  my  true  love,  do  not 
fear ; 
Farewell  then,  farewell  then, 

Heaven  keep  our  loves  alway.     60 
— Ignoto 

THE    SHEPHERD'S   DESCRIPTION   OF 
LO\E 

Melibceus.   Shepherd,   what's  love,   I  pray 

thee  tell  ? 
Faustus.   It  is  that  fountain  and  that  well 

WTiere     pleasure     and     repentance 

dwell ; 
It  is  perhaps  that  sauncing  bell  ^ 
That  tolls  all  in  to  heaven  or  heU : 
And  this  is  Love,  as  I  hear  tell.   6 
Meli.       Yet  what  is  Love,  I  prithee  say? 
Faust.     It  is  a  work  on  holiday, 

It  is  December  match 'd  with  May, 
When  lusty  bloods  in  fresh  array 
Hear  ten  months  after  of  the  play : 
And  this  is  Love,  as  I  hear  say.   1 2 
Meli.      Yet  what  is  Love,  good  shepherd, 

sain  -  ? 
Faust.     It  is  a  sunshine  mix'd  with  rain, 
It  is  a  tooth-ache,  or  like '  pain, 
It  is  a  game,  where  none  doth  gain ; 
The  lass  saith  no,  and  would  full 

fain: 
And  this  is  Love,  as  I  hear  sain.   18 
Meli.      Yet,    shepherd,    what    is    Love,    I 

pray  ? 
Faust.     It  is  a  yea,  it  is  a  nay, 

A  pretty  kind  of  sporting  fray, 
It  is  a  thing  will  soon  away, 

Then,  nymphs,  take  vantage  while 

ye  may : 
And  this  is  Love,  as  I  hear  say.   24 
!Meli.       Yet  what  is  Love,  good  shepherd, 
show  ? 


^  silk  for  a  girdle  or  sash 


Sanctus  bell 


say 


'  similar 


164 


ENGLAND'S    HELICON 


Faust.     A  thing  that  creeps,  it  cannot  go, 
A  prize  that  passeth  to  and  fro, 
A  thing  for  one,  a  thing  for  moe,^ 
And  he  that  proves  shall  find  it  so : 
And,   shepherd,   this  is  Love,   I 
trow.  30 

— Ignoto 


DAMELUS'  SONG  TO  HIS  DIAPHENIA 

Diaphenia,  like  the  daffadowndilly, 
White  as  the  sun,  fair  as  the  lily, 

Heigho,  how  I  do  love  thee  ! 
I  do  love  thee  as  my  lambs 
Are  beloved  of  their  dams : 

How  blest  were  I  if  thou  wouldst  prove  me  ! 

Diaphenia,  like  the  spreading  roses,  7 

That  in  thy  sweets  all  sweets  encloses, 

Fair  sweet,  how  I  do  love  thee  ! 
I  do  love  thee  as  each  flower 
Loves  the  sun's  life-giving  power ; 

For  dead,  thy  breath  to  life  might  move  me. 

Diaphenia,  like  to  all  things  blessed,  13 

When  all  thy  praises  are  expressed, 

Dear  joy,  how  I  do  love  thee  ! 
As  the  birds  do  love  the  Spring, 
Or  the  bees  their  careful  king : 

Then  in  requite,  sweet  virgin,  love  me  !  18 

—  H.  C. 


A  NYMPH'S  DISDAIN  OF  LOVE 

"Hey,  down,  a  down  !"^  did  Dian  sing, 

Amongst  her  virgins  sitting  ; 
"Than  love  there  is  no  vainer  thing. 

For  maidens  most  unfitting." 
And  so  think  I,  with  a  down,  down,  derry.'^  5 

When  women  knew  no  woe. 

But  lived  themselves  to  please. 
Men's  feigning  guiles  they  did  not  know, 

The  ground  of  their  disease. 
Unborn  was  false  suspect,^  10 

No  thought  of  jealousy  ; 
From  wanton  toys'*  and  fond  affect,^ 

The  virgin's  life  was  free. 
"Hey,  down,  a  down  !"  did  Dian  sing,  etc. 

'  more      ^  A    meaningless    refrain     ^  suspicion 
•^  frivolous  trifling  ■''  foolish  affection 


At  length  men  used  charms,  1 5 

To  which  what  ^  maids  gave  ear, 
Embracing  gladly  endless  harms, 

Anon  enthralled  were. 
Thus  women  welcomed  woe, 

Disguised  in  name  of  love,  20 

A  jealous  hell,  a  painted  show : 

So  shall  they  find  that  prove. 
"Hey,  down,  a  down  !"  did  Dian  sing, 

Amongst  her  virgins  sitting ; 
"Than  love  there  is  no  vainer  thing,  25 

For  maidens  most  unfitting." 
And  so  think  I,  with  a  down,  down,  derry. 

— Ignoto 


ROSALIND'S  MADRIGAL 

Love  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee, 

Doth  suck  his  sweet ; 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 

Now  with  his  feet. 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest. 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast ; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast. 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest. 

Ah,  wanton,^  will  ye?  9 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he, 

With  pretty  slight. 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee, 

The  livelong  night. 
Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string ; 
He  music  plays  if  I  but  sing ; 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing ; 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting. 

Whist,  wanton,  still  ye  !  18 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 

Will  ship  ye  hence. 
And  bind  ye,  when  ye  long  to  play, 

For  your  offence. 
I'll  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  ye  in, 
I'll  make  you  fast  it  for  yovir  sin, 
I'll  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin. 
Alas  !  what  hereby  shall  I  win 

If  he  gainsay  me?  27 

What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 

With  many  a  rod  ? 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy, 

Because  a  god. 
Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee, 

^vhichevcr         ^  rascal  {used  playfully) 


ENGLAND'S    HELICON 


165 


And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be ; 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of  thee. 
O  Cupid  !  so  thou  pity  me, 

Spare  not,  but  play  thee.  36 

—  Thom.  Lodge  (i558?-i625) 

THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS 
LOVE 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  aU  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  valleys,  groves,  hills,  and  iields, 
Woods,  or  steepy  mountains  yields.  4 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks. 

Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks. 

By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 

Melodious  birds  sings  madrigals.  8 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses. 

And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 

A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 

Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle :         12 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 

Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 

Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 

With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold ;  16 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs ; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move. 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love.  20 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delights  each  May  morning ; 


If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love.  24 

—  Chr.  Marlow  (1564-1593) 

THE      NYjMPH'S      reply      TO      THE 
SHEPHERD 

If  aU  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue. 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move, 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love.  4 

Time  drives  the  flocks  from  field  to  fold. 
When  rivers  rage,  and  rocks  grow  cold ; 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb  ; 
The  rest  complains  of  cares  to  come.  8 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  Winter  reckoning  yields ; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall.  12 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses. 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies. 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten. 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten.  16 

Thy  belt  of  straw,  and  ivy  buds. 

Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs. 

All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move. 

To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  love.  20 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  stfll  breed. 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need, 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move,     . 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love.  24 

— Ignoto 


THE    END  OF   THE    RENAISSANCE 


THOMAS    DEKKER    (i57o?-i64i) 

From    THE    SHOEMAKER'S    HOLIDAY 

THE   SECOND   THREE  MEN'S   SONG 

Cold's  the  wind,  and  wet's  the  rain, 

Saint  Hvigh  be  our  good  speed  ! 
Ill  is  the  weather  that  bringeth  no  gain, 

Nor  helps  good  hearts  in  need.  4 

Trowl  the  bowl,  the  jolly  nut-brown  bowl, 

And  here,  kind  mate,  to  thee : 
Let's  sing  a  dirge  for  Saint  Hugh's  soul. 

And  down  it  merrily.  8 

Down  a  down  !  hey  down  a  down  ! 

Hey  derry  derry,  down  a  down  ! 
Ho,  well  done  ;  to  me  let  come  ! 

Ring,  compass,  gentle  joy.  12 

Trowl  the  bowl,  the  nut-brown  bowl. 
And  here,  kind  mate,  to  thee :  etc. 

{Repeat  as  often  as  there  be  men  to  drink  ;  and 
at  last  when  all  have  drunk,  this  verse:) 

Cold's  the  wind,  and  wet's  the  rain, 
•    Saint  Hugh  be  our  good  speed  !  16 

111  is  the  weather  that  bringeth  no  gain. 
Nor  helps  good  hearts  in  need. 

From  OLD   FORTUNATUS 

SONG 

Virtue  smiles :   cry  holiday. 

Dimples  on  her  cheeks  do  dwell. 

Virtue  frowns,  cry  welladay, 

Her  love  is  heaven,  her  hate  is  hell. 

Since  heaven  and  hell  oljey  her  power,      5 

Tremble  when  her  eyes  do  lower. 

Since  heaven  and  hell  her  power  obey. 

Where  she  smiles,  cry  holiday. 

Holiday  with  joy  we  cry, 

And  bend,  and  bend,  and  merrily  10 

Sing  hymns  to  Virtue's  deity : 

Sing  hymns  to  Virtue's  deity. 


From  PATIENT  GRISSILL 

CONTENT 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers? 

0  sweet  content ! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexed?^ 

O  punishment !  4 

Dost  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexed 
To  add  to  golden  numbers  golden  numbers  ?  ^ 
O  sweet  content,  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content ! 

Work  apace  !  apace  !  apace  !  apace  ! 

Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face. 

Then  hey  noney,  noney ;  hey  noney,  noney  ! 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring? 

O  sweet  content  !  1 2 

Swim'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in  thine 
own  tears? 

O  punishment ! 
Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears  15 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king. 
O  sweet  content,  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content ! 

Work  apace,  apace,  etc. 

THE   GULL'S  HORNBOOK 
CHAPTER  VI 

How  a  Gallant  should  behave  himself  in 
A  Play-House 

The  theatre  is  your  poets'  royal  exchange, 
upon  which  their  muses  (that  are  now  turned 
to  merchants)  meeting,  barter  away  that  light 
commodity  of  words  for  a  lighter  ware  than 
words,  plaudities,-  and  the  breath  of  the  great 
beast ;  ^  which  (like  the  threatenings  of  two 
cowards)  vanish  all  into  air.  Players  and 
their  factors,''  who  put  away  the  stuff,  and 
make  the  best  of  it  they  possibly  can  (as  in- 
deed 'tis  their  parts  so  to  do),  your  gallant, 
your  courtier,  and  your  captain,  had  wont  to 


^  trouble  themselves  to  heap  vp  gold  ^  applause 
the  public  ^  adherents 


166 


THE  GULL'S  HORNBOOK 


167 


be  the  soundest  paymasters ;  and  I  think 
are  still  the  surest  chapmen ;  ^  and  these,  by 
means  that  their  heads  are  well  stocked,  deal 
upon  this  comical  freight  by  the  gross :  when 
your  groundling,"  and  gallery-commoner^  buys 
his  sport  by  the  penny,  and,  like  a  haggler,^ 
is  glad  to  utter  *  it  again  by  retailing. 

Since  then  the  place  is  so  free  in  entertain- 
ment, allowing  a  stool  as  well  to  the  farmer's 
son  as  to  your  templer :  '"  that  your  stinkard 
has  the  selfsame  liberty  to  be  there  in  his  to- 
bacco fumes,  which  your  sweet  courtier  hath : 
and  that  your  carman  and  tinker  claim  as 
strong  a  voice  in  their  suffrage,  and  sit  to  give 
judgment  on  the  play's  hfe  and  death,  as  well 
as  the  proudest  momus  ^  among  the  tribes  of 
critic  :  it  is  lit  that  he,  v/hom  the  most  tailors' 
bills  do  make  room  for,  when  he  comes,  should 
not  be  basely  (like  a  viol)  cased  up  in  a  corner. 

Whether  therefore  the  gatherers  ^  of  the 
public  or  private  playhouse  stand  to  receive 
the  afternoon's  rent,  let  our  gallant  (having 
paid  it)  presently  advance  himself  up  to  the 
throne  of  the  stage.  I  mean  not  into  the 
lord's  room  (which  is  now  but  the  stage's 
suburbs) :  no,  those  boxes,  by  the  iniquity  of 
custom,  conspiracy  of  waiting  women  and 
gentlemen  ushers,  that  there  sweat  together, 
and  the  covetousness  of  sharers,*  are  con- 
temptibly thrust  into  the  rear,  and  much 
new  satin  is  there  damned,  by  being  smothered 
to  death  in  darkness.  But  on  the  very  rushes 
where  the  comedy  is  to  dance,  yea,  and  under 
the  state  ^  of  Cambises  himself  must  our 
feathered  estridge,^"  like  a  piece  of  ordnance, 
be  planted,  valiantly  (because  impudently) 
beating  down  the  mews  and  hisses  of  the 
opposed  rascality. 

For  do  but  cast  up  a  reckoning,  what  large 
comings-in  are  pursed  up  by  sitting  on  the 
stage.  First  a  conspicuous  eminence  is  got ; 
by  which  means,  the  best  and  most  essential 
parts  of  a  gallant  (good  clothes,  a  proportion- 
able leg,  white  hand,  the  Persian  lock,  and  a 
tolerable  beard)  are  perfectly  revealed. 

By  sitting  on  the  stage,  you  have  a  signed 
patent  to  engross  the  whole  commodity  of  cen- 
sure ;  may  lawfully  presume  to  be  a  girder ; 
and  stand  at  the  helm  to  steer  the  passage  of 
scenes ;  yet  no  man  shall  once  offer  to  hinder 

^  buyers  ^  occupants  of  cheap  places  ^  huckster 
*  sell  ^  a  resident  of  one  of  the  inns  of  court  ^  a 
carping  critic  ''  doorkeepers  *  shareholders  in  the 
theatre  '  canopy  ^^  ostrich 


you  from  obtaining  the  title  of  an  insolent, 
overweening  coxcomb. 

.By  sitting  on  the  stage,  you  may  (without 
travelling  for  it)  at  the  very  next  door  ask 
whose  play  it  is:  and,  by  that  quest  of  in- 
quiry, the  law  warrants  you  to  avoid  much 
mistaking :  if  you  know  not  the  author,  you 
may  rail  against  him :  and  peradventure  so 
behave  yourself,  that  you  may  enforce  the 
author  to  know  you. 

By  sitting  on  the  stage,  if  you  be  a  knight, 
you  may  happily  ^  get  you  a  mistress :  if  a 
mere  Fleet-street  gentleman,  a  wife :  but 
assure  yourself,  by  continual  residence,  you 
are  the  lirst  and  principal  man  in  election  to 
begin  the  number  of  We  Three.^ 

By  spreading  your  body  on  the  stage,  and 
by  being  a  justice  in  examining  of  plays,  you 
shall  put  yourself  into  such  true  scenical  au- 
thority, that  some  poet  shall  not  dare  to 
present  his  muse  rudely  upon  your  eyes, 
without  having  first  unmasked  her,  rifled 
her,  and  discovered  all  her  bare  and  most 
mystical  parts  before  you  at  a  tavern,  when 
you  most  knightly  shall,  for  his  pains,  pay 
for  both  their  suppers. 

By  sitting  on  the  stage,  you  may  (with  small 
cost)  purchase  the  dear  acquaintance  of  the 
boys  :  have  a  good  stool  for  sixpence :  ^  at  any 
time  know  what  particular  part  any  of  the  in- 
fants ^  present :  get  your  match  lighted,  ex- 
amine the  play-suits'  lace,^  and  perhaps  win 
wagers  upon  laying  'tis  copper,  etc.  And 
to  conclude,  whether  you  be  a  fool  or  a  justice 
of  peace,  a  cuckold,  or  a  captain,  a  lord- 
mayor's  son,  or  a  dawcock,^  a  knave,  or  an 
under-sheriff ;  of  what  stamp  soever  you  be, 
current,  or  counterfeit,  the  stage,  like  time, 
will  bring  you  to  most  perfect  light  and  lay 
3^ou  open :  neither  are  3'ou  to  be  hunted 
from  thence,  though  the  scarecrows  in  the 
yard'^  hoot  at  you,  hiss  at  you,  spit  at  you, 
yea,  throw  dirt  even  in  your  teeth :  'tis 
most  gentlemanlike  patience  to  endure  all 
this,  and  to  laugh  at  the  siUy  animals:  but 
if  the  rabble,  with  a  full  throat,  cry,  "Away 
with  the  fool,"  you  were  worse  than  a  mad- 
man to  tarry  by  it :  for  the  gentleman  and 
the  fool  should  never  sit  on  the  stage  together. 

^  haply,  by  chance  ^  A  jest  that  still  survives, 
—  a  picture  of  two  fools  or  asses,  with  this  in- 
scription. ^  the  usual  price  ■*  boy  players  ^  braid, 
usually  of  gold  or  silver  ^  simpleton  ^  the  pit  of 
the  theatre,  where  there  were  no  seats 


[68 


THOMAS    DEKKER 


Marry,  let  this  observation  go  hand  in  hand 
with  the  rest :  or  rather,  like  a  country  serv- 
ing-man, some  five  yards  before  them.  Pre- 
sent not  yourself  on  the  stage  (especially  at  a 
new  play)  until  the  quaking  prologue  hath  (by 
rubbing)  got  colour  into  his  cheeks,  and  is 
ready  to  give  the  trumpets^  their  cue,  that  he's 
upon  point  to  enter:  for  then  it  is  time,  as 
though  you  were  one  of  the  properties,  or  that 
you  dropped  out  of  the  hangings,  to  creep  from 
behind  the  arras,'^  with  your  tripos  or  three- 
footed  stool  in  one  hand,  and  a  teston  *  mounted 
between  a  forefinger  and  a  thumb  in  the  other  : 
for  if  you  should  bestow  your  person  upon  the 
vulgar,  when  the  belly  of  the  house  is  but  half 
full,  your  apparel  is  quite  eaten  up,  the  fashion 
lost,  and  the  proportion  of  your  body  in  more 
danger  to  be  devoured  than  if  it  were  served 
up  in  the  counter  ^  amongst  the  poultry :  avoid 
that  as  you  would  the  bastome.*  It  shall 
crown  you  with  rich  commendation  to  laugh 
aloud  in  the  midst  of  the  most  serious  and 
saddest  scene  of  the  terriblest  tragedy :  and 
to  let  that  clapper  (your  tongue)  be  tossed  so 
high,  that  aU  the  house  may  ring  of  it :  your 
lords  use  it ;  your  knights  are  apes  to  the 
lords,  and  do  so  too  :  your  in-a-court-man  *  is 
zany  '^  to  the  knights,  and  (marry  very 
scurvily)  comes  likewise  limping  after  it : 
be  thou  a  beagle  to  them  all,  and  never  lin  * 
snuffing,  till  you  have  scented  them :  for  by 
talking  and  laughing  (like  a  ploughman  in  a 
morris^)  you  heap  Pelion  upon  Ossa,  glory 
upon  glory  :  as  first,  all  the  eyes  in  the  galleries 
will  leave  walking  after  the  players,  and  only 
follow  you :  the  simplest  dolt  in  the  house 
snatches  up  your  name,  and  when  he  meets 
you  in  the  streets,  or  that  you  fall  into  his 
hands  in  the  middle  of  a  watch,  his  word  shall 
be  taken  for  you :  he'll  cry  "  He's  such  a  gal- 
lant," and  you  pass.  Secondly,  you  publish 
your  temperance  to  the  world,  in  that  you 
seem  not  to  resort  thither  to  taste  vain  pleas- 
ures with  a  hungry  appetite:  but  only  as  a 
gentleman  to  spend  a  foolish  hour  or  two, 
because  you  can  do  nothing  else  :  thirdly,  you 
mightily  disreHsh  the  audience,  and  disgrace 
the  author :  marry,  you  take  up  (though  it 
be  at  the  worst  hand)  a  strong  opinion  of 
your  own  judgment,   and   enforce   the  poet 

^  trumpeters  (who  announced  the  beginning  of 
the  play)  ^  cloth  hung  against  the  wall  of  the  stage 
^  sixpence  ■*  a  prison  for  debtors  '•"  cudgel  ^  lawyer 
''  ape  *  cease  '  a  morris  dance 


to  take  pity  of  your  weakness,  and,  by  some 
dedicated  sonnet,  to  bring  you  into  a  better 
paradise,  only  to  stop  your  mouth. 

If  you  can  (either  for  love  or  money) ,  pro- 
vide yourself  a  lodging  by  the  water  side : 
for,  above  the  convenience  it  brings  to  shun 
shoulder-clapping,^  and  to  ship  away  your 
cockatrice  ^  betimes  in  the  morning,  it  adds  a 
kind  of  state  unto  you,  to  be  carried  from 
thence  to  the  stairs  of  your  play-house : 
hate  a  sculler  (remember  that)  worse  than 
to  be  acquainted  with  one  o'  th'  scullery. 
No,  your  oars  are  your  only  sea-crabs,  board 
them,  and  take  heed  you  never  go  twice 
together  with  one  pair :  often  shifting  is  a 
great  credit  to  gentlemen ;  and  that  dividing 
of  your  fare  will  make  the  poor  watersnakes 
be  ready  to  pull  you  in  pieces  to  enjoy  your 
custom :  no  matter  whether  upon  landing, 
you  have  money  or  no :  you  may  swim  in 
twenty  of  their  boats  over  the  river  upon 
ticket :  ^  marry,  when  silver  comes  in,  remem- 
ber to  pay  treble  their  fare,  and  it  will  make 
your  flounder-catchers  to  send  more  thanks 
after  you,  when  you  do  not  draw,  than  when 
you  do ;  for  they  know,  it  will  be  their  own 
another  day. 

Before  the  play  begins,  fall  to  cards:  you 
may  win  or  lose  (as  fencers  do  in  a  prize)  and 
beat  one  another  by  confederacy,  yet  share 
the  money  when  you  meet  at  supper:  not- 
withstanding, to  gull  the  ragamuifins  that 
stand  aloof  gaping  at  you,  throw  the  cards 
(having  first  torn  four  or  five  of  them)  round 
about  the  stage,  just  upon  the  third  sound,'' 
as  though  you  had  lost :  it  skills  not  ^  if  the 
four  knaves  lie  on  their  backs,  and  outface 
the  audience ;  there's  none  such  fools  as 
dare  take  exceptions  at  them,  because,  ere 
the  play  go  ofT,  better  knaves  than  they  will 
fall  into  the  company. 

Now,  sir,  if  the  writer  be  a  fellow  that  hath 
either  epigrammed  you,  or  hath  had  a  flirt  at 
your  mistress,  or  hath  brought  either  your 
feather,  or  your  red  beard,  or  your  little  legs, 
etc.,  on  the  stage,  you  shaU  disgrace  him  worse 
than  by  tossing  him  in  a  blanket,  or  giving 
him  the  bastinado  in  a  tavern,  if,  in  the  middle 
of  his  play  (be  it  pastoral  or  comedy,  moral  or 
tragedy),  you  rise  with  a  screwed  and  dis- 
contented face  from  your  stool  to  be  gone; 
no  matter  whether  the  scenes  be  good  or  no : 

^  by  a  constable  ^  prostitute  '  "  on  tick" 
*  i.e.  for  the  play  to  begin  ^  it  doesn't  matter 


BEN   JONSON 


169 


the  better  they  are  the  worse  do  you  distaste 
them :  and,  being  on  your  feet,  sneak  not 
away  Uke  a  coward,  but  salute  all  your  gentle 
acquaintance,  that  are  spread  either  on  the 
rushes,  or  on  stools  about  you,  and  draw  what 
troop  you  can  from  the  stage  after  you :  the 
mimics^  are  beholden  to  you,  for  allowing  them 
elbow  room:  their  poet  cries,  perhaps,  "a 
pox  go  with  you,"  but  care  not  for  that, 
there's  no  music  without  frets. 

IVIarry,  if  either  the  company,  or  indisposi- 
tion of  the  weather  bind  you  to  sit  it  out,  my 
counsel  is  then  that  you  turn  plain  ape,  take 
up  a  rush,  and  tickle  the  earnest  ears  of  your 
fellow  gallants,  to  make  other  fools  fall 
a-laughing  :  mew  at  passionate  speeches,  blare 
at  merry,  find  fault  with  the  music,  whew 
at  the  children's  action,  whistle  at  the  songs: 
and  above  all,  curse  the  sharers,  that  whereas 
the  same  day  you  had  bestowed  forty  shilUngs 
on  an  embroidered  felt  and  feather  (Scotch- 
fashion)  for  your  mistress  in  the  court,  or 
your  punk^  in  the  city,  within  two  hours  after, 
you  encounter  with  the  ver>'  same  block  ^  on 
the  stage,  when  the  haberdasher  swore  to  you 
the  impression  was  extant  but  that  morning. 

To  conclude,  hoard  up  the  finest  play-scraps 
you  can  get,  upon  which  your  lean  wit  may 
most  savourly  feed,  for  want  of  other  stuff, 
when  the  Arcadian  and  Euphmsed  gentle- 
women have  their  tongues  sharpened  to  set 
upon  you  :  that  quality  (next  to  your  shuttle- 
cock) is  the  only  furniture  to  a  courtier  that's 
but  a  new  beginner,  and  is  but  in  his  A  B  C  of 
compliment.  The  next  places  that  are  filled, 
after  the  playhouses  be  emptied,  are  (or  ought 
to  be)  taverns :  into  a  tavern  then  let  us  next 
march,  where  the  brains  of  one  hogshead  must 
be  beaten  out  to  make  up  another. 

BEN   JONSON    (i573?-i637) 

SONG  TO   CELIA 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  Ipave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup. 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  tKe  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

^  players     ^  prostitute     ^  style  of  hat 


I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee  10 

As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  wither'd  be. 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 

THE   TRIUIMPH  OF   CHARIS 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 

Wherein  my  Lady  rideth  ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty ; 
And  enamour'd,  do  wish,  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side. 
Through  swords,   through  seas,  whither  she 
would  ride.  10 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  Love's  world  compriseth  ! 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth  ! 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her ; 
And  from  her  arched  brows,  such  a  grace 

Sheds  itself  through  the  face 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 
AU  the  gain,  aU  the  good,  of  the  elements' 
strife.  20 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow, 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it  ? 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow, 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver? 

Or  swan's  down  ever? 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  of  the  briar? 
Or  the  nard  in  the  fire  ? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 
Oh  so  white  !     Oh  so  soft  !     Oh  so  sweet  is 
she !  30 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BELOVED, 
MASTER  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame ; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 
As  neither  man,  nor  muse,  can  praise  too  much. 


lyo 


BEN   JONSON 


'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.^     But  these 

ways 
Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise ; 
For  siUiest  ignorance  on  these  may  light, 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes 

right ; 
Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 
The   truth,   but   gropes,   and   urgeth   all   by 

chance ;  lo 

Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise. 
And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seemed  to  raise. 
These  are,  as  ^  some  infamous  bawd  or  whore 
Should  praise  a  matron.     W^hat  could  hurt  her 

more? 
But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  indeed. 
Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 
I  therefore  will  begin.     Soul  of  the  age  ! 
The   applause,   delight,    the   wonder   of   our 

stage ! 
My  Shakespeare,  rise !     I  will  not  lodge  thee 

by 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie     20 
A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room : 
Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 
And  art  alive  still  ^  while  thy  book  doth  live 
And  we  have  wits  to  read  and  praise  to  give. 
That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses, 
I    rhean    with    great,    but    disproportioned 

Muses ;  ■* 
For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 
I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers. 
And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lily  outshine. 
Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line.  30 
And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin  and  less 

Greek, 
From  thence  to  honour  thee,  I  would  not  seek 
For  names  ;  but  call  forth  thundering  /Eschy- 

lus, 
Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us ; 
Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead,^ 
To  life  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  ^  tread. 
And  shake  a  stage  ;  or,  when  thy  socks  "^  were 

on, 
Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 
Of  all  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 
Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 
Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  show 
To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe.  42 
He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time  ! 
And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime, 

*  vote,  opinion  ^  as  if  '  forever  ^  i.e.  poets 
not  equal  to  thee  ^Pacuvius,  Accius,  and  Seneca, 
the  most  famous  Latin  tragedians  ^  the  liigh  shoe 
of  tragedy  ^  the  low  shoe  of  comedy 


When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 
Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm  ! 
Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs 
And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines  ! 
Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 
As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit.  50 
The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 
Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please ; 
But  antiquated  and  deserted  he. 
As  ^  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 
Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all ;   thy  art. 
My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part. 
For  though  the  poet's  m.atter  nature  be, 
His  art  doth  give  the  fashion ;  and,  that  he 
Who  casts  ^  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat, 
(Such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 
Upon  the  Muses'  anvil ;  turn  the  same         61 
(And  himself  with  it)  that  he  thinks  to  frame, 
Or,  for  ^  the  laurel,  he  may  gain  a  scorn ; 
For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  born. 
And  such  wert  thou  !     Look  how  the  father's 

face 
Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 
Of  Shakespeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly 

shines 
In  his  well  turned,  and  true  filed  lines ; 
In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 
As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance.         70 
Sweet  Swan  of  Avon  !  what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear. 
And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of 

Thames, 
That  so  did  take  Eliza,  and  our  James  ! 
But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 
Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there ! 
Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  poets,  and  with  rage 
Or  influence,  chide  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage, 
Which,    since   thy   flight'  from   hence,    hath 

mourned  like  night,  79 

And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume's  light. 

From  A  PINDARIC  ODE 

To  the  immortal  memory  and  friendship  of  thai 
noble  pair,  Sir  Lucius  Cary  and  Sir  H.  Morison. 

Ill 

The  Strophe,  or  Turn 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  men  better  be ; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year. 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sear: 

^  as  if      ^  attempts       ^  instead  of 


JOHN    DONNE 


A  lily  of  a  day, 

Is  fairer  far,  in  May ;  70 

Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night, 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see ; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 


AN   EPITAPH  ON  SALATHIEL  PAVY^ 

Weep  with  me,  all  you  that  read 

This  little  story : 
And  know,  for  whom  a  tear  you  shed 

Death's  self  is  sorry. 
'Twas  a  child  that  so  did  thrive 

In  grace  and  feature, 
As  heaven  and  nature  seem'd  to  strive 

Which  owned  the  creature. 
Years  he  numbered  scarce  thirteen 

When  fates  turned  cruel,  10 

Yet  three  filled  zodiacs  ^  had  he  been 

The  stage's  jewel ; 
And  did  act,  what  now  we  moan, 

Old  men  so  duly, 
As,  sooth,  the  Parcas  ^  thought  him  one, 

He  played  so  truly. 
So,  by  error,  to  his  fate 

They  all  consented ; 
But  viewing  him  since,  alas,  too  late  ! 

They  have  repented  ;  20 

And  have  sought,  to  give  new  birth, 

In  baths  to  steep  him  ; 
But  being  so  much  too  good  for  earth, 

Heaven  vows  to  keep  him. 


EPITAPH  ON  ELIZABETH,  L.   H." 

Would'st  thou  hear  what  man  can  say 
In  a  httle  ?     Reader,  stay. 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 
As  much  beauty  as  could  die : 
Which  in  hfe  did  harbour  give 
To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fault. 
Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 
One  name  was  Elizabeth, 
The  other,  let  it  sleep  with  death  !  10 

Fitter,  where  it  died,  to  tell. 
Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell ! 

*  the   most    famous    child    actor    of    his    time 
■  years     ^  the  Fates     *  Lady  Herbert 


JOHN  DONNE   (1573-1631) 

THE  INDIFFERENT 

I  can  love  both  fair  and  brown  ; 

Her  whom  abundance  melts,  and  her  whom 

want  betrays ; 
Her  who  loves  loneness  best,   and  her  who 

masks  and  plays ; 
Her  whom  the  country  form'd,  and  whom  the 

town ; 
Her  who  believes,  and  her  who  tries ; 
Her  who  still  weeps  with  spongy  eyes. 
And  her  who  is  dry  cork  and  never  cries. 
I  can  love  her,  and  her,  and  you,  and  you ; 
I  can  love  any,  so  she  be  not  true.  9 

Will  no  other  vice  content  you  ? 

Will  it  not  serve  your  turn  to  do  as  did  your 

mothers  ? 
Or  have  you  all  old  vices  spent  and  now  would 

find  out  others? 
Or  doth  a  fear  that  men  are  true  torment  you  ? 
O  we  are  not,  be  not  you  so  ; 
Let  me  —  and  do  you  —  twenty  know ; 
Rob  me,  but  bind  me  not,  and  let  me  go. 
Must  I,  who  came  to  travel  thorough  you,  17 
Grow  your  fix'd  subject,  because  you  are  true  ? 

V^enus  heard  me  sigh  this  song ; 

And   by  love's   sweetest   part,   variety,   she 

swore. 
She  heard  not  this  till  now  ;  it  should  be  so  no 

more. 
She  went,  examined,  and  return'd  ere  long. 
And  said,  "Alas  !  some  two  or  three 
Poor  heretics  in  love  there  be, 
Which  think  to  stablish  dangerous  constancy. 
But  I  have  told  them,  '  Since  you  will  be  true, 
You  shall  be  true  to  them  who're  false  to 


you. 


27 


LOVE'S  DEITY 


I  long  to  talk  with  some  old  lover's  ghost 
Who  died  before  the  god  of  love  was  born. 

I  cannot  think  that  he  who  then  loved  most 
Sunk  so  low  as  to  love  one  which  did  scorn. 

But  since  this  god  produced  a  destiny. 

And  that  vice-nature,^  custom,  lets  it  be, 
I  must  love  her  that  loves  not  me.  7 

1  Nature's  substitute 


172 


JOHN    DONNE 


Sure,  they  which  made  him^  god,  meant  not  so 
much, 

Nor  he  in  his  young  godhead  practiced  it. 
But  when  an  even  flame  two  hearts  did  touch, 

His  office  was  indulgently  to  fit 
Actives  to  passives.     Correspondency 
Only  his  subject  was ;  it  cannot  be 

Love  till  I  love  her  who  loves  me.  14 

But  every  modern  god  will  not  extend 
His  vast  prerogative  as  far  as  Jove. 

To  rage,  to  lust,  to  write  to,  to  commend. 
All  is  the  purUeu  of  the  god  of  love. 

O  !  were  we  waken'd  by  this  tyranny 

To  ungod  this  child  ^  again,  it  could  not  be 
I  should  love  her  who  loves  not  me.  21 

Rebel  and  atheist  too,  why  murmur  I, 
As  though  I  felt  the  worst  that  love  could 
do? 
Love  may  make  me  leave  loving,  or  might  try 
A  deeper  plague,  to  make  her  love  me  too ; 
Which,  since  she  loves  before,  I'm  loth  to  see. 
Falsehood  is  worse  than  hate ;  and  that  must 
be. 
If  she  whom  I  love,  should  love  me.  28 


Love's  martyr,  it  might  breed  idolatry 
If  into  other  hands  these  reliques  came. 

As  'twas  humility 
T'afford  to  it  all  that  a  soul  can  do, 

So  'tis  some  bravery 
That,  since  you^  would  have  none  of  me,  I 
bury  some  of  you.  24 


FORGET 

If  poisonous  minerals,  and  if  that  tree 
Whose  fruit  threw  death  on  else  immortal  us, 
If  lecherous  goats,  if  serpents  envious 
Cannot  be  damn'd,  alas  !  why  should  I  be? 
Why  should  intent  or  reason,  born  in  me. 
Make  sins,  else  equal,  in  me  more  heinous? 
And,  mercy  being  easy  and  glorious 
To  God,  in  His  stern  wrath  why  threatens  He? 
But  who  am  I,  that  dare  dispute  with  Thee? 

0  God,  O  !  of  Thine  only  worthy  blood        10 
And  my  tears  make  a  heavenly  Lethean  flood. 
And  drown  in  it  my  sin's  black  memory. 
That  Thou  remember  them,  some  claim  as 

debt ; 

1  think  it  mercy  if  Thou  wilt  forget. 


THE  FUNERAL 

Whoever  comes  to  shroud  me,  do  not  harm 

Nor  question  much 
That  subtle  wreath  of  hair  about  mine  arm ; 
The  mystery,  the  sign  you  must  not  touch. 

For  'tis  my  outward  soul, 
Viceroy  to  that  which,  unto  heav'n  being  gone. 

Will  leave  this  to  control 
And  keep  these  limbs,  her  provinces,  from  dis- 
solution. 8 

For  if  the  sinewy  thread  ^  my  brain  lets  fall 

Through  every  part 
Can  tie  those  parts,  and  make  me  one  of  all ; 
Those  hairs,  which  upward  grew,  and  strength 
and  art 

Have  from  a  better  brain. 
Can  better  do't :  except  she  meant  that  I 

By  this  should  know  my  pain. 
As  prisoners  then  are  manacled,  when  they're 
condemn'd  to  die.  16 

Whate'er  she  meant  by't,  bury  it  with  me. 
For  since  I  am 

^  the  god  of  love     ^  the  spinal  cord  and  nerves 


DEATH 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have  called 

thee 
Mighty  and  dreadful,  for  thou  art  not  so ; 
For  those  whom  thou  think'st  thou  dost  over- 
throw 
Die  not,  poor  Death ;   nor  yet  canst  thou  kill 

me. 
From  Rest  and  Sleep,  which  but  thy  picture 

be. 
Much  pleasure;    then  from  thee  much  more 

must  flow ; 
And  soonest  our  best  men  with  thee  do  go  — 
Rest  of  their  bones  and  souls'  delivery  !         8 
Thou'rt    slave  to   Fate,   Chance,   kings,   and 

desperate  men, 
And  dost  with  poison,  war,  and  sickness  dwell ; 
And  poppy  or  charms  can  make  us  sleep  as 

well 
And  better  than  thy  stroke.     Why  swell'st 

thou  then? 
One  short  sleep  past,  we  wake  eternally, 
And  Death  shall  be  no  more :    Death,  thou 

shalt  die  ! 

^  the  she  of  II.  14,  17 


JOHN    FLETCHER 


173 


JOHN   FLETCHER  (1579-1625) 

SWEETEST   MELANCHOLY 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly  ! 
There's  nought  in  this  life  sweet, 
If  man  were  wise  to  see't,  5 

But  only  melancholy ; 

O  sweetest  melancholy  ! 

Welcome,  folded  arms  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that's  fastened  to  the  ground,        10 
A  tongue  chained  up  without  a  sound  I 
Fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves  ! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed  save  bats  and  owls  !  1 5 

A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan, 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon. 

Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley  ; 

Nothing's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melan- 
choly. 

INVOCATION  TO   SLEEP 

Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes, 
Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
On  this  afflicted  prince ;   fall  like  a  cloud 
In  gentle  showers ;   give  nothing  that  is  loud 
Or  painful  to  his  slumbers  ;  —  easy,  sweet,     5 
And  as  a  purling  stream,  thou  son  of  Night, 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses ;   sing  his  pain 
Like  hollow  murmuring  wind  or  silver  rain ; 
Into  this  prince  gently,  oh,  gently  shde. 
And  kiss  him  into  slumbers  like  a  bride  !       10 


BEAUTY  CLEAR  AND   FAIR 

Beauty  clear  and  fair, 
WTiere  the  air 

Rather  like  a  perfume  dwells  ; 
Where  the  violet  and  the  rose 
Their  blue  veins  and  blush  disclose, 

And  come  to  honour  nothing  else. 

Where  to  live  near. 

And  planted  there. 
Is  to  live,  and  still  live  new ; 

Where  to  gain  a  favour  is 

INIore  than  light,  perpetual  bliss,  — 
Make  me  live  by  serving  you. 

Dear,  again  back  recall 
To  this  light 

A  stranger  to  himself  and  all ; 
Both  the  wonder  and  the  story 
Shall  be  yours,  and  eke  the  glory  : 

I  am  your  servant,  and  your  thrall. 


WEEP  NO   MORE 

Weep  no  more,  nor  sigh,  nor  groan, 
Sorrow  calls  no  time  that's  gone ; 
Violets  plucked  the  sweetest  rain 
Makes  not  fresh  nor  grow  again ; 
Trim  thy  locks,  look  cheerfully ; 
Fate's  hid  ends  eyes  cannot  see ; 
Joys  as  winged  dreams  fly  fast. 
Why  should  sadness  longer  last  ? 

Grief  is  but  a  wound  to  woe ; 
Gentlest  fair,  mourn,  mourn  no  mo.^ 


18 


SONG  TO   BACCHUS 

God  Lyaeus,^  ever  young. 
Ever  honoured,  ever  sung  ; 
Stained  with  blood  of  lusty  grapes, 
In  a  thousand  lusty  shapes. 
Dance  upon  the  mazer's  brim. 
In  the  crimson  liquor  swim  ; 
From  thy  plenteous  hand  divine 
Let  a  river  run  with  wine ; 
God  of  youth,  let  this  day  here 
Enter  neither  care  nor  fear  ! 


DIRGE 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse 

Of  the  dismal  yew  ; 
Maidens,  willow  branches  bear ; 

Say,  I  died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm 
From  my  hour  of  birth. 

Upon  my  buried  body  lie 
Lightly,  gentle  earth  ! 


^  the  god  of  relaxation 


174 


BEAUMONT   AND    DRUMMOND 


FRANCIS  BEAUMONT 

(1584-1616) 

MASTER    FRANCIS    BEAUMONT'S 
LETTER  TO   BEN  JONSON 

The  sun  (which  doth  the  greatest  comfort 
bring 
To  absent  friends,  because  the  selfsame  thing 
They  know  they  see,  however  absent)  is 
Here  our  best  haymaker  !     Forgive  me  this ; 
It  is  our  country's  style  !     In  this  warm  shine 
I  lie  and  dream  of  your  full  Mermaid  Wine  !  6 


Only  strong  Destiny,  which  all  controls,  70 
I  hope  hath  left  a  better  fate  in  store 
For  me,  thy  friend,  than  to  live  ever  poor, 
Banished  unto  this  home  !     Fate,  once  again. 
Bring  me  to  thee,  who  canst  make  smooth  and 

plain 
The  way  of  knowledge  for  me ;  and  then  I, 
Who  have  no  good  but  in  thy  company, 
Protest  it  will  my  greatest  comfort  be 
To  acknowledge  all  I  have  to  flow  from  thee  '. 
Ben,  when  these  scenes  are  perfect,  we'll 

taste  wine ! 
I'll  drink  thy  Muse's  health  !  thou  shalt  quafif 

mine !  8c 


Methinks  the  little  wit  I  had  is  lost         40 
Since  I  saw  you  !     For  wit  is  like  a  rest  ^ 
Held  2  up  at  tennis,  which  men  do  the  best 
With  the  best  gamesters.     What  things  have 

we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid  !  heard  words  that  have 

been 
So  nimble  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame. 
As  if  that  every  one  from  whence  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life  !     Then,  when  there  hath  been 

thrown 
Wit  able  enough  to  justify  the  town  50 

For  three  days  past !     Wit,  that  might  war- 
rant be 
For  the  whole  city  to  talk  foolishly 
Till  that  were  cancelled  !     And,  when  we  were 

gone, 
We  left  an  air  behind  us,  which  alone 
Was  able  to  make  the  two  next  companies 
Right   witty !   though   but   downright   fools, 

more  wise ! 
When  I  remember  this,  and  see  that  now 
The  country  gentlemen  begin  to  allow 
My  wit  for  dry  bobs  ;  ^  then  I  needs  must  cry, 
"I  see  my  days  of  ballading  grow  nigh  ! "     60 

I  can  already  riddle ;   and  can  sing 
Catches,  sell  bargains ;   and  I  fear  shall  bring 
Myself  to  speak  the  hardest  words  I  find 
Over  as  oft  as  any,  with  one  wind, 
That  takes  no  medicines  !     But  one  thought 

of  thee 
Makes  me  remember  all  these  things  to  be 
The  wit  of  our  young  men,  fellows  that  show 
No  part  of  good,  yet  utter  all  they  know ! 
Who,  like  trees  of  the  guard,  have  growing 

souls. 

^  rally      ^kcpt      *  smart  quips  or  hits 


WILLIAM   DRUMMOND 

(i 585-1649) 

SONNET 

A  passing  glance,  a  lightning  'long  the  skies. 
That,  ush'ring  thunder,  dies  straight  to  our 

sight ; 
A  spark,  of  contraries  which  doth  arise. 
Then  drowns  in  the  huge  depths  of  day  and 

night : 
Is  this  small  Small  call'd  life,  held  in  such  price 
Of  bhnded  wights,  who  nothing  judge  aright. 
Of  Parthian  shaft  so  swift  is  not  the  flight 
As  life,  that  wastes  itself,  and  living  dies. 
O  !  what  is  humian  greatness,  valour,  wit? 
What  fading  beauty,  riches,  honour,  praise  ?  i  o 
To  what  doth  serve  in  golden  thrones  to  sit, 
Thrall  earth's  vast  round,  triumphal  arches 

raise  ? 
All  is  a  dream,  learn  in  this  prince's  fall, 
In  whom,  save  death,  nought  mortal  was  at 

all. 

MADRIGAL  I 

This  life,  which  seems  so  fair. 

Is  like  a  bubble  blown  up  in  the  air 

By  sporting  children's  breath, 

Who  chase  it  everywhere, 

And  strive  who  can  most  motion  it  beqvieath  ; 

And  though  it  sometime  seem  of  its  own  might. 

Like  to  an  eye  of  gold,  to  be  fix'd  there,         7 

And  firm  to  hover  in  that  empty  height. 

That  only  is  because  it  is  so  light. 

But  in  that  pomp  it  doth  not  long  appear;  10 

For    even    when    most    admir'd,    it    in    a 
thought. 

As  swell'd  from  nothing,  doth  dissolve  in 
nought. 


FORD    AND    WITHER  ly^ 

JOHN   FORD    (fl.  1639)  GEORGE  WITHER   (1588-1667) 


IS 


SONG 

From  THE   BROKEN  HEART 

Can  you  paint  a  thought  ?  or  number 
Every  fancy  in  a  slumber  ? 
Can  you  count  soft  minutes  roving 
From  a  dial's  point  by  moving? 
Can  you  grasp  a  sigh  ?   or,  lastly, 
Rob  a  virgin's  honour  chastely? 

No,  O,  no  !  yet  you  may 
Sooner  do  both  that  and  this. 
This  and  that,  and  never  miss, 

Than  by  any  praise-display 
Beauty's  beauty  ;  such  a  glory. 
As  beyond  all  fate,  all  story. 

All  arms,  all  arts. 

All  loves,  all  hearts, 
Greater  than  those  or  they. 
Do,  shall,  and  must  obey. 


DIRGE 

From  THE  BROKEN  HEART 

Chor.  Glories,    pleasures,    pomps,    de- 

lights, and  ease, 
Can  but  please 
The  outward  senses,  when  the 

mind 
Is   or   untroubled   or   by  peace 
refined. 
1ST  Voice.    Crowais  may  flourish  and  decay ,  s 

Beauties  shine,  but  fade  away. 
2KD  Voice.    Youth  may  revel,  yet  it  must 

Lie  down  in  a  bed  of  dust. 
3RD  Voice.    Earthly  honours  flow  and  waste, 
Time    alone    doth    change    and 
last.  10 

Chor.  Sorrows  mingled  with  contents 

prepare 
Rest  for  care ; 
Love    only    reigns     in     death ; 

though  art 
Can  find  no  comfort  for  a  broken 
heart. 


From  FAIR   VIRTUE,   THE  MISTRESS   OF 
PHILARETE i 

SONNET  rV' 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair. 

Die,  because  a  woman's  fair? 

Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care, 

'Cause  another's  rosy  are? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 

Or  the  flowery  meads  in  I\Iay ! 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me. 

What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ?  8 

Should  my  heart  be  grieved  or  pined, 

'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind? 

Or  a  well  disposed  nature 

Joined  with  a  lovely  feature? 

Be  she  meeker,  kinder  than 

Turtle  dove,  or  pelican  ! 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me. 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be? 


16 


Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or  her  well  deserving  known. 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own  ? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  gain  her,  name  of  best ! 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ? 


24 


'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 

Shall  I  play  the  fool,  and  die  ? 

Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind, 

^\^lere  they  want  of  riches  find. 

Think  "What,  with  them,  they  would  do 

That,  without  them,  dare  to  woo  ! " 

And  unless  that  mind  I  see. 

What  care  I  though  great  she  be?     32 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair  ! 
If  she  love  me  (this  believe  !) 
I  will  die,  ere  she  shall  grieve  ! 
If  she  slight  me,  when  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn,  and  let  her  go  ! 

For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 

What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ?  40 


^  Philarete  means  lover  of  virtue 


176 


HEYWOOD    AND    BROWNE 


THOMAS   HEYWOOD  (d.  1650?) 
GO,   PRETTY   BIRDS! 

Ye  little  birds,  that  sit  and  sing 

Amidst  the  shady  valleys, 
And  see  how  Phillis  sweetly  walks 

Within  her  garden  alleys, 
Go,  pretty  birds,  about  her  bower  ! 
Sing,  pretty  birds,  she  may  not  lower  ! 
Ah  me  !  methinks,  I  see  her  frown  ! 

Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble  !  8 

Go,  tell  her,  through  your  chirping  bills, 

As  you  by  me  are  bidden, 
To  her  is  only  known  my  love  ; 

Which  from  the  world  is  hidden. 
Go,  pretty  birds,  and  tell  her  so  ! 
See  that  your  notes  strain  not  too  low  ! 
For  still,  methinks,  I  see  her  frown ! 

Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble  !  16 

Go,  tune  your  voices'  harmony, 

And  sing,  I  am  her  lover  ! 
Strain  loud  and  sweet,  that  every  note 

With  sweet  content  may  move  her ! 
And  she  that  hath  the  sweetest  voice, 
Tell  her,  I  will  not  change  my  choice  ! 
Yet  still,  methinks,  I  see  her  frown  ! 

Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble  !  24 

O,  fly  !     Make  haste  !     See,  see,  she  falls 

Into  a  pretty  slumber  ! 
Sing  round  about  her  rosy  bed. 

That,  waking,  she  may  wonder  ! 
Say  to  her,  'Tis  her  lover  true. 
That  sendeth  love  to  you  !   to  you  ! 
And  when  you  hear  her  kind  reply, 


Return  with  pleasant  warblings 


32 


WILLIAM    BROWNE    (1591-1643) 

BRITANNIA'S   PASTORALS 

From  BOOK   IT,   SONG   V 

Now  was  the  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May 
Meeting  the  May-pole  at  the  break  of  day, 
And  Ca^lia,  as  the  fairest  on  the  green. 
Not  without  some  maids'  envy  chosen  queen. 
Now  was  the  time  com'n,  when  our  gentle 
swain 


Must  in  ^  his  harvest  or  lose  all  again.         146 
Now   must   he    pluck    the    rose    lest    other 

hands, 
Or  tempests,  blemish  what  so  fairly  stands : 
And  therefore,  as  they  had  before  decreed, 
Our  shepherd  gets  a  boat,  and  with  all  speed, 
In  night,  that  doth  on  lovers'  actions  smile, 
Arrived  safe  on  Mona's  fruitful  isle.^'         152 
Between    two    rocks    (immortal,    without 
mother,) 
That  stand  as  if  out-facing  one  another. 
There  ran  a  creek  up,  intricate  and  blind,    155 
As  if  the  waters  hid  them  from  the  wind ; 
Which  never  wash'd  but  at  a  higher  tide 
The  frizzled  coats  which  do  the  mountains 

hide ; 
Where  never  gale  was  longer  known  to  stay  1 59 
Than  from  the  smooth  wave  it  had  swept 

away 
The   new   divorced   leaves,   that   from   each 

side 
Left  the  thick  boughs  to  dance  out  with  the 

tide. 
At  further  end  the  creek  a  stately  wood 
Gave  a  kind  shadow  to  the  brackish  flood 
Made  up  of  trees,  not  less  kenn'd  by  each 

skiff 
Than  that  sky-scaling  Peak  of  Teneriffe,    166 
Upon  whose    tops  the  hernshaw  ^  bred   her 

young, 
And  hoary  moss  upon  their  branches  hung ; 
Whose  rugged  rinds  sufficient  were  to  show, 
Without  their  height,  what  time  they  'gan  to 

grow ; 
And  if  dry  eld  by  wrinkled  skin  appears,       171 
None   could   allot   them   less   than   Nestor's 

years. 
As  under  their  command  the  thronged  creek 
Ran  lessen 'd  up.     Here  did  the  shepherd  seek 
Where  he  his  little  boat  might  safely  hide,    175 
Till  it  was  fraught  with  what  the  world  beside 
Could  not  outvalue ;   nor  give  equal  weight 
Though  in  the  time  when  Greece  was  at  her 
height. 


EPITAPH 

May,  be  thou  never  graced  with  birds  that 
sing. 

Nor  Flora's  pride  ! 
In  thee  all  flowers  and  roses  spring. 

Mine  only  died. 

^  bring  in     ^  the  isle  of  Anglesey     ^  heron 


ROBERT    HERRICK 


177 


ON    THE    COUNTESS    DOWAGER    OF 
PEMBROKE 

Underneath  this  sable  herse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse  : 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother : 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another 
Fair  and  learn'd  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

ROBERT  HERRICK  (1591-1674) 
CHERRY-RIPE 

Cherry-ripe,  ripe,  ripe,  I  cry, 

Full  and  fair  ones  ;   come  and  buy ; 

If  so  be  you  ask  me  where 

They  do  grow?   I  answer,  there, 

Where  my  Julia's  lips  do  smile ;  S 

There's  the  land,  or  cherry-isle, 

Whose  plantations  fully  show 

All  the  year  where  cherries  grow. 

CORINNA'S   GOING  A-MAYING 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn.^ 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air : 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept  and  bow'd  toward  the 

east 
Above  an  hour  since  :   yet  you  not  dress'd ; 
Nay  !  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed  ? 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said     10 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns,  'tis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 
Whereas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 
To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh  and 
green. 
And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair  : 
Fear  not ;   the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you  :  20 

Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept ; 
Come  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night : 

*  golden-haired  Apollo,  i.e.  the  sun. 


And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 

Till  you  come  forth.     Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in 
praying : 

Few  beads  ^  are  best  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 

Come,    my    Corinna,     come ;    and,  coming, 
mark  29 

How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a 
park 
Made  green  and  trimm'd  with  trees ;   see 

how 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch  :  each  porch,  each  door  ere  this 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 

Made  up  of  white-thorn,  neatly  interwove ; 

As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  fields  and  we  not  see't? 
Come,  we'll  abroad  ;   and  let's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  May :  40 

And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying ; 

But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 
Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 
Some  have  despatched  their  cakes  and 

cream 
Before  that  we  have  left  ^  to  dream  : 
And  some  have  v.^ept,  and  woo'd,  and  plighted 

troth. 
And  chose  their  priest,   ere  we  can  cast  off 
sloth :  50 

Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given  ; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even  : 
Many  a  glance  too  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament ; 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This  night,  and  locks  pick'd,  yet  we're  not 
a-Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go  while  we  are  in  our  prime ; 

And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 
We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 
Before  we  know  our  liberty.  60 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  da3'S  run 
As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun ; 

And,  as  a  vapour  or  a  drop  of  rain. 

Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again, 
So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 
A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 


^  prayers 


' ceased 


lyS 


GEORGE    HERBERT 


All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 

Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 

Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decay- 
ing, 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying.  70 


TO   THE   VIRGINS,   TO   Mx\KE   MUCH 
OF  TIME 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may. 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  be  dying.  4 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun. 

The  higher  he's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting.  8 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first. 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer ; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former.  12 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And  while  ye  may,  go  marry ; 

For,  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  forever  tarry.  16 


UPON  JULIA'S   CLOTHES 

When-as  in  silks  my  Julia  goes, 

Then,  then,  methinks,  how  sweetly  flows 

The  liquefaction  of  her  clothes.  3 

Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes,  and  see 
That  brave  vibration,  each  way  free, 
O,  how  that  glittering  taketh  me !  6 


TO  DAFFODILS 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  sun 
Has  not  attain'd  his  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even-song ; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 


We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth,  to  meet  decay. 
As  you,  or  anything. 

We  die  15 

As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain  ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again.  20 

TO   KEEP   A  TRUE  LENT 

Is  this  a  fast,  to  keep 
The  larder  lean. 
And  clean, 
From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep  ?  4 

Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 

Of  flesh,  yet  still 
TofiU 
The  platter  high  with  fish?  8 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour. 

Or  ragg'd  to  go. 
Or  show 
A  downcast  look,  and  sour?  12 

No  ;   'tis  a  fast,  to  dole 

Thy  sheaf  of  wheat 
And  meat 
Unto  the  hungry  soul.  16 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 
From  old  debate, 
And  hate ; 
To  circumcise  thy  life.  20 

To  show  a  heart  grief-rent ; 
To  starve  thy  sin, 
Not  bin ;  ^ 
And  that's  to  keep  thy  Lent.  24 


GEORGE   HERBERT    (i 593-1633) 
VIRTUE 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky  ! 

The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 

For  thou  must  die.  A 

^  larder  for  food 


IZAAK   W.\LTON 


179 


Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye. 

Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 

And  thou  must  die.  8 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 

]My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes. 

And  all  must  die.  12 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives  ; 

But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 

Then  chiefly  lives.  16 

THE   COLLAR 

I  struck  the  board,  and  cried,  "No  more ; 

I  will  abroad  ! 
What !   shall  I  ever  sigh  and  pine  ? 
;My  lines  and  life  are  free ;  free  as  the  road. 
Loose  as  the  wind,  as  large  as  store. ^ 

Shall  I  be  still  in  suit  ? 
Have  I  no  harvest  but  a  thorn 
To  let  me  blood,  and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordial  fruit? 

Sure  there  was  wme  10 

Before  my  sighs  did  dry  it ;   there  was  corn 

Before  my  tears  did  drown  it ; 
Is  the  year  only  lost  to  me  ? 
Have  I  no  bays  to  crowTi  it, 
No  flowers,  no  garlands  gay  ?  all  blasted, 
AH  wasted  ? 
Not  so,  my  heart ;  but  there  is  fruit. 
And  thou  hast  hands. 
Recover  all  thy  sigh-blown  age 
On  double  pleasures ;   leave  thy  cold  dispute 
Of  what  is  fit  and  not ;  forsake  thy  cage,     21 

Thy  rope  of  sands 
Which  petty  thoughts  have  made ;  and  made 
to  thee 
Good  cable,  to  enforce  and  draw, 

And  be  thy  law, 
While  thou  didst  wink  ^  and  wouldst  not  see. 
Away  !   take  heed ; 
I  wiE  abroad. 
Call  in  thy  death's-head  there,  tie  up  thj'  fears : 
He  that  forbears  30 

To  suit  and  serve  his  need 
Deserves  his  load." 
But  as  I  raved,  and  grew  more  fierce  and  wild 
At  every  word, 
Methought  I  heard  one  calling,  "Child"  ; 
And  I  rephed,  "My  Lord." 


^  plenty 


'  close  the  eyes 


LOVE 

Love  bade  me  welcome ;  yet  my  soul  drew  back, 

Guilty  of  dust  and  sin. 
But  qmck-eyed  Love,  observing  me  grow  slack 

From  my  first  entrance  in. 
Drew  nearer  to  me,  sweetly  questioning, 

If  I  lacked  anything.  6 

"  A  guest,"  I  answered,  "  worthy  to  be  here:  " 
Love  said,  "  You  shall  be  he." 

"  I,  the  tmkind,  ungrateful  ?     Ah,  my  dear, 
I  cannot  look  on  Thee  !  " 

Love  took  my  hand  and  smiling  did  reply, 

"  Who  made  the  eyes  but  I  ?  "        12 

"Truth,  Lord;  but  I  have  marred  them  :  let  my 
shame 
Go  where  it  doth  deserve." 
"  And  know  you  not,"  says  Love,  "  who  bore  the 
blame?" 
"  My  dear,  then  I  will  serve."  ^ 
"  You  must  sit  down,"  says  Love,  "  and  taste 
my  meat." 
So  I  did  sit  and  eat.  18 


IZAAK  WALTON   (1593-1683) 

THE   COMPLETE  ANGLER 

From  THE   FIRST   DAY 

A  Conference  betwixt  an  Angler,  a  Fal- 
coner, AND  A  Hunter,  each  commend- 
ing HIS  Recreation 

CHAPTER  I.    PiscATOR.s  Venator, ^  Auceps  * 

Piscator.  You  are  well  overtaken,  Gentle- 
men !  A  good  morning  to  you  both  !  I  have 
stretched  my  legs  up  Tottenham  Hill  to  over- 
take you,  hoping  your  business  may  occasion 
you  towards  Ware,  whither  I  am  going  this 
fine  fresh  INIay  morning. 

Venator.  Sir,  I,  for  my  part,  shall  almost 
answer  your  hopes ;  for  my  purpose  is  to 
drink  my  morning's  draught  at  the  Thatched 
House  in  Hoddesden ;  and  I  think  not  to  rest 
till  I  come  thither,  where  I  have  appointed  a 
friend  or  two  to  meet  me  :  but  for  this  gentle- 
man that  you  see  with  me,  I  know  not  how  far 
he  intends  his  journey ;  he  came  so  lately  into 

^  act  as  servant  "^  angler  ^  hunter  ■*  falconer 


l8o 


IZAAK    WALTON 


my  company,  that  I  have  scarce  had  time  to 
ask  him  the  question. 

Auceps.  Sir,  I  shall  by  your  favour  bear  you 
company  as  far  as  Theobalds,  and  there  leave 
you ;  for  then  I  turn  up  to  a  friend's  house, 
who  mews^  a  Hawk  for  me,  which  I  now  long 
to  see. 

Piscator.  Sir,  we  are  all  so  happy  as  to  have 
a  fine,  fresh,  cool  morning ;  and  I  hope  we 
shall  each  be  the  happier  in  the  others'  com- 
pany. And,  Gentlemen,  that  I  may  not  lose 
yours,  I  shall  either  abate  or  amend  my  pace 
to  enjoy  it,  knowing  that,  as  the  Italians  say, 
"  Good  company  in  a  journey  makes  the  way 
to  seem  the  shorter." 

Auceps.  It  may  do,  Sir,  with  the  help  of 
a  good  discourse,  which,  methinks,  we  may 
promise  from  you,  that  both  look  and  speak 
so  cheerfully  :  and  for  my  part,  I  promise  you, 
as  an  invitation  to  it,  that  I  will  be  as  free  and 
open  hearted  as  discretion  will  allow  me  to  be 
with  strangers. 

Venator.    And,  Sir,  I  promise  the  like. 

Piscator.  I  am  right  glad  to  hear  your  an- 
swers ;  and,  in  confidence  ^  you  speak  the  truth, 
I  shall  put  on  a  boldness  to  ask  you.  Sir, 
whether  business  or  pleasure  caused  you  to  be 
so  early  up,  and  walk  so  fast?  for  this  other 
gentleman  hath  declared  he  is  going  to  see  a 
hawk,  that  a  friend  mews  for  him. 

Venator.  Sir,  mine  is  a  mixture  of  both,  a 
little  business  and  more  pleasure ;  for  I  in- 
tend this  day  to  do  all  my  business,  and  then 
bestow  another  day  or  two  in  hunting  the 
Otter,  which  a  friend,  that  I  go  to  meet,  tells 
me  is  much  pleasanter  than  any  other  chase 
whatsoever :  howsoever,  I  mean  to  try  it ; 
for  to-morrow  morning  we  shall  meet  a  pack 
of  Otter-dogs  of  noble  Mr.  Sadler's,  upon 
Amwell  Hill,,  who  will  be  there  so  early, 
that  they  intend  to  prevent '  the  sunrising. 

Piscator.  Sir,  my  fortune  has  answered  my 
desires,  and  my  purpose  is  to  bestow  a  day  or 
two  in  helping  to  destroy  some  of  those  villain- 
ous vermin :  for  I  hate  them  perfectly,  be- 
cause they  love  fish  so  well,  or  rather,  because 
they  destroy  so  much  ;  indeed  so  much,  that, 
in  my  judgment  all  men  that  keep  Otter- 
dogs ought  to  have  pensions  from  the  King, 
to  encourage  them  to  destroy  the  very  breed 
of  those  base  Otters,  they  do  so  much  mischief. 

Venator.  But  what  say  you  to  the  Foxes 
of  the  Nation?  would  not  you  as  willingly 


have  them  destroyed?  for  doubtless  they  do 
as  much  mischief  as  Otters  do. 

Piscator.  Oh,  Sir,  if  they  do,  it  is  not  so 
much  to  me  and  my  fraternity,  as  those  base 
vermin  the  Otters  do. 

Auceps.  Why,  Sir,  I  pray,  of  what  fra- 
ternity are  you,  that  you  are  so  angry  with 
the  poor  Otters? 

Piscator.  I  am,  Sir,  a  Brother  of  the  Angle, 
and  therefore  an  enemy  to  the  Otter  :  for  you 
are  to  note,  that  we  Anglers  all  love  one 
another,  and  therefore  do  I  hate  the  Otter 
both  for  my  own,  and  their  sakes  who  are  of 
my  brotherhood. 

Venator.  And  I  am  a  lover  of  Hounds :  I 
have  followed  many  a  pack  of  dogs  many  a 
mile,  and  heard  many  merry  Huntsmen  make 
sport  and  scoff  at  Anglers. 

Auceps.  And  I  profess  myself  a  Falconer, 
and  have  heard  many  grave,  serious  men  pity 
them,  it  is  such  a  heavy,  contemptible,  dull 
recreation. 

Piscator.  You  know.  Gentlemen,  it  is  an 
easy  thing  to  scoff  at  any  art  or  recreation ; 
a  little  wit  mixed  with  ill-nature,  confidence, 
and  malice  will  do  it ;  but  though  they  often 
venture  boldly,  yet  they  are  often  caught, 
even  in  their  own  trap,  according  to  that  of 
Lucian,^  the  father  of  the  family  of  Scoffers  :  — 

Lucian,  well  skill'd  in  scoffing,  this  hath  writ. 
Friend,  that's  your  folly,  which  you  think  your 

wit : 
,  This  you  vent  oft,  void  both  of  wit  and  fear, 
Meaning  another,  when  yourself  you  jeer. 

If  to  this  you  add  what  Solomon  says  of 
Scoffers,  that  they  are  an  abomination  to  man- 
kind, let  him  that  thinks  fit  scoff  on,  and  be  a 
Scoffer  still ;  but  I  account  them  enemies  to 
me  and  all  that  love  Virtue  and  Angling. 

And  for  you  that  have  heard  many  grave, 
serious  men  pity  Anglers  ;  let  me  tell  you,  Sir, 
there  be  many  men  that  are  by  others  taken 
to  be  serious  and  grave  men,  whom  we  con- 
temn and  pity.  Men  that  are  taken  to  be 
grave,  because  nature  hath  made  them  of  a 
sour  complexion ;  money-getting  men,  men 
that  spend  all  their  time,  first  in  getting,  and 
next,  in  anxious  care  to  keep  it ;  men  that 
are  condemned  to  be  rich,  and  then  always 
busy  or  discontented :  for  these  poor  rich 
men,  we  Anglers  pity  them  perfectly,  and 
stand  in  no  need  to  borrow  their  thoughts  to 


^  keeps  in  a  cage   ^  Supply  that.    '  anticipate 


^  a  famous  Greek  satirist 


CAREW    AND    BROWNE 


i8i 


think  ourselves  so  happy.  No,  no,  Sir,  we 
enjoy  a  conlentedness  above  the  reach  of 
such  dispositions,  and  as  the  learned  and 
ingenuous  Montaigne  says,  like  himself, 
freely,  "WTien  my  Cat  and  I  entertain  each 
other  with  mutual  apish  tricks,  as  playing 
with  a  garter,  who  knows  but  that  I  make 
my  Cat  more  sport  than  she  makes  me? 
Shall  I  conclude  her  to  be  simple,  that  has 
her  time  to  begin  or  refuse,  to  play  as  freely 
as  I  myself  have?  Nay,  who  knows  but 
that  it  is  a  defect  of  my  not  understanding 
her  language,  for  doubtless  Cats  talk  and 
reason  with  one  another,  that  we  agree  no 
better :  and  who  knows  but  that  she  pities 
me  for  being  no  wiser  than  to  play  with  her, 
and  laughs  and  censures  my  folly,  for  making 
sport  for  her,  when  we  two  play  together?" 

Thus  freely  speaks  Montaigne  concerning 
Cats ;  and  I  hope  I  may  take  as  great  a 
hberty  to  blame  any  man,  and  laugh  at  him 
too,  let  him  be  never  so  grave,  that  hath 
not  heard  what  Anglers  can  say  in  the  justi- 
fication of  their  Art  and  Recreation ;  which 
I  may  again  tell  you,  is  so  full  of  pleasure, 
that  we  need  not  borrow  their  thoughts,  to 
think  ourselves  happy. 


THOMAS   CAREW    (i598?-i639?) 

SONG 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose. 
For  in  your  beauty's  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep.      4 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 

The  golden  atoms  of  the  day, 

For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 

Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair.  8 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale  when  May  is  past, 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  ^  throat 
She  winters  and  keeps  warm  her  note.      12 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  light 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night, 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become  as  in  their  sphere.  16 

^  dividing  means  singing  in  florid  style. 


Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 

The  Phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest. 

For  unto  you  at  last  she  flics, 

And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies.  20 

SONG 

Would  you  know  what's  soft?     I  dare 
Not  bring  you  to  the  down,  or  air. 
Nor  to  stars  to  show  what's  bright, 
Nor  to  snow  to  teach  you  white ;  4 

Nor,  if  you  would  music  hear. 

Call  the  orbs  to  take  your  ear ; 

Nor,  to  please  your  sense,  bring  forth 

Bruised  nard,  or  what's  more  worth;         8 

Or  on  food  were  your  thoughts  placed, 
Bring  you  nectar  for  a  taste ; 
Would  you  have  all  these  in  one. 
Name  my  mistress,  and  'tis  done !  12 


SIR    THOMAS    BROWNE 

(1605-1682) 

HYDRIOTAPHIA :    URN-BURIAL 
CHAPTER  V 

Now,  since  these  dead  bones  have  already 
outlasted  the  living  ones  of  ^Methuselah,  and, 
in  a  yard  under  ground,  and  thin  walls  of  clay, 
outworn  all  the  strong  and  specious  ^  buildings 
above  it,  and  quietly  rested  under  the  drums 
and  tramplings  of  three  conquests ;  ^  what 
prince  can  promise  such  diuturnity  unto  his 
rehcs,  or  might  not  gladly  say, 

"Sic  ego  componi  versus  in  ossa  velim."  ^ 

Time,  which  antiquates  antiquities,  and  hath 
an  art  to  make  dust  of  all  things,  hath  yet 
spared  these  minor  monuments.  In  vain  we 
hope  to  be  known  by  open  and  visible  con- 
servatories,-* when  to  be  unknown  was  the 
means  of  their  continuation,  and  obscurity 
their  protection. 

If  they  died  by  violent  hands,  and  were 
thrust  into  their  urns,  these  bones  become 
considerable,  and  some  old  philosophers  would 

1  beautiful  -  the  Saxon,  the  Danish,  and  the 
Norman  ^  Would  that  I  were  turned  into  bones  I 
*  repositories 


Ib2 


SIR   THOMAS    BROWNE 


honour  them,  whose  souls  they  conceived  most 
pure,  which  were  thus  snatched  from  their 
bodies,  and  to  retain  a  stronger  propension^ 
unto  them ;  whereas,  they  weariedly  left  a 
languishing  corpse,  and  with  faint  desires  of 
reunion.  If  they  fell  by  long  and  aged  decay, 
yet  wrapped  up  in  the  bundle  of  time,  they 
fall  into  indistinction,  and  make  but  one  blot 
with  infants.  If  we  begin  to  die  when  we  live, 
and  long  hfe  be  but  a  prolongation  of  death, 
our  life  is  a  sad  composition ;  we  live  with 
death,  and  die  not  in  a  moment.  How  many 
pulses  made  up  the  life  of  Methuselah,  were 
work  for  Archimedes.  Common  counters  ^  sum 
up  the  life  of  Moses's  man.^  Our  days  become 
considerable,  like  petty  sums  by  minute  ac- 
cumulations, where  numerous  fractions  make 
up  but  small  round  numbers,  and  our  days 
of  a  span  long  make  not  one  little  finger.'* 

If  the  nearness  of  our  last  necessity  brought 
a  nearer  comformity  unto  it,  there  were  a  hap- 
piness in  hoary  hairs,  and  no  calamity  in  half 
senses.  But  the  long  habit  of  living  indispos- 
eth  us  for  dying ;  when  avarice  m.akes  us  the 
sport  of  death  ;  when  even  David  grew  politi- 
cally^ cruel ;  and  Solomon  could  hardly  be 
said  to  be  the  wisest  of  men.  But  many  are 
too  early  old,  and  before  the  date  of  age. 
Adversity  stretcheth  our  days,  misery  makes 
Alcmena's  nights,^  and  time  hath  no  wings 
unto  it.  But  the  most  tedious  being  is  that 
which  can  unwish  itself,  content  to  be  noth- 
ing, or  never  to  have  been  ;  which  was  beyond 
the  malecontent  of  Job,  who  cursed  not  the 
day  of  his  life,  but  his  nati\'ity,  content  to  have 
so  far  been  as  to  have  a  title  to  future  being, 
although  he  had  lived  here  but  in  a  hidden 
state  of  life,  and  as  it  were  an  abortion. 

What  song  the  Sirens  sang,  or  what  name 
Achilles  assumed  when  he  hid  himself  among 
women,  though  puzzling  questions,^  are  not  be- 
yond all  conjecture.  What  time  the  persons 
of  these  ossuaries  *  entered  the  famous  nations 
of  the  dead,  and  slept  with  princes  and  coun- 
sellors, might  admit  a  wide'-*  solution.  But 
who  were  the  proprietaries  of  these  bones,  or 
what  bodies  these  ashes  made  up,  were  a  ques- 

^  tendency  to  return  ^  disks  for  counting 
^Psalms  xc,  lo  *  According  to  the  ancient  arith- 
metic of  the  hand,  wherein  the  little  finger  of  the  right 
hand,  contracted,  signified  a  hundred.  '^  with  crafty 
purpose  •'  of  double  length  ^  Put  by  the  emperor 
Tiberius  to  the  grammarians.  *  receptacles  for 
bones  ^  vague,  general 


tion  above  antiquarianism  ;  not  to  be  resolved 
by  man,  nor  easily  perhaps  by  spirits,  except 
we  consult  the  provincial  guardians  or  tutelary 
observators.  Had  they  made  as  good  provi- 
sion for  their  names  as  they  have  done  for  their 
relics,  they  had  not  so  grossly  erred  in  the  art 
of  perpetuation.  But  to  subsist  in  bones,  and 
be  but  pyramidally^  extant,  is  a  fallacy  in  du- 
ration. Vain  ashes,  which  in  the  oblivion  of 
names,  persons,  times,  and  sexes,  have  found 
unto  themselves  a  fruitless  continuation,  and 
only  arise  unto  late  posterity,  as  emblems  of 
mortal  vanities,  antidotes  against  pride,  vain- 
glory, and  madding  vices.  Pagan  vainglories, 
which  thought  the  world  might  last  forever, 
had  encouragement  for  ambition  ;  and  finding 
no  Atropos^  unto  the  immortality  of  their 
names,  were  never  damped  with  the  necessity 
of  oblivion.  Even  old  ambitions  had  the 
advantage  of  ours,  in  the  attempts  of  their 
vainglories,  who,  acting  early,  and  before  the 
probable  meridian  ^  of  time,  have  by  this  time 
found  great  accomplishment  of  their  designs, 
whereby  the  ancient  heroes  have  already  out- 
lasted their  monuments  and  mechanical  pres- 
ervations. But  in  this  latter  scene  of  time 
we  cannot  expect  such  mummies  unto  our 
memories,  when  ambition  may  fear  the  proph- 
ecy of  Elias,^  and  Charles  the  Fifth  can 
never  expect  to  live  within  two  Methuselahs 
of  Hector.^ 

And  therefore  restless  inquietude  for  the 
diuturnity  of  our  memories  unto  present  con- 
siderations, seems  a  vanity  almost  out  of  date, 
and  superannuated  piece  of  folly.  We  cannot 
hope  to  live  so  long  in  our  names  as  some  have 
done  in  their  persons.  One  face  of  J  anus  ^  holds 
no  proportion  unto  the  other.  'Tis  too  late 
to  be  ambitious.  The  great  mutations  of  the 
world  are  acted,  or  time  may  be  too  short  for 
our  designs.  To  extend  our  memories  by 
monuments,  whose  death  we  daily  pray  for, 
and  whose  duration  we  cannot  hope,  without 
injury  to  our  expectations,  in  the  advent  of  the 
last  day,  were  a  contradiction  to  our  beliefs. 
Wc,  whose  generations  are  ordained  in  this 
setting  part  of  time,  are  providentially  taken 
off  from  such  imaginations ;   and  being  neces- 

^  in  a  pyramid  or  other  monument  ^  the  Fate 
who  cuts  the  thread  of  life  ^  noon,  middle  *  That 
the  world  may  last  only  six  thousand  years.  *  Hector's 
fame  having  lasted  more  than  twice  the  life  of 
Methuselah  before  the  birth  of  Charles  (1500  a.d.). 
^  The  two  faces  of  Janus  look  in  opposite  directions. 


HYDRIOTAPHIA :    URN-BURIAL 


183 


sitated  to  eye  the  remaining  particle  of  fu- 
turity, are  naturally  constituted  unto  thoughts 
of  the  next  world,  and  cannot  excusably  de-  • 
cline  the  consideration  of  that  duration,  which 
maketh  pyramids  pillars  of  snow,  and  all  that's 
past  a  moment. 

Circles  and  right  lines  limit  and  close  all 
bodies,  and  the  mortal  right-lined  circle^  must 
conclude  and  shut  up  all.  There  is  no  anti- 
dote against  the  opium  of  time,  which  tempo- 
rarily considereth  all  things.  Our  fathers  find 
their  graves  in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly 
tell  us  how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors- 
Gravestones  tell  truth  scarce  forty  years.^ 
Generations  pass  while  some  trees  stand,  and 
old  families  last  not  three  oaks.  To  be  read 
by  bare  inscriptions,  like  many  in  Gruter ;  ^  to 
hope  for  eternity  by  enigmatical  epithets,  or 
first  letters  of  our  names ;  to  be  studied  by 
antiquaries,  who  we  were,  and  have  new  names 
given  us,  like  many  of  the  mummies,  are  cold 
consolations  unto  the  students  of  perpetuity, 
even  by  everlasting  languages. 

To  be  content  that  times  to  come  should 
only  know  there  was  such  a  man,  not  caring 
whether  they  knew  more  of  him,  was  a  frigid 
ambition  in  Cardan,'*  disparaging  his  horo- 
scopal  inclination  and  judgment  of  himself. 
Who  cares  to  subsist  like  Hippocrates's  pa- 
tients, or  AchUles's  horses  in  Homer,  under 
naked  nominations,^  without  deserts  and  noble 
acts,  which  are  the  balsam  of  our  memories, 
the  "  entelechia "  ^  and  soul  of  our  subsis- 
tences? Yet  to  be  nameless  in  worthy  deeds 
exceeds  an  infamous  history.  The  Canaan- 
itish  Woman  lives  more  happily  without  a 
name,  than  Herodias  with  one.  And  who  had 
not  rather  have  been  the  good  thief  than 
Pilate? 

But  the  iniquity '  of  oblivion  blindly  scat- 
tereth  her  poppy,  and  deals  with  the  memory 
of  men  without  distinction  to  merit  of  per- 
petuity. \Vho  can  but  pity  the  founder  of  the 
pyramids?  Erostratus^  lives  that  burnt  the 
Temple  of  Diana  ;  he  is  almost  lost  that  built 

^  ©,  the  character  of  death  ^  In  old  graveyards 
the  old  graves  were  used  for  new  burials.  ^  Gruter's 
Ancient  Inscriptions  ^  A  famous  Italian  scholar  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  who  said:  "I  should  like  it 
to  be  known  that  I  lived,  I  do  not  care  that  it 
should  be  known  what  sort  of  man  I  was."  ^  mere 
names  ®  realizations  ^  injustice  *  Tlie  nig!ii  that 
Alexander  the  Great  was  born,  Heroslratus  burnt  the 
temple  of  Diana,  at  Ephesus,  to  secure  immortal  fame. 


it.  Time  hath  spared  the  epitaph  of  Adrian's  ^ 
horse,  confounded  that  of  himself.  In  vain 
we  compute  our  felicities  by  the  advantage  of 
our  good  names,  since  bad  have  equal  dura- 
tions ;  and  Thersites  ^  is  hke  to  live  as  long  as 
Agamemnon.^  Who  knows  whether  the  best 
of  men  be  known,  or  whether  there  be  not 
more  remarkable  persons  forgot  than  any  that 
stand  remembered  in  the  known  account  of 
time  ?  Without  the  favour  of  the  everlasting 
register,  the  first  man  had  been  as  unknown 
as  the  last,  and  Methuselah's  long  hfe  had 
been  his  only  chronicle. 

Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired.  The  greater 
part  must  be  content  to  be  as  though  they  had 
not  been,  to  be  found  in  the  register  of  God, 
not  in  the  record  of  man.  Twent}'-seven 
names  make  up  the  first  story,''  and  the  re- 
corded names  ever  since  contain  not  one  living 
century.  The  number  of  the  dead  long  ex- 
ceedeth  all  that  shall  live.  The  night  of 
time  far  surpasseth  the  day ;  and  who  knows 
when  was  the  equinox?  Every  hour  adds 
imto  that  current  arithmetic,  which  scarce 
stands  one  moment.  And  since  death  must 
be  the  Lucina^  of  life,  and  even  Pagans  could 
doubt  whether  thus  to  live  v/ere  to  die ;  since 
our  longest  sun  sets  at  right  declensions,  and 
makes  but  winter  arches,  and  therefore  it 
cannot  be  long  before  we  lie  down  in  darkness, 
and  have  our  light  in  ashes  ;  since  the  brother 
of  death  daily  haunts  us  with  dying  memen- 
tos, and  time,  that  grows  old  itself,  bids  us 
hope  no  long  duration,  diuturnity  is  a  dream 
and  folly  of  expectation. 

Darkness  and  light  divide  the  course  of  time, 
and  obli\'ion  shares  with  memory  a  great  part 
even  of  our  li\'ing  beings.  We  slightly  remem- 
ber our  felicities,  and  the  smartest  strokes  of 
affliction  leave  but  short  smart  upon  us. 
Sense  endureth  no  extremities,  and  sorrows 
destroy  us  or  themselves.  To  weep  into 
stones  are  fables.  Afilictions  induce  callosi- 
ties ;  miseries  are  slipper\%  or  fall  like  snow 
upon  us,  which,  notwithstanding,  is  no  un- 
happy stupidity.  To  be  ignorant  of  evils  to 
come,  and  forgetful  of  evils  past,  is  a  merciful 
provision  in  nature,  whereby  we  digest  the 
mixture  of  our  few  and  evil  days,  and  our 

^  the  emperor  Hadrian  -  an  impudent  coward 
in  the  Greek  army  against  Troy,  see  the  Iliad  or 
Troilus  and  Cressida  ^  leader  of  the  Greeks  against 
Troy  '**.e.,  before  the  flood,  see  Gen.,  iv  and  v 
*  goddess  of  birth 


1 84 


EDMUND    WALLER 


delivered  senses  not  relapsing  into  cutting 
remembrances,  our  sorrows  are  not  kept  raw 
by  the  edge  of  repetitions.  A  great  part  of 
antiquity  contented  their  hopes  of  subsistency 
with  a  transmigration  of  their  souls ;  a  good 
way  to  continue  their  memories,  while,  having 
the  advantage  of  plural  successions,  they 
could  not  but  act  something  remarkable  in 
such  variety  of  beings,  and  enjoying  the  fame 
of  their  passed  selves,  make  accumulation  of 
glory  unto  their  last  durations.  Others, 
rather  than  be  lost  in  the  uncomfortable 
night  of  nothing,  were  content  to  recede 
into  the  common  being,  and  make  one  particle 
of  the  public  soul  of  all  things,  which  was  no 
more  than  to  return  into  their  unknown  and 
divine  original  again.  Egyptian  ingenuity 
was  more  unsatisfied,  contriving  their  bodies 
in  sweet  consistencies'^  to  attend  the  return  of 
their  souls.  But  all  was  vanity,  feeding  the 
wind  and  folly.  The  Egyptian  mummies, 
which  Cambyses  or  time  hath  spared,  avarice 
now  consumeth.^  Mummy  is  become  mer- 
chandise, Mizraim  ^  cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh 
is  sold  for  balsams. 

In  vain  do  individuals  hope  for  immortality, 
or  any  patent  from  oblivion,  in  preservations 
below  the  moon.  Men  have  been  deceived 
even  in  their  flatteries  above  the  sun,''  and 
studied  conceits  to  perpetuate  their  names  in 
heaven.  The  various  cosmography  of  that 
part  hath  already  varied  the  names  of  con- 
trived constellations.  Nimrod  ^  is  lost  in  Orion, 
and  Osiris ''  in  the  Dog-star.  Wlailc  we  look  for 
incorruption  in  the  heavens,  we  find  they  are 
but  like  the  earth,  durable  in  their  main 
bodies,  alterable  in  their  parts ;  whereof,  be- 
side comets  and  new  stars,  perspectives  begin 
to  tell  tales,  and  the  spots  that  wander  about 
the  sun,  with  Phaethon's  favor,  would  make 
clear  conviction. 

There  is  nothing  strictly  im.mortal  but  im- 
mortality. Whatever  hath  no  beginning,  may 
be  confident  of  no  end ;  which  is  the  peculiar 
of  that  necessary  essence  that  cannot  destroy 
itself,  and  the  highest  strain  of  omnipotency  to 
be  so  powerfully  constituted,  as  not  to  suffer 
even  from  the  power  of  itself.     All  others  have 

'  Mummies  were  made  by  the  use  of  preservative 
syrups  "^  Mummies  were  sold  for  use  as  medicines 
^  the  ancestor  of  the  Egyptians,  according  to 
Hebrew  tradition,  i  Chron.,  i :  8.  *  in  the  sky 
^  the  Chaldaic  name  for  the  constellation  Orion 
^the  Egyptian  name  for  Sirius 


a  dependent  being,  and  within  the  reach  of 
destruction.  But  the  sufficiency  of  Christian 
immortality  frustrates  all  earthly  glory,  and 
the  quality  of  either  state  after  death  makes  a 
folly  of  posthumous  memory.  God,  who  can 
only  destroy  our  souls,  and  hath  assured  our 
resurrection,  either  of  our  bodies  or  names 
hath  directly  promised  no  duration.  Wherein 
there  is  so  much  of  chance,  that  the  boldest 
expectants  have  found  unhappy  frustration ; 
and  to  hold  long  subsistence  seems  but  a  scape 
in  oblivion.  But  man  is  a  noble  animal, 
splendid  in  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the  grave, 
solemnising  nativities  and  deaths  with  equal 
lustre,  nor  omitting  ceremonies  of  bravery  in 
the  infamy  of  his  nature.  .  .  . 

EDMUND   WALLER    (1606-1687) 

THE       STORY      OF      PHCEBUS      AND 
DAPHNE,   APPLIED 

Thyrsis,  a  youth  of  the  inspired  train. 
Fair  Sacharissa  loved,  but  loved  in  vain. 
Like  Phoebus  sung  the  no  less  amorous  boy ; 
Like  Daphne  she,  as  lovely,  and  as  coy! 
With  numbers^  he  the  flying  nymph  pursues,  5 
With  numbers  such  as  Phcebus'  self  might  use! 
Such  is  the  chase  when  Love  and  Fancy  leads, 
O'er  craggy  mountains,  and  through  flowery 

meads ; 
Invoked  to  testify  the  lover's  care. 
Or  form  some  image  of  his  cruel  fair.  10 

Urged  with  his  fury,  like  a  wounded  deer. 
O'er  these  he  fled  ;  and  now  approaching -near. 
Had  reached  the  nymph  with  his  harmonious 

lay, 2 
Whom  all  his  charms  could  not  incline  to  stay. 
Yet  what  he  sung  in  his  immortal  strain,      15 
Though  unsticcessful,  was  not  sung  in  vain ; 
All,  but  the  nymph  that  should  redress  his 

wrong. 
Attend  his  passion,  and  approve  his  song. 
Like  Phoebus  thus,  acquiring  unsought  praise, 
He  catched  at  love,  and  filled  his  arm  with 

bays.  20 

ON  A   GIRDLE 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined. 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind  ; 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown. 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

'  verses  *  song 


THOMAS    FULLER 


i8s 


It  was  my  heaven's  extremest  sphere,      5 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer. 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love. 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move! 

A  narrow  compass!  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair ;    10 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 

GO,   LO\'ELY   ROSE! 

Go,  lovely  Rose! 

Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee. 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be.  5 

Tell  her  that's  young, 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied. 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 

In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide. 

Thou  must  have  uncommended  died.       10 

Small  is  the  worth 

Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired ; 

Bid  her  come  forth. 

Suffer  herself  to  be  desired. 

And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired.  15 

Then  die!  that  she 

The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  ; 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 

That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair!      20 


THOMAS   FULLER    (1608-1661) 

THE   HOLY   STATE 

BOOK   n.     CEL\PTER  XXII 

The  Life  of  Sir  Francis  Drake 

Francis  Drake  was  born  nigh  South  Tavis- 
tock in  Devonshire,  and  brought  up  in  Kent ; 
God  dividing  the  honour  betwixt  two  coun- 
ties, that  the  one  might  have  his  birth,  and  the 
other  his  education.  His  father,  being  a  min- 
ister, fled  into  Kent,  for  fear  of  the  Six  Articles, 
wherein  the  sting  of  Popery  still  remained  in 
England,  though  the  teeth  thereof  were 
knocked  out,  and  the  Pope's  supremacy 
abolished.     Coming  into  Kent,  he  bound  his 


son  Francis  apprentice  to  the  master  of  a 
small  bark,  which  traded  into  France  and 
Zealand,^  where  he  underwent  a  hard  service ; 
and  pains  with  patience  in  his  youth,  did 
knit  the  joints  of  his  soul,  and  made  them 
more  solid  and  compacted.  His  master, 
dying  unmarried,  in  reward  of  his  industry, 
bequeathed  his  bark  unto  him  for  a  legacy. 

For  some  time  he  continued  his  master's 
profession  ;  but  the  narrow  seas  were  a  prison 
for  so  large  a  spirit,  born  for  greater  under- 
takings. He  soon  grew  weary  of  his  bark; 
which  would  scarce  go  alone,  but  as  it  crept 
along  by  the  shore:  wherefore,  selling  it,  he 
unfortunately  ventured  most  of  his  estate  with 
Captain  John  Hawkins  into  the  West  Indies, 
in  1567  ;  whose  goods  were  taken  by  the  Span- 
iards at  St.  John  de  Ulva,  and  he  himself 
scarce  escaped  with  life :  the  king  of  Spain 
being  so  tender  in  those  parts,  that  the  least 
touch  doth  wound  him ;  and  so  jealous  of  the 
West  Indies,  his  wife,  that  wilhngly  he  would 
have  none  look  upon  her :  he  therefore  used 
them  with  the  greater  severity. 

Drake  was  persuaded  by  the  minister  of  his 
ship,  that  he  might  lawfully  recover  in  value 
of  the  king  of  Spain,  and  repair  his  losses  upon 
him  anywhere  else.  The  case  was  clear  in 
sea-divinity  ;  and  few  are  such  infidels,  as  not 
to  believe  doctrines  which  make  for  their  own 
profit.  Whereupon  Drake,  though  a  poor 
private  man,  hereafter  undertook  to  revenge 
himself  on  so  mighty  a  monarch  ;  who,  as  not 
contented  that  the  sun  riseth  and  setteth  in  his 
dominions,  may  seem  to  desire  to  make  all 
his  own  where  he  shineth.  And  now  let  us 
see  how  a  dwarf,  standing  on  the  mount  of 
God's  providence,  may  prove  an  overmatch 
for  a  giant. 

After  two  or  three  several  voyages  to  gain 
intelUgence  in  the  West  Indies,  and  some 
prizes  taken,  at  last  he  effectuall}'  set  forward 
from  Plymouth  with  two  ships,  the  one  of 
seventy,  the  other  twenty-five,  tons,  and 
seventy-three  men  and  boys  in  both.  He 
made  with  all  speed  and  secrecy  to  Nombre 
de  Dios,  as  loath  to  put  the  town  to  too  much 
charge  (which  he  knew  they  would  wilhngly 
bestow)  in  providing  beforehand  for  his  en- 
tertainment ;  which  city  was  then  the  granar;/ 
of  the  West  Indies,  wherein  the  golden  harvest 
brought  from  Panama  was  hoarded  up  till  it 
could  be  conveyed  into  Spain.     They  came 

^  Zeeland  (in  the  Netherlands) 


1 86 


THOMAS    FULLER 


hard  aboard  the  shore,  and  lay  quiet  all  night, 
intending  to  attempt  the  town  in  the  dawning 
of  the  day. 

But  he  was  forced  to  alter  his  resolution,  and 
assault  it  sooner ;  for  he  heard  his  men  mut- 
tering amongst  themselves  of  the  strength 
and  greatness  of  the  town :  and  when  men's 
heads  are  once  fly-blown  with  buzzes  of  sus- 
picion, the  vermin  multiply  instantly,  and  one 
jealousy  ^  begets  another.  Wherefore,  he  raised 
them  from  their  nest  before  they  had  hatched 
their  fears  ;  and,  to  put  away  those  conceits, ^ 
he  persuaded  them  it  was  day-dawning  when 
the  moon  rose,  and  instantly  set  on  the  town, 
and  won  it,  being  unwalled.  In  the  market- 
place the  Spaniards  saluted  them  with  a  volley 
of  shot ;  Drake  returned  their  greeting  with  a 
flight  of  arrows,  the  best  and  ancient  English 
compliment,  which  drave  their  enemies  away. 
Here  Drake  received  a  dangerous  wound, 
though  he  valiantly  concealed  it  a  long  time ; 
knowing  if  his  heart  stooped,  his  men's  would 
fall,  and  loath  to  leave  off  the  action,  wherein 
if  so  bright  an  opportunity  once  setteth,  it 
seldom  riseth  again.  But  at  length  his  men 
forced  him  to  return  to  his  ship,  that  his 
wound  might  be  dressed ;  and  this  unhappy 
accident  defeated  the  whole  design.  Thus 
victory  sometimes  slips  through  tlieir  fingers 
who  have  caught  it  in  their  hands. 

But  his  valour  would  not  let  him  give  over 
the  project  as  long  as  there  was  either  life  or 
warmth  in  it ;  and  therefore,  having  received 
intelligence  from  the  Negroes  called  Symerons,^ 
of  many  mules'-lading  of  gold  and  silver,  which 
was  to  be  brought  from  Panama,  he,  leaving 
competent  numbers  to  man  his  ships,  went  on 
land  with  the  rest,  and  bestowed  himself  in  the 
woods  by  the  way  as  they  were  to  pass,  and  so 
intercepted  and  carried  away  an  infinite  mass 
of  gold.  As  for  the  silver,  which  was  not 
portable  over  the  mountains,  they  digged 
holes  in  the  ground  and  hid  it  therein. 

There  want  not  those  who  love  to  beat  down 
the  price  of  every  honourable  action,  though 
they  themselves  never  mean  to  be  chapmen. 
These  cry  up  Drake's  fortune  herein  to  cry 
down  his  valour;  as  if  this  his  performance 
were  nothing,  wherein  a  golden  opportunity 
ran  his  head,  with  his  long  forelock,  into 
Drake's  hands  beyond  expectation.     But,  cer- 

^  fear  ^  ideas  ^  Cimarrones,  a  band  of  fugitive 
negroes  who  gathered  on  the  Istlamus  of  Panama 
in  the  sixteenth  century 


tainly,  his  resolution  and  unconquerable  pa- 
tience deserved  much  praise,  to  adventure  on 
such  a  design,  which  had  in  it  just  no  more 
probability  than  what  was  enough  to  keep  it 
from  being  impossible.  Yet  1  admire  ^  not  so 
much  at  all  the  treasure  he  took,  as  at  the  rich 
and  deep  mine  of  God's  providence. 

Having  now  full  freighted  himself  with 
wealth,  and  burnt  at  the  House  of  Crosses^ 
above  two  hundred  thousand  pounds'  worth 
of  Spanish  merchandise,  he  returned  wdth 
honour  and  safety  into  England,  and,  some 
years  after  (December  13th,  1577),  undertook 
that  his  famous  voyage  about  the  world,  most 
accurately  described  by  our  English  authors : 
and  yet  a  word  or  two  thereof  will  not  be 
amiss. 

Setting  forward  from  Plymouth,  he  bore 
up  for  Cabo-verd,^  where,  near  to  the  island  of 
St.  Jago,^he  took  prisoner  Nuno  de  Silva,  an 
experienced  Spanish  pilot,  whose  direction  he 
used  in  the  coasts  of  Brazil  and  Magellan 
Straits,  and  afterwards  safely  landed  him  at , 
Guatulco  in  New  Spain.  ^  Hence  they  took 
their  course  to  the  Island  of  Brava ;  and  here- 
abouts they  met  with  those  tempestuous  winds 
whose  only  praise  is,  that  they  continue  not  an 
hour,  in  which  time  they  change  all  the  points 
of  the  compass.  Here  they  had  great  plenty 
of  rain,  poured  (not,  as  in  other  places,  as  it 
were  out  of  sieves,  but)  as  out  of  spouts,  so 
that  a  butt  of  water  falls  down  in  a  place ; 
which,  notwithstanding,  is  but  a  courteous 
injury  in  that  hot  climate  far  from  land,  and 
where  otherwise  fresh  water  cannot  be  pro- 
vided. Then  cutting  the  Line,^  they  saw  the 
face  of  that  heaven  which  earth  hideth  from 
us,  but  therein  only  three  stars  of  the  first 
greatness,  the  rest  few  and  small  compared 
to  our  hemisphere ;  as  if  God,  on  purpose, 
had  set  up  the  best  and  biggest  candles  in 
that  room  wherein  his  civilest  guests  are 
entertained. 

Sailing  the  south  of  Brazil,  he  afterwards 
passed  the  Magellan  Straits  (August  20th, 
1578),  and  then  entered  Mare  Pacificum, 
came  to  the  southernmost  land  at  the  height 
of  55^  latitudes;  thence  directing  his  course 
northward,  he  pillaged  many  Spanish  towns, 
and  took  rich  prizes  of  high  value  in  the  king- 
doms of  Chili,  Peru,  and  New  Spain.     Then, 

^  wonder  ^  a  Spanish  town  in  Panama  ^  Cape 
Verde  ^  Santiago  of  the  Cape  Verde  Islands 
^  Mexico   ^  the  equator 


THE    HOLY    STATE 


187 


bending  eastwards,  he  coasted  China,  and  the 
Mokiccas,  where,  by  the  king  of  Terrenate,  a 
true  gentleman  Pagan,  he  was  most  honour- 
ably entertained.  The  king  told  them,  they 
and  he  were  all  of  one  religion  in  this  respect, 
—  that  they  believed  not  in  gods  made  of 
stocks  and  stones,  as  did  the  Portugals.  He 
furnished  them  also  with  all  necessaries  that 
they  wanted. 

On  January  gth  following  (1579),  his  ship, 
having  a  large  wind  and  a  smooth  sea,  ran 
aground  on  a  dangerous  shoal,  and  struck 
twice  on  it ;  knocking  twice  at  the  door  of 
death,  which,  no  doubt,  had^  opened  the  third 
time.  Here  they  stuck,  from  eight  o'clock  at 
night  till  four  the  next  afternoon,  having 
ground  too  much,  and  yet  too  little  to  land 
on ;  and  water  too  m.uch,  and  yet  too  little 
to  sail  in.  Had  God  (who,  as  the  wise  man 
saith,  "holdeth  the  winds  in  his  fist,"  Prov. 
XXX.  4)  but  opened  his  little  finger,  and  let 
out  the  smallest  blast,  they  had  undoubtedly 
been  cast  away  ;  but  there  blew  not  any  wind 
all  the  while.  Then  they,  conceiving  aright 
that  the  best  way  to  lighten  the  ship  was, 
first,  to  ease  it  of  the  burden  of  their  sins  by 
true  repentance,  humbled  themselves,  by 
fasting,  under  the  hand  of  God.  Afterwards 
they  received  the  communion,  dining  on 
Christ  in  the  sacrament,  expecting  no  other 
than  to  sup  with  him  in  heaven.  Then  they 
cast  out  of  their  ship  six  great  pieces  of 
ordnance,  threw  overboard  as  much  wealth 
as  would  break  the  heart  of  a  miser  to  think 
on  it,  with  much  sugar,  and  packs  of  spices, 
making  a  caudle  of  the  sea  round  about. 
Then  they  betook  themselves  to  their  prayers, 
the  best  lever  at  such  a  dead  lift  indeed ; 
and  it  pleased  God,  that  the  wind,  formerly 
their  mortal  enemy,  became  their  friend ; 
which,  changing  from  the  starboard  to  the 
larboard  of  the  ship,  and  rising  by  degrees, 
cleared  them  off  to  the  sea  again,  —  for  which 
they  returned  unfeigned  thanks  to  .\lmighty 
God. 

By  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  and  west  of 
Africa,  he  returned  safe  into  England,  and 
(November  3rd,  1580)  landed  at  Plymouth, 
(being  almost  the  first  of  those  that  made  a 
thorough  light  through  the  world)  having,  in 
his  whole  voyage,  though  a  curious  searcher 
after  the  time,  lost  one  day  through  the 
variation  of  several  chmates.     He  feasted  the 

^  would  have 


queen  in  his  ship  at  Dartford,i  vvho  knighted 
him  for  his  service.  Yet  it  grieved  him  not  a 
little,  that  some  prime  courtiers  refused  the 
gold  he  offered  them,  as  gotten  by  piracy. 
Some  of  them  would  have  been  loath  to  have 
been  told,  that  they  had  aurum  Tholosanum^ 
in  their  own  purses.  Some  think,  that  they 
did  it  to  show  that  their  envious  pride  was 
above  their  covetousness,  who  of  set  purpose 
did  blur  the  fair  copy  of  his  performance, 
because  they  would  not  take  pains  to  write 
after  it. 

I  pass  by  his  next  West-Indian  voyage 
(1585),  wherein  he  took  the  cities  of  St. 
Jago,  St.  Domingo,  Carthagena,  and  St. 
Augustine  in  Florida ;  as  also  his  service 
performed  in  1588,  wherein  he,  with  many 
others,  helped  to  the  waning  of  that  half- 
moon,^  which  sought  to  govern  all  the  motion 
*of  our  sea.     I  haste  to  his  last  voyage. 

Queen  Elizabeth,  in  1595,  perceiving  that 
the  only  way  to  make  the  Spaniard  a  cripple 
forever,  was  to  cut  his  sinews  of  war  in  the 
West  Indies,  furnished  Sir  Francis  Drake, 
and  Sir  John  Hawkins,  with  six  of  her  own 
ships,  besides  twenty-one  ships  and  barks  of 
their  own  providing,  containing  in  all  two 
thousand  five  hundred  men  and  boys,  for 
some  service  on  America.  But,  alas !  this 
voyage  was  marred  before  begun.  For,  so 
great  preparations  being  too  big  for  a  cover, 
the  king  of  Spain  knew  of  it,  and  sent  a 
caraval  of  adviso  ■*  to  the  West  Indies ;  so 
that  they  had  intelligence  three  weeks  before 
the  fleet  set  forth  of  England,  either  to 
fortify  or  remove  their  treasure ;  whereas,  in 
other  of  Drake's  voyages,  not  two  of  his  own 
men  knew  whither  he  went;  and  managing 
such  a  design  is  like  carrying  a  mine  in  war,  — 
if  it  hath  any  vent,  all  is  spoiled.  Besides, 
Drake  and  Hawkins,  being  in  joint  commis- 
sion, hindered  each  other.  The  latter  took 
himself  to  be  inferior  rather  in  success  than 
skill ;  and  the  action  was  unUke  to  prosper 
when  neither  would  follow,  and  both  could 
not  handsomelj^  go  abreast.  It  vexed  old 
Hawkins,  that  his  counsel  was  not  followed, 
in  present  sailing  to  America,  but  that  they 
spent  time  in  vain  in  assaulting  the  Canaries ; 
and  the  grief  that  his  advice  was  slighted, 
say  some,  was  the  cause  of  his  death.     Others 

^  Deptford  ^  Spanish  gold,  as  bribes  ^  The 
Armada  was  drawn  up  in  crescent  form.  *  ship 
of  notification 


THOMAS    FULLER 


impute  it  to  the  sorrow  he  took  for  the  taking 
of  his  bark  called  "the  Francis,"  which  five 
Spanish  frigates  had  intercepted.  But  when 
the  same  heart  hath  two  mortal  wounds  given 
it  together,  it  is  hard  to  say  which  of  them 
killeth. 

Drake  continued  his  course  for  Porto  Rico ; 
and,  riding  within  the  road,  a  shot  from  the 
Castle  entered  the  steerage  of  the  ship,  took 
away  the  stool  from  under  him  as  he  sate  at 
supper,  wounded  Sir  Nicholas  Clifford,  and 
Brute  Brown  to  death.  "Ah,  dear  Brute!" 
said  Drake,  "I  could  grieve  for  thee,  but  now 
is  no  time  for  me  to  let  down  my  spirits." 
And,  indeed,  a  soldier's  most  proper  bemoan- 
ing a  friend's  death  in  war,  is  in  revenging  it. 
And,  sure,  as  if  grief  had  made  the  English 
furious,  they  soon  after  fired  five  Spanish 
ships  of  two  hundred  tons  apiece,  in  despite 
of  the  Castle. 

America  is  not  unfitly  resembled  to  an  hour- 
glass, which  hath  a  narrow  neck  of  land  (sup- 
pose it  the  hole  where  the  sand  passeth)  be- 
twixt the  parts  thereof,  —  Mexicana  and 
Peruana.  Now  the  English  had  a  design  to 
march  by  land  over  this  Isthmus,  from  Porto 
Rico  to  Panama,  where  the  Spanish  treasure 
was  laid  up.  Sir  Thomas  Baskervile,  general 
of  the  land-forces,  undertook  the  service  with 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  armed  men.  They 
marched  through  deep  ways,  the  Spaniards 
much  annoying  them  with  shot  out  of  the 
woods.  One  fort  in  the  passage  they  as- 
saulted in  vain,  and  heard  two  others  were 
built  to  stop  them,  besides  Panama  itself. 
They  had  so  much  of  this  breakfast  they 
thought  they  should  surfeit  of  a  dinner  and 
supper  of  the  same.  No  hope  of  conquest, 
except  with  cloying  the  jaws  of  death,  and 
thrusting  men  on  the  mouth  of  the  cannon. 
Wherefore,  fearing  to  find  the  proverb  true, 
that  "gold  may  be  bought  too  dear,"  they 
returned  to  their  ships.  Drake  afterwards 
fired  Nombre  de  Dios,  and  many  other  petty 
towns  (whose  treasure  the  Spaniards  had 
conveyed  away),  burning  the  empty  casks, 
when  their  precious  liquor  was  run  out  before, 
and  then  prepared  for  their  returning  home. 

Great  was  the  difference  betwixt  the  Indian 
cities  now,  from  what  they  were  when  Drake 
first  haunted  these  coasts.  At  first,  the  Span- 
iards here  were  safe  and  secure,  counting  their 
treasure  sufficient  to  defend  itself,  the  remote- 
ness thereof  being  the  greatest  (almost  only) 
resistance,  and  the  fetching  of  it  more  than 


the  fighting  for  it.  Whilst  the  king  of  Spain 
guarded  the  head  and  heart  of  his  dominions 
in  Europe,  he  left  his  long  legs  in  America  open 
to  blows ;  till,  finding  them  to  smart,  being 
beaten  black  and  blue  by  the  English,  he 
learned  to  arm  them  at  last,  fortifying  the 
most  important  of  them  to  make  them  im- 
pregnable. 

Now  began  Sir  Francis's  discontent  to  feed 
upon  him.  He  conceived,  that  expectation, 
a  merciless  usurer,  computing  each  day  since 
his  departure,  exacted  an  interest  and  return 
of  honour  and  profit  proportionable  to  his 
great  preparations,  and  transcending  his  for- 
mer achievements.  He  saw  that  all  the  good 
which  he  had  done  in  this  voyage,  consisted 
in  the  evil  he  had  done  to  the  Spaniards  afar 
off,  whereof  he  could  present  but  small  visible 
fruits  in  England.  These  apprehensions,  ac- 
companying, if  not  causing,  the  disease  of  the 
flux,  wrought  his  sudden  death,  January  2Sth, 
1595.  And  sickness  did  not  so  much  untie 
his  clothes,  as  sorrow  did  rend  at  once  the 
robe  of  his  mortality  asunder.  He  lived  by 
the  sea,  died  on  it,  and  was  bxiried  in  it. 
Thus  an  extempore  performance  (scarce 
heard  to  be  begun,  before  we  hear  it  is  ended  !) 
comes  off  with  better  applause,  or  miscarries 
with  less  disgrace,  than  a  long-studied  and 
openly-premeditated  action.  Besides,  we  see 
how  great  spirits,  having  mounted  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  performance,  afterwards 
strain  and  break  their  credits  in  striving  to 
go  beyond  it.  Lastty,  God  oftentimes  leaves 
the  brightest  men  in  an  eclipse,  to  show  that 
they  do  but  borrow  their  lustre  from  his 
reflexion.  We  will  not  justify  all  the  actions 
of  any  man,  though  of  a  tamer  profession 
than  a  sea-captain,  in  whom  civility  is  often 
counted  preciseness.  For  the  main,  we  say 
that  this  our  captain  was  a  religious  man 
towards  God  and  his  houses  (generally  sparing 
churches  where  he  came),  chaste  in  his  life, 
just  in  his  deahngs,  true  of  his  word,  and  mer- 
cifid  to  those  that  were  under  him,  hating 
nothing  so  much  as  idleness:  and  therefore, 
lest  his  soul  should  rest  in  peace,  at  spare 
hours  he  brought  fresh  water  to  Plymouth.^ 
Careful  he  was  for  posterity  (though  men  of 
his  profession  have  as  well  an  ebb  of  riot,  as 
a  float  of  fortune)  and  providently  raised  a 

^  He  was  a  member  of  the  parliamentary  com- 
mission for  establishing  a  system  of  water-works 
there. 


JOHN    MILTON 


189 


worshipful  family  of  his  kindred.  In  a  word : 
should  those  that  speak  against  him  fast  till 
they  fetch  their  bread  where  he  did  his,  they 
would  have  a  good  stomach'  to  eat  it. 


JOHN   MILTON    (1608-1674) 

ON     THE     MORNING     OF     CHRIST'S 
NATIVITY 

( Composed  i62g ) 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn, 
Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  eternal  King, 
Of  wedded  maid  and  virgin  mother  born, 
Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring ; 
For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing,  5 

That  he  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release, 
And  with  his  Father  work   us   a   perpetual 
peace. 

That  glorious  form,  that  light  unsufferable. 
And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  majesty, 
Wherewith  he  wont  at  Heaven's  high  council- 
table  10 
To  sit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity, 
He  laid  aside  ;  and  here  with  us  to  be. 

Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 
And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal 
clay. 

Say,  Heavenly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred 
vein  1 5 

Afford  a  present  to  the  Infant  God  ? 
Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strain, 
To  welcome  him  to  this  his  new  abode. 
Now  while  the  heaven,  b}^  the  sun's  team  un- 
trod. 
Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching  light, 
And   all   the   spangled  host   keep   watch   in 
squadrons  bright  ?  21 

See  how  from  far  upon  the  eastern  road 
The  star-led  wizards  ^  haste  with  odours  sv/eet ! 
O  run,  prevent  ^  them  with  thy  humble  ode, 
And  lay  it  lowly  at  his  blessed  feet ;  25 

Have  thou  the  honour  first  thy  Lord  to  greet. 

And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  angel  quire. 
From  out  his  secret  altar  touched  with  hal- 
lowed fire.  • 

^  appetite     ^  wise  men     '  precede 


THE  HYMN 

It  was  the  winter  wild. 

While  the  heaven-born  child  30 

All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies ; 
Nature,  in  awe  to  him, 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize : 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her  35 

To  wanton^  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. ^ 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  woos  the  gentle  air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow, 
And  on  her  naked  shame,  40 

Pollute^  with  sinful  blame, 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw ; 
Confounded,  that  her  JVIaker's  eyes 
Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  he,  her  fears  to  cease,  45 

Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace  : 

She,  crowned  with  olive  green,  came  softly 

sliding 
Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 
His  ready  harbinger, 

With    turtle^    wing    the    amorous    clouds 

dividing ;  50 

And  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand. 
She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea  and 

land. 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound. 
Was  heard  the  world  around ; 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high   up- 
hung  ;  _  55 
The  hooked^  chariot  stood 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood  ; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng  ; 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye. 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovran  Lord  was 
by.  60 

But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began : 
The  winds,  Avith  wonder  whist  ,^ 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed,  65 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave. 
While   birds    of   calm    sit    brooding   on    the 
charmed  wave. 

'  sport   -  lover   ^  polluted   *  turtle   dove    ^  pro- 
vided with  scythes  at  the  hubs  ®  silenced 


I  go 


JOHN    MILTON 


The  stars  with  deep  amaze, 

Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze,  70 

Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence, 
And  will  not  take  their  flight, 
For  all  the  morning  light. 

Or  Lucifer  that  often  warned  them  thence ; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow,  75 

Until   their   Lord   himself   bespake   and   bid 
them  go. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 

The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed. 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame,  80 

As^  his  inferior  flame 

The  new-enlightened  world  no  more  should 
need : 
He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne  or  burning  axletree 
could  bear. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn,  85 

Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn, 

Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row ; 
Full  Httle  thought  they  than,'^ 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below :  90 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy 
keep. 

When  such  music  sweet 
Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet 

As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook,       95 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise. 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took : 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loath  to  lose. 
With    thousand    echoes    still    prolongs    each 
heavenly  close. ^  100 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 

Of  Cynthia's'* seat  the  airy  region  thrilling. 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done,  105 

And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfill- 
ing: 
She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in  happier 
union. 

^  as  if  '■*  then   ^  conclusion  of  a  musical  strain 
^  the  moon 


At  last  surrounds  their  sight 

A  globe  of  circular  light,  no 

That  with  long  beams  the  shamefaced  night 
arrayed ; 

The  helmed  cherubim 

And  sworded  seraphim 

Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  dis- 
played. 

Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire,  115 

With  un expressive^  notes,  to  Heaven's  new- 
born heir. 

Such  music  (as  'tis  said) 
Before  was  never  made. 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung,^ 
While  the  Creator  great  120 

His  constellations  set. 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hung, 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep. 
And    bid    the    weltering    waves    their    oozy 
channel  keep. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres  !  125 

Once  bless  our  human  ears 

(If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so), 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time  ; 

And  let  the  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ 
blow ; 
And  with  your  ninefold  harmony  131 

Make  up  full  consort  to  the  angelic  symphony. 

For  if  such  holy  song 

Enwrap  our  fancy  long. 

Time  will  run  back  and  fetch  the  age  of 
gold ; 

And  speckled  Vanity  136 

Will  sicken  soon  and  die. 

And   leprous   Sin   will   melt   from   earthly 
mould ; 

And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away. 

And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peer- 
ing day.  140 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men. 

Orbed    in    a   rainbow ;     and,    like   glories 
wearing, 
Mercy  will  sit  between. 

Throned  in  celestial  sheen,  145 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued'  clouds  down 
steering ; 

• 
*  inexpressible   ^  cf.  Joh  xxxviii :   7    ^  rich,  as  if 
woven  with  threads  of  silver  and  gold 


HYMN   ON   THE    NATIVITY 


191 


-\iicl  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  Palace 
Hall. 


With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn 
The  Nymphs  in   twilight   shade  of   tangled 
thickets  mourn. 


Bui  wisest  Fate  says  no, 

This  must  not  yet  be  so  ;  1 50 

The  Babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss, 
So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify : 
Yet  first,  .to  those  ychained  in  sleep,  155 

The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder 
through  the  deep, 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 

While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds 
outbrake : 
The  aged  earth,  aghast  160 

With  terror  of  that  blast. 

Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake, 
W^hen  at  the  world's  last  session, 
The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread 
his  throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss  165 

Full  and  perfect  is. 

But  now  begins ;   for  from  this  happy  day 
The  old  Dragon  1  tmder  ground. 
In  straiter  limits  bound. 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway  ;     170 
And  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb  ; 

No  voice  or  hideous  hum 

Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  de- 
ceiving. 17s 

Apollo  from  his  shrine 

Can  no  more  divine. 
With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos^ 
leaving. 

No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell. 

Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  pro- 
phetic cell.  180 

The  lonely  moimtains  o'er, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 

A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament ; 
From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 
Edged  with  poplar  pale,  185 

The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent ; 

^  Satan  ^  Delphi,  where  Apollo  had  a  temple,  is 
perhaps  confused  with  Deles,  where  he  also  had  one. 


In  consecrated  earth. 

And  on  the  holy  hearth,  igo 

The  Lars  and  Lemures  *  moan  with  midnight 
plaint ; 
In  urns  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Aiifrights  the  flamens  at  their  service  quaint ; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat,  195 

While  each  peculiar  power  forgoes  his  wonted 
seat. 

Peor  and  Baalim  ^ 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 

With   that   twice-battered    god    of    Pales- 
tine ;  * 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth,*  200 

Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 

Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine ; 
The  Libyc  Hammon^  shrinks  his  horn  ; 
In   vain   the   Tyrian    maids   their   wounded 
Thammuz  mourn. ^ 

And  sullen  Moloch,  fled,^  205 

Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 

His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue ; 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king. 

In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue ;  210 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast , 
Isis^  and  Orus*  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris '  seen 

In  Memphian  grove  or  green. 

Trampling  the  unshowered  ^^  grass  with  low- 

ings  loud ;  215 

Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest ;  ^^ 

Naught  but  profoundest  Hell  can  be  his 

shroud ; 
In  vain,  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark. 
The  sable-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipped 

ark.  220 

^  ghosts  ^  cf.  Par.  Lost,  I,  392-482  *  See  i 
Sam.  V :  3  and  4  ^  cf .  Par.  Lost,  I,  438  ff.  ^  an 
Egjrptian  deity  represented  with  large  curving 
horns  *  cf.  Par.  Lost,  I,  446  ff.  ''  wife  of  Osiris 
^  son  of  Isis  ^  Osiris  in  the  form  of  Apis,  was  the 
bull  god  of  Memphis.  ^°  //  does  not  rain  in  Egypt. 
^^  Isis  gathered  the  scattered  limbs  of  Osiris,  who  was 
cut  to  pieces  by  his  brother. 


10. 


JOHN    MILTON 


He  feels  from  Juda's  land 
The  dreaded  Infant's  hand ; 

The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn  ; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide,  225 

Not  Typhon  ^  huge,  ending  in  snaky  twine : 
Our  Babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 
Can    in    his    swaddling    bands    control    the 
damned  crew. 

So  when  the  sun  in  bed, 

Curtained  with  cloudy  red,  230 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to- the  infernal  jail, 

Each   fettered   ghost   slips   to   his   several 
grave. 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays  235 

Fly    after    the    night-steeds,    leaving    their 
moon-loved  maze. 

But  see  !  the  Virgin  blest 

Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest. 

Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here  have 
ending : 

Heaven's  youngest-teemed-  star  240 

Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 

Her   sleeping  Lord   with   handmaid   lamp 
attending ; 

And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 

Bright-harnessed  ^  angels  sit  in  order  service- 
able. 

L'ALLEGRO 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

'Mongst    horrid    shapes    and    shrieks    and 
sights  unholy  ! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell,  5 

Where  brooding  darkness  spreads  his  jeal- 
ous wings, 
And  the  night-raven  sings ; 

There  under  ebon  shades  and  low-browed 
rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks. 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell.       10 
But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free. 
In  heaven  yclept  "^  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men  heart-easing  Mirth  ; 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth, 

^  a  monster  of  Greek  mythology  ^  newest  born, 
the  star  of  Bethlehem  ^  in  bright  armor  ^  called 


With  two  sister  Graces  more,  15 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore  ; 

Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 

The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring. 

Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing. 

As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying,  20 

There  on  beds  of  violets  blue 

And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 

Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair. 

So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee      25 

Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles. 

Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles. 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek. 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ;  30 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 

And  Laughter,  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go, 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee  35 

The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty  ; 

And  if  I  give  thee  honour  due, 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew. 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unreproved  pleasures  free  :  40 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  ilight. 

And  singing,  startle  the  dull  night. 

From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies. 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 

Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow,  45 

And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow. 

Through  the  sweet-briar  or  the  vine, 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine  ; 

While  the  cock,  with  lively  din. 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin,  50 

And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door. 

Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  : 

Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 

Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn. 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill,  55 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 

Sometime  walking,  not  unseen. 

By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 

Right  against  the  eastern  gate 

Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state,  60 

Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light. 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 

While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand. 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe,  65 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale  ^ 

^  counts  his  flock 


IL   PENSEROSO 


193 


Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures 

Whilst  the  landskip^  round  it  measures:       70 

Russet  lawns  and  fallows  grey, 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 

Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 

jMeadows  trim  with  daisies  pied,  75 

Shallow  brooks  and  rivers  wide ; 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 

Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 

The  cynosure  ^  of  neighbouring  eyes.  80 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 

From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks. 

Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met 

Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set 

Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes,  85 

Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses ; 

And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 

With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 

To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead.  90 

Sometimes,  with  secure^  delight, 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round. 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid  95 

Dancing  in  the  chequered  shade ; 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holiday, 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail : 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale,  100 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat. 

How  faery  Mab  the  Junkets  eat. 

She^  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said ; 

And  he,^  by  friar's  lantern  led, 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat  105 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn. 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 

That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end  ; 

Then  lies  him  down,  the  lubber  fiend,         no 

And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length. 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength. 

And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep,      115 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then. 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 

^  landscape  ^  Phccnician  sailors  steered  by  the 
constellation  of  the  Little  Bear,  Cynosura.  ^  carefree 
*  one  speaker  ^  another 


Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 
In  weeds  1  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold,      uo 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,^  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  aU  commend. 
There  let  Hymen ^  oft  appear  125 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear. 
And  pomp  and  feast  and  revelry, 
With  mask  and  antique  pageantry ; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream.  130 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  •*  be  on. 
Or  sweetest  Shakespear,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 
And  ever,  against  eating  cares,  135 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs. 
Married  to  immortal  verse, 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce. 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,  140 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning. 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony  ; 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head      145 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half -regained  Eurydice.  150 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


IL   PENSEROSO 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred  ! 
How  little  you  bested,^ 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys? 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain,  5 

And  fancies  fond  ^  with  gaudy  shapes  possess. 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun-beams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train.   10 
But  hail,  thou  Goddess  sage  and  holy. 
Hail,  divinest  jMelancholy ! 

'  garments  ^  Originally  influence  meant  the  poicer 
of  the  stars  over  human  affairs.  ^  of.  Epithalamion, 
11.  25  ff.  ^  cf.  Jonson's  lines  on  Shakespeare,  li.  36-7 
^  aid  ®  foolish 


194 


JOHN    MILTON 


Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 

To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 

And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view  15 

O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue ; 

Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem     , 

Prince  INIemnon's  sister  ^  might  beseem, 

Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen  ^  that  strove 

To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above  20 

The  sea  nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 

Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended : 

Thee  bright-haired  Vesta  long  of  yore 

To  solitary  Saturn  bore  ; 

His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign  25 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain) . 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 

He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 

Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove.  30 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 

Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain,* 

Flowing  with  majestic  train. 

And  sable  stole  of  cypress  lawn  *  35 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come,  but  keep  thy  Avonted  state, 

With  even  step,  and  musing  gait. 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes :  40 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still. 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 

With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet,  45 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing ; 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure ;      50 

But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon^  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 

The  cherub  Contemplation  ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along,  55 

'Less  Philomel®  will  deign  a  song, 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight. 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke'' 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak:  60 

Sweet  bird,*^  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 

^  Heraera,  presumably  very  beautiful  though 
black  ^  Cassiopea,  who  offended  the  Nereids;  and 
after  her  death  was  placed  among  the  stars  '  dye 
*  crape  '  3'onder  •*  the  nip^htingale  ^  The  chariot  of 
the  moon,  Cynthia,  was  drawn  by  dragons. 


Most  musical,  most  melancholy  ! 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among, 

I  woo  to  hear  thy  even-song ; 

And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen  65 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green. 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way,     70 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound. 

Over  some  wide-watered  shore,  75 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar ; 

Or  if  the  air  wdll  not  permit. 

Some  still  removed  place  wall  fit, 

Where  glowdng  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom,  80 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth. 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour  85 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 

Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear, 

With  thrice-great  Hermes ;   or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold        90 

The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook ; 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  underground, 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent  95 

With  planet  or  with  element. 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 

In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by. 

Presenting  Thebes',  or  Pelops'  line. 

Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine,  100 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 

Ennobled  hath  the  buskined^  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin  !  that  thy  power 

Might  raise  Musecus  from  his  bower; 

Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing  105 

Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 

Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 

And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek ; 

Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 

The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold,  no 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 

And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 

That  owned  the  virtuous-  ring  and  glass. 

And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 


tragic 


^  powerful 


LYCIDAS 


195 


On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride;  115 

And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 

In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 

Of  turneys,  and  of  trophies  hung, 

Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 

Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear.  120 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 

Till  civil-suited^  Morn  appear, 

Not  tricked  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont 

With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt. 

But  kerchieft  in  a  comely  cloud,  125 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 

Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still, 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill. 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 

With  minute-drops^  from  off  the  eaves.      130 

And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me,  Goddess,  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves. 

And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  ^  loves. 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak,  ,135 

Where  the  rude  axe  with  heaved  stroke 

W'as  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook. 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look,  140 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 

W^hile  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh. 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring. 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep,  145 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep  ; 

And  let  some  strange  mj'sterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid ;  150 

And  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath. 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail  155 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale,* 

And  love  the  high  embowed  roof. 

With  antique  pillars  massy  proof. 

And  storied^  windows  richly  dight. 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light.  160 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow. 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  below, 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear. 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear. 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies,  165 

And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

^  soberly  attired   ^  slow  drops  ^  god  of  forests 
4  confines,  limits  °  with  pictures  in  stained  glass 


And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 

Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 

The  hairy  gown,  and  mossy  cell, 

WTiere  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell  ^  170 

Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew, 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 

To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give,  175 

And  I  w'ith  thee  will  choose  to  hve. 


LYCIDAS 

In  this  Monody  the  Author  bewails  a  learned 

Friend,  unfortunately  drowned  in  his  passage 

from  Chester  on  the  Irish  Seas,  1637; 

and  by  occasion  foretells  the   ruin 

of   our    corrupted   Clergy,    then 

in  their  height. 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  i\y  never  sere,^ 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude,^ 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 
Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear  6 

Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due ; 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ?  he  knew   10 
Himself*  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind. 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well*       15 
That   from  beneath   the  seat  of  Jove  doth 

spring ; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse ; 
So  may  some  gentle  ]\luse  ^ 
With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn, 
And  as  he  passes  turn,  21 

And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill. 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade,  and 

rill; 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared   25 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn. 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn. 
Battening^  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of 

night, 


^  interpret  ^  dry  ^  unripe   * 
Muses  ®  poet  ^  feeding 


Supply  how.    ^  the 


196 


JOHN    MILTON 


Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening,  bright, 
Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  west- 
ering wheel.  31 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute. 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute  ; 
Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven 

heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent 

long; 
And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song.   36 
But  O  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone. 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert 

caves, 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'er- 

grown. 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn.  41 

The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen. 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose,  45 

Or  taint-worm   to   the  weanling  herds   that 

graze, 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe 

wear, 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows ; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 
Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorse- 
less deep  50 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona^  high. 
Nor    yet    where    Deva^  spreads   her    wizard 

stream. 
Ay  me,  I  fondly  dream  !  56 

Had  ye  been  there  —  for  what  could  that  have 

done? 
What  could  the  Muse^  herself  that  Orpheus 

bore, 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son. 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament,  60 

When  by  the  rout"*  that  made  the  hideous  roar 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hcbrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ? 

Alas  !    what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To    tend    the    homely,    slighted,    shepherd's 

trade. 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ?    66 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Nea^ra's  hair? 

^  the  isle  of  Anglesey  ^  the  river  Dee  '  Calliope 
*  mob 


Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth 

raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind)  71 

To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days ; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze,    74 
Comes   the   blind   Fury^  with  the  abhorred 

shears, 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     "But  not  the 

praise," 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling 

ears : 
"Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil  79 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies ; 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove ; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed." 
O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honoured 

flood,  •  85 

Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal 

reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood : 
But  now  my  oat-  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea. 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea.  90 

He   asked   the  waves,   and   asked  the   felon 

winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle 

swain  ? 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory  : 
They  knew  not  of  his  story ;  95 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings. 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed ; 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark,  100 

Buflt  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses 

dark. 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 
Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing 

slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge. 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with 

woe.  106 

"Ah!  who  hath  reft,"  ^  quoth  he,  "my  dearest 

pledge?" 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go. 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake ;  * 

^  Atropos,  the  Fate  who  severs  the  thread  of 
life  ^  shepherd's  pipe  ^  taken  away  *  St.  Peter 


LYCIDAS 


197 


Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain    no 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain). 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake  : 
"How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young 

swain. 
Enough  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake. 
Creep  and  intrude  and  climb  into  the  fold! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make     116 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 
Blind  mouths!    that  scarce  themselves  know 

how  to  hold 
A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learnt  aught  else  the 

least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs! 
What    recks    it    them?     What    need    they? 

They  are  sped  ;^  122 

And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on   their  scrannel^  pipes  of  wretched 

straw ; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed. 
But  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they 

draw,  126 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ; 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said. 
But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door     130 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no 

more." 
Return,  Alpheus ;   the  dread  voice  is  past 
That  shrunk  thy  streams ;     return,  Sicilian 

]\luse. 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowrets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades  and   wanton   winds   and  gushing 

brooks,  137 

On  v/hose  fresh  lap  the  swart '^  star  sparely 

looks. 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes, 
That   on   the   green   turf   suck   the  honeyed 

showers,  140 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies. 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine. 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with 

jet, 
The  glowing  violet,  145 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine. 
With  cowslips   wan   that  hang  the  pensive 

head. 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears ; 

^  They  have  what  they   wish    ^  thin,    slender 
*  dark,  injurious 


Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  dafliodilhes  till  their  cups  with  tears,    150 

To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 

For  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease. 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise, 

Ay  me!    whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding 

seas 
Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled  ; 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides,  156 
Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 
Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ;  ^ 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  ^  vows  denied, 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old,  160 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount 
Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold. 
Look  homeward,  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with 

ruth -,3 
And  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 
Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no 

more. 
For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow, ■*  is  not  dead.       166 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor ; 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed. 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled 

ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high.       172 
Through  the  dear  might  of  him  that  walked 

the  waves. 
Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves,  175 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  ^  nuptial  song, 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above. 
In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies. 
That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move,  180 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood.     185 
Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks 

and  rills. 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals 

gray; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills. 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay : 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay.  191 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue  : 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 


^  world  of  monsters     ^  tear-wet     '  pity 
object  of  your  sorrow    *  inexpressible 


the 


198 


JOHN   MILTON 


ON   HIS   HAVING   ARRIVED   AT   THE 
AGE   OF  TWENTY-THREE 

How   soon   hath   Time,    the   subtle   thief   of 

youth, 
Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three  and  twentieth 

year! 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career. 
But   my   late   spring   no   bud  or  blossom 

shew'th. 
Perhaps    my   sembknce    might    deceive   the 

truth  5 

That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near ; 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  ap- 
pear, 
That     some     more     timely-happy     spirits 

endu'th. 
Yet  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow, 

It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even    10 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high, 
Toward  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the  will  of 

Heaven ; 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 
As  ever  in  my  great  Task-Master's  eye. 


WHEN   THE   ASSAULT  WAS   IN- 
TENT3ED   TO   THE   CITY 

Captain,  or  Colonel,^  or  Knight  in  arms, 
Whose  chance  on  these  defenceless  doors 

may  seize. 
If  ever  deed  of  honour  did  thee  please. 
Guard  them,  and  him  within  protect  from 

harms. 
He    can    requite    thee ;    for    he   knows    the 

charms 
That  call    fame    on   such    gentle    acts    as 

these. 
And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er  lands  and 

seas,  7 

Whatever    chme    the    sun's    bright    circle 

warms. 
Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses'  bower : 
The  great  Emathian  conqueror  ^  bid  spare 
The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and 

tower  1 1 

Went  to  the  ground ;    and  the  repeated  air 
Of  sad  Electra's  poet^  had  the  power 
To    save    the   Athenian   walls   from   ruin 

bare. 

^  Pronounced  trisyllabic     ^  Alexander  the  Great 
*  Euripides 


TO  THE  LORD  GENERAL  CROMWELL 

MAY,    1652 

On  the  Proposals  of  Certain  Ministers  at  the 
Committee  for  Propagation  of  the  Gospel 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a 

cloud 
Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 
Guided  by  faith  and  matcliless  fortitude, 
To  peace  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast 

ploughed. 
And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  Fortune  proud  5 
Hast  reared  God's  trophies,  and  his  work 

pursued. 
While  Darwen  stream,^  with  blood  of  Scots 

imbrued, 
And  Dunbar  field,^  resounds   thy   praises 

loud, 
And  Worcester's  ^  laureate  wreath  :  yet  much 

remains 
To  conquer  still ;   peace  hath  her  victories 
No   less   renowned   than   war:      new   foes 

arise,  1 1 

Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular 

chains. 
Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 
Of  hireling  wolves,  whose  gospel  is  their 

maw.^ 

ON  THE  LATE  MASSACRE  IN 
PIEDMONT 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose 

bones 

Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  moimtains  cold  ; 

Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old 

When   all   our   fathers   worshipped   stocks 

and  stones, 

Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their  groans  5 

Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient 

fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piemontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their 
moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To    heaven.     Their    martyred   blood    and 
ashes  sow  10 

O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth 
sway 

^  near  Preston,  where  Cromwell  defeated  the 
royalist  Scots  in  Aup;.,  1648  ^  Sept.,  1650  ^  Sept., 
1651   "^  Cf .  Lycidas,  11.  113-131. 


PARADISE   LOST 


199 


The  triple  tyrant ;  ^  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundredfold,  who,  having  learnt  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe.'^ 

ON  HIS  BLINDNESS 

\Vhen  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and 

wide, 
And  that  one  talent  ^  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul 
more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present  5 
INIy  true  account,  lest  he  returning  chide ; 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied  ?  " 
I  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "God  doth  not 
need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts.    Who 
best  10 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best. 
His  state 
Is  kingly :   thousands  at  his  biddmg  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

TO   CYIUACK   SKINNER 

Cyriack,   this  three  years'   day  these  eyes, 

though  clear 
To  outward  view,  of  blemish  or  of  spot. 
Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  have  forgot ; 
Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appear 
Of  sun  or  moon  or  star  throughout  the  year,  5 
Or  man  or  woman.     Yet  I  argue  not 
Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a 

jot 
Of  heart  or  hope,  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Right  onward.     What  supports  me,  dost  thou 

ask? 
The  conscience,^  friend,  to  have  lost  them 

overplied  10 

In  liberty's  defence,  my  noble  task, 
Of  which  all  Europe  talks  from  side  to  side. 
This  thought  might  lead  me  through  the 

world's  vain  mask 
Content,   though   blind,   had   I   no   better 

guide. 

^  the  Pope  (alluding  to  his  triple  crown)  ^  The 
Puritans  interpreted  the  biblical  denunciations 
of  Babylon  as  directed  prophetically  against  the 
Catholic  Church,  ^  his  ability  to  write  ^  conscious- 
ness 


PARADISE  LOST 

BOOK  I 

Of  Man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  ^  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe, 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat,  5 

Sing,  Heavenly  INIuse,  that  on  the  secret  top 
Of  Oreb,"'^  or  of  Sinai  ,^  didst  inspire 
That  shepherd  who  first  taught  the  chosen 

seed 
In  the  beginning  how  the  Heavens  and  Earth 
Rose  out  of  Chaos:  or,  if  Sion  hill  10 

DeUght  thee  more,  and  Siloa's  brook  that 

flowed 
Fast  by'*  the  oracle  of  God,  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  m.y  adventurous  song. 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,*  while  it  pursues  15 
Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme. 
And  chiefly  Thou,  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and  pure. 
Instruct  me,  for  Thou  know'st ;    Thou  from 

the  first 
Wast  present,  and,  with  mighty  \\angs  out- 
spread, 20 
Dove-like  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  Abyss, 
And  mad'st  it  pregnant :   what  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine,  what  is  low  raise  and  support ; 
That  to  the  highth  of  this  great  argument  ^ 
I  may  assert  Eternal  Providence,  25 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

Say  first  —  for  Heaven  hides  nothing  from 
Thy  view. 
Nor  the  deep  tract  of  Hell  • —  say  fi-rst  what 

cause 
]Moved  our  grand  parents,  in  that  happy  state. 
Favoured  of  Heaven  so  highly,  to  fall  off     30 
From  their  Creator,  and  transgress  his  will 
For  one  restraint,  lords  of  the  world  besides. 
Who  first  seduced  them  to  that  foul  revolt? 
The  infernal  Serpent ;     he  it  was,  whose 
guile,      _  .34 

Stirred  up  with  envy  and  revenge,  deceived 
The  mother  of  mankind,  what  time^  his  pride 
Had  cast  him  out  from  Heaven,  with  all  his 

host 
Of  rebel  Angels,  by  whose  aid,  aspiring 

^  deadly  ^  The  Ten  Comviandments  ivere  given  on 
Horeb  or  Sinai.  *  close  by  ^  Mt.  Helicon  ;  here, 
figuratively,  for  Greek  poetry  ^  subject  ®  at  the 
time  when 


200 


JOHN    MILTON 


To  set  himself  in  glory  above  his  peers, 
He  trusted  to  have  equalled  the  Most  High, 
If  he  opposed  ;   and  with  ambitious  aim       41 
Against  the  throne  and  monarchy  of  God 
Raised  impious  war  in  Heaven,  and  battle 

proud, 
With    vain    attempt.     Him    the    Almighty 

Power 
Hurled  headlong  flaming  from   the  ethereal 

sky,  _  45 

With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition  ;   there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine^  chains  and  penal  fire. 
Who  durst  defy  the  Omnipotent  to  arms. 
Nine  times  the  space  that  measures  day 

and  night  50 

To  mortal  men,  he  with  his  horrid  crew 
Lay  vanquished,  rolling  in  the  fiery  gulf. 
Confounded,     though     immortal.     But     his 

doom 
Reserved  him  to  more  wrath ;     for  now  the 

thought 
Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain        55 
Torments  him ;  round  he  throws  his  baleful 

eyes, 
That  witnessed 2  huge  affliction  and  dismay. 
Mixed    with    obdurate   pride    and    steadfast 

hate. 
At  once,  as  far  as  Angels  ken,^  he  views 
The  dismal  situation  waste  and  wild :  60 

A  dungeon  horrible  on  all  sides  round 
As  one  great  furnace  flamed ;    yet  from  those 

flames 
No  light ;  but  rather  darkness  visible 
Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe. 
Regions    of    sorrow,    doleful    shades,    where 

peace  65 

And  rest  can  never  dwell,  hope  never  comes 
That  comes  to  all ;  but  torture  without  end 
Still  urges,  and  a  fiery  deluge,  fed 
With  ever-burning  sulphur  unconsumed. 
Such  place  Eternal  Justice  had  prepared      70 
For  those  rebellious ;     here  their  prison  or- 
dained 
In  utter  ^  darkness,  and  their  portion  set. 
As  far  removed  from  God  and  light  of  Heaven 
As  from  the  centre  thrice  to  the  utmost  pole.^ 
Oh  how  unlike  the  place  from  whence  they 

fell!  /  75 

There  the  companions  of  his  fall,  o'erwhelmed 
With  floods  and  whirlwinds  of  tempestuous 

lire, 

^  unbreakable  *  gave  evidence  of   ^  see   ^  outer 
•^  pole  of  the  universe 


He  soon  discerns;    and,  weltering  by  his  side, 
One  next  himself  in  power,  and  next  in  crime, 
Long  after  known  in  Palestine,  and  named  80 
Beelzebiib.     To  whom  the  Arch-Enemy, 
And   thence   in   Heaven   called   Satan,    with 

bold  words 
Breaking  the  horrid  silence,  thus  began :  — 
"If  thou  beest  he  —  but  Oh  how  fallen! 
how  changed 
From  him,  who  in  the  happy  realms  of  light  85 
Clothed  with  transcendent  brightness,  didst 

outshine 
Myriads,  though  bright !  —  if  he  whom  mu- 
tual league. 
United  thoughts  and  counsels,  equal  hope 
And  hazard  in  the  glorious  enterprise. 
Joined  with  me  once,  npw  misery  hath  joined 
In  equal  ruin  —  into  what  pit  thou  seest     91 
From    what    highth    fallen :    so    much     the 

stronger  proved 
He  with  his  thunder :   and  till  then  who  knew 
The  force  of  those  dire  arms?     Yet  not  for 

those, 
Nor  what  the  potent  Victor  in  his  rage        95 
Can  else  inflict,  do  I  repent,  or  change. 
Though  changed  in  outward  lustre,  that  fixed 

mind. 
And  high  disdain  from  sense  of  injured  merit. 
That  with  the  JMightiest  raised  me  to  contend, 
And  to  the  fierce  contention  brought  along 
Innumerable  force  of  Spirits  armed,  loi 

That  durst  dislike  his  reign,  and,  me  preferring. 
His  utmost  power  with  adverse  power  opposed 
In  dubious  battle  on  the  plains  of  Heaven, 
And   shook   his   throne.     What    though    the 
field  be  lost?  105 

All  is  not  lost :  the  unconquerable  will. 
And  study  ^  of  revenge,  immortal  hate, 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield, 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome  ;         109 
That  glory  never  shall  his  wrath  or  might 
Extort  from  me.     To  bow  and  sue  for  grace 
With  suppliant  knee,  and  deify  his  power 
Who,  from  the  terror  of  this  arm,  so  late 
Doubted  his  empire ^ — -that  were  low  indeed; 
That  were  an  ignominy  and  shame  beneath 
This  downfall ;    since  by  fate  the  strength  of 
gods  116 

And  this  empyreal  ^  substance  cannot  fail ; 
Since,  through  experience  of  this  great  event, 
In  arms  not  worse,  in  foresight  much  ad- 
vanced, 

^  continued   endeavor    ^  authority   and   power 
*  divine,  of.  1.  138 


PARADISE    LOST 


20I 


We  may  with  more  successful  hope  resolve 
To  wage  by  force  or  guile  eternal  war,        121 
Irreconcilable  to  our  grand  Foe, 
Who  now  triumphs,  and  in  the  excess  of  joy 
Sole  reigning  holds  the  tyranny  of  Heaven." 
So   spake   the  apostate   Angel,   though   in 

pain,  125 

\'aunting  aloud,  but  racked  with  deep  despair  ; 
And  him  thus  answered  soon  his  bold  com- 
peer :  — 
"O    Prince!     O    Chief    of    many    throned 

powers, 
That  led  the  embattled  Seraphim  to  war 
Under  thy  conduct,  and,  in  dreadful  deeds 
Fearless,     endangered     Heaven's     perpetual 

King,  131 

And  put  to  proof  his  high  supremacy, 
Whether  upheld  by  strength,  or  chance,  or 

fate! 
Too  v/ell  I  see  and  rue  the  dire  event 
That  with  sad  overthrow  and  foul  defeat   135 
Hath  lost  us  Heaven,  and  all  this  mighty  host 
In  horrible  destruction  laid  thus  low. 
As  far  as  gods  and  Heavenly  essences 
Can  perish :    for  the  mind  and  spirit  remains 
Invincible,  and  vigor  soon  returns,  140 

Though  all  our  glory  extinct,  and  happy  state 
Here  swallowed  up  in  endless  misery. 
But  what  if  he  our  Conqueror  (whom  I  now 
Of  force,^  believe  almighty,  since  no  less 
Than  such  could  have  o'erpowered  such  force 

as  ours)  145 

Have  left  us  this  our  spirit  and  strength  entire. 
Strongly  to  suffer  and  support  our  pains. 
That  we  may  so  suffice  his  vengeful  ire ; 
Or  do  him  mightier  service,  as  his  thralls 
By  right  of  war,  whate'er  his  business  be,   150 
Here  in  the  heart  of  HeU  to  work  in  fire, 
Or  do  his  errands  in  the  gloomy  Deep  ? 
What  can  it  then  avail,  though  yet  we  feel 
Strength  undiminished,  or  eternal  being 
To  undergo  eternal  punishment?"  155 

Whereto    with    speedy   words    the    Arch- 

Fiend  replied :  — 
"Fallen  Cherub,  to  be  weak  is  miserable. 
Doing  or  suffering  :   but  of  this  be  sure  — 
To  do  aught  good  never  will  be  our  task. 
But  ever  to  do  ill  our  sole  delight,  160 

As  being  the  contrary  to  his  high  will 
Whom  we  resist.     If  then  his  providence 
Out  of  our  evil  seek  to  bring  forth  good, 
Our  labour  must  be  to  pervert  that  end. 
And  out  of  good  still  to  find  means  of  evil ;  165 

^  necessarily 


Which  ofttimes  may  succeed  so  as  perhaps 
Shall  grieve  him,  if  I  fail  not,^  and  disturb 
His  inmost  counsels  from  their  destined  aim. 
But  see  !  the  angry  Victor  hath  recalled 
His  ministers  of  vengeance  and  pursuit       170 
Back  to  the  gates  of  Heaven  ;   the  sulphurous 

hail, 
Shot  after  us  in  storm,  o'erblown  hath  laid 
The  fiery  surge  that  from  the  precipice 
Of    Heaven    received    us    falling ;     and    the 

thunder. 
Winged   with   red   lightning   and   impetuous 

rage,  175 

Perhaps  hath  spent  his  ^  shafts,  and  ceases  now 
To  bellow  through  the  vast  and  boundless 

Deep. 
Let  us  not  slip  the  occasion,  whether  scorn 
Or  satiate  fury  yield  it  from  our  Foe. 
Seest  thou  yon  dreary  plain,  forlorn  and  wild, 
The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light,  181 

Save  what    the   glimmering  of    these   livid' 

flames 
Casts  pale  and  dreadful  ?    Thither  let  us  tend  * 
From  off  the  tossing  of  these  fiery  waves ; 
There  rest,  if  any  rest  can  harbour  there ;  185 
And,  reassembling  our  afflicted  powers, 
Consult  how  we  may  henceforth  most  offend* 
Our  Enemy,  our  own  loss  how  repair, 
How  overcome  this  dire  calamity. 
What  reinforcement  we  may  gain  from  hope, 
If  not,  what  resolution  from  despair."         191 

Thus  Satan,  talking  to  his  nearest  mate, 
With  head  uplift  above  the  wave,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blazed  ;  his  other  parts  besides, 
Prone  on  the  flood,  extended  long  and  large. 
Lay  floating  many  a  rood,  in  bulk  as  huge  196 
As  whom  the  fables  name  of  monstrous  size, 
Titanian,^or  Earth-born,  that  warred  on  Jove, 
Briareos  or  Typhon,'^  whom  the  den 
By  ancient  Tarsus  held,  or  that  sea-beast  200 
Leviathan,*  which  God  of  all  his  works 
Created  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean-stream. 
Him,  haply  slumbering  on  the  Norway  foam, 
The  pilot  of  some  small  night-foundered  ^  skiff 
Deeming  some  island,  oft,  as  seamen  tell,  205 
With  fixed  anchor  in  his  scaly  rind, 
Moors  by  his  side  under  the  lee,  while  night 
Invests  ^°  the  sea,  and  wished  morn  delays. 
So  stretched  out  huge  in  length  the  Arch- 

Fiend  lay, 

^  if  I  mistake  not  ^  its  '  blue-black  ^  go  *  injure 
•"  of.  11.  509  ff .  ^  gigantic  monsters  of  Greek  my- 
thology *  in  Job  xli :  i  the  crocodile,  but  here  the 
whale  *  overtaken  by  night  ^^  covers 


202 


JOHN    MILTON 


Chained  on  the  burnmg  lake  ;  nor  ever  thence 
Had  risen  or  heaved  his  head,  but  that  the 

WUI  211 

And  high  permission  of  all-ruling  Heaven 
Left  him  at  large  to  his  own  dark  designs, 
That  with  reiterated  crimes  he  might 
Heap  on  himself  damnation,  while  he  sought 
Evil  to  others,  and  enraged  might  see         216 
How  all  his  malice  served  but  to  bring  forth 
Infinite  goodness,  grace,  and  mercy,  shewn 
On  Man  by  him  seduced ;   but  on  himself 
Treble     confusion,     wrath,     and     vengeance 

poured.  220 

Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off  the  pool 

His  mighty  stature ;   on  each  hand  the  flames 

Driven  backward  slope  their  pointing  spires, 

and, roUed 
In^  billows,  leave  in  the  midst  a  horrid  vale. 
Then  \nth  expanded  wings  he  steers  his  flight 
Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air,  226 

That  felt  unusual  weight ;   tfll  on  dry  land 
He  lights  —  if  it  were  land  that  ever  burned 
With  solid,  as  the  lake  with  liquid  fire. 
And  such  appeared  in  hue,  as  when  the  force 
Of  subterranean  wind  transports  a  hill       231 
Torn  from  Pelorus,^  or  the  shattered  side 
Of  thundering  ^Etna,  whose  combustible 
And  fuelled  entrails  thence  conceiving^  fire. 
Sublimed^  with  mineral  fury,  aid  the  wnds. 
And  leave  a  singed  bottom  all  involved      236 
With  stench  and  smoke :     such  resting  fom:id 

the  sole 
Of  unblest  feet.     Him  followed  his  next  mate. 
Both  glorying  to  have  'scaped  the  Stygian 

flood  239 

As  gods,  and  by  their  own  recovered  strength, 
Not  by  the  sufferance  of  supernal  power. 

"Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the  clime," 
Said  then  the  lost  Archangel,  "this  the  seat 
That   we   must   change   for   Heaven?*    this 

mournful  gloom 
For  that  celestial  light?     Be  it  so,  since  he 
Who  now  is  sovran  can  dispose  and  bid      246 
What  shall  be  right :  farthest  from  him  is  best, 
Whom  reason  hath  equalled,  force  hath  made 

supreme 
Above  his  equals.     Farewell,  happy  fields. 
Where   joy   forever   dwells!      Hail,   horrors! 

hail,  250 

Infernal  world !  and  thou,  profoundest  Hell, 
Receive  thy  new  possessor,  one  who  brings 

^  the  northeast  point  of  Sicily  ^  catching  ^  gasi- 
fied ■•  A  Latinism,  the  thing  exchanged  is  put  last, 
cf.  Jonson's  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes,  I.  8. 


A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time. 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  Heaven  of  Hell,  a  Hell  of  Heaven. 
What  matter  where,  if  I  be  still  the  same,    256 
And  what  I  should  be,  all  but  less  than  he 
Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater?     Here  at 

least 
We  shall  be  free  ;  the  Almighty  hath  not  built 
Here  for  his  envy,^  will  not  drive  us  hence  : 
Here  we  may  reign  secure,  and  in  my  choice 
To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  Hell : 
Better  to  reign  in  Hell,  than  serve  in  Heaven. 
But  wherefore  let  we  then  our  faithful  friends, 
The  associates  and  co-partners  of  our  loss,  265 
Lie  thus  astonished ^  on  the  oblivious^  pool, 
And  call  them  not  to  share  with  us  their  part 
In  this  unhappy  mansion,'*  or  once  more 
With  rallied  arms  to  try  what  may  be  yet 
Regained  in  Heaven,  or  what  more  lost  in 

HeU?"  270 

So  Satan  spake  ;  and  him  Beelzebub 
Thus  answered:  —  "Leader  of  those  armies 

bright 
Which  but  the  Omnipotent  none  could  have 

foiled, 
If  once  they  hear  that  voice,  their  liveliest 

pledge 
Of  hope  in  fears  and  dangers  —  heard  so  oft 
In  worst  extremes,  and  on  the  perilous  edge 
Of  battle  when  it  raged,  in  all  assaults       277 
Their  surest  signal  —  they  will  soon  resume 
New  courage  and  revive,  though  now  they  lie 
Grovellmg  and  prostrate  on  yon  lake  of  fire. 
As  we  ere  while,  astounded  and  amazed :    281 
No  wonder,  faUen  such  a  pernicious  highth!" 
He  scarce  had  ceased  when  the  superior 

Fiend 
Was  moving  toward  the  shore ;  his  ponderous 

shield, 
Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large,  and  round,  2S5 
Behind  him  cast.     The  broad  circumference 
Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose 

orb 
Through  optic  glass  ^  the  Tuscan  artist  ^  views 
At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesole, 
Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands,  290 

Rivers,  or  mountains,  in  her  spotty  globe. 
His  spear  —  to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine 
Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  ammiral,^  were  but  a  wand  — 
He  walked  with,  to  support  uneasy  steps  295 
Over  the  burning  marie,  not  like  those  steps 

^  hate  ^  astounded  ^  causing  oblivion  ■•  dwelling 
^  telescope  **  Galileo  ^  flag-ship 


PARADISE    LOST 


203 


On  Heaven's  azure ;   and  the  torrid  clime 

Smote  on  him  sore  besides,  vaulted  with  fire. 
Nathless  he  so  endured,  till  on  the  beach 
Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  called  300 
His  legions,  angel  forms,  who  lay  entranced. 
Thick   as   autumnal   leaves   that    strow   the 

brooks 
In  \'allombrosa,  where  the  Etrurian  shades 
High  over-arched  embower ;  or  scattered  sedge 
Afloat,  when  with  fierce  winds  Orion  ^  armed 
Hath  vexed  the  Red- Sea  coast,  whose  waves 

o'erthrew  306 

Busiris  -  and  his  Memphian  chivalry,^ 
While  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursued 
The  sojourners  of  Goshen,  who  beheld 
From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  carcases 
And   broken   chariot-wheels:      so    thick   be- 

strown,  311 

Abject  and  lost,  lay  'these,  covering  the  flood, 
Under  amazement  of  their  hideous  change. 
He  called  so  loud  that  all  the  hollow  deep 
Of  Hell  resounded:  —  "Princes,  Potentates, 
Warriors,     the     Flower    of    Heaven  —  once 

yours,  now  lost,  316 

If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 
Eternal  Spirits  !     Or  have  ye  chosen  this  place 
After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose 
Your  wearied  virtue,  for  the  ease  you  find 
To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vales  of  Heaven  ? 
Or  m  this  abject  posture  have  ye  sworn     322 
To  adore  the  Conqueror,  vv'ho  now  beholds 
Cherub  and  Seraph  rolling  in  the  flood 
With  scattered  arms  and  ensigns,  till  anon  325 
His  swift  pursuers  from  Heaven-gates  discern 
The  advantage,  and  descending  tread  us  down 
Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunderbolts 
Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf? 
Awake,  arise,  or  be  forever  fallen  ! "  330 

They  heard,  and  were  abashed,  and  up  they 

sprung 
Upon  the  wing,  as  when  men  wont  to  watch, 
On  duty  sleeping  found  by  whom  they  dread. 
Rouse  and  bestir  themselves  ere  well  awake. 
Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  plight   335 
In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  pains  not  feel ; 
Yet  to  their  General's  voice  they  soon  obeyed 
Innumerable.     As  when  the  potent  rod 
Of  Amram's  son,"*  in  Egypt's  evil  day. 
Waved  round  the  coast,  up  called  a  pitchy 

cloud  340 

Of  locusts,  warping^  on  the  eastern  wind, 

^  a  constellation  supposed  to  cause  storms 
^  Pharaoh  '  horsemen  *  Moses  *  moving  in  irregu- 
lar flight 


That  o'er  the  realm  of  impious  Pharaoh  himg 
Like  night,  and  darkened  all  the  land  of  Nile : 
So  numberless  were  those  bad  angels  seen 
Hovering  on  wing  under  the  cope  of  HcU,  345 
'Tvpixt  upper,  nether,  and  surrounding  fires ; 
Till,  as  a  signal  given,  the  upUfted  spear 
Of  their  great  Sultan  waving  to  direct 
Their  course,  in  even  balance  down  they  hght 
On  the  firm  brimstone,  and  fill  all  the  plain : 
A  multitude  like  which  the  popxilous  North 
Poured  never  from  her  frozen  loins,  to  pass 
Rhene^  or  the  Danaw,-  when  her  barbarous 

SMIS^ 

Came  like  a  deluge  on  the  South,  and  spread 
Beneath*  Gibraltar  to  the  Libyan  sands.  355 
Forthwith,   from   every   squadron   and   each 

band. 
The  heads  and  leaders  thither  haste  where 

stood 
Their    great    Commander ;     godlike    shapes, 

and  forms 
Excelling  human,  princely  Dignities,  359 

And   Powers  that  erst^   in   Heaven   sat   on 

thrones ; 
Though  of  their  names  in  Heavenly  records 

now 
'Be  no  memorial,  blotted  out  and  rased 
B}^  their  rebellion  from  the  Books  of  Life. 
Nor  had  they  yet  among  the  sons  of  Eve 
Got  them  new  names,  till,  wandering  o'er  the 

earth,  365 

Through  God's  high  sufferance  for  the  trial  of 

man, 
By  falsities  and  lies  the  greatest  part 
Of  mankind  they  corrupted  to  forsake 
God  their  Creator,  and  the  invisible 
Glory  of  him  that  made  them,  to  transform 
Oft  to  the  image  of  a  brute,  adorned  371 

W'ith  gay  religions'^  fuU  of  pomp  and  gold, 
And  devils  to  adore  for  deities : 
Then  were  they  known  to  men  by  various 

names. 
And  various  idols  through  the  heathen  world. 
Say,  ]\Iuse,  their  names  then  known,  who 

first,  who  last,  376 

Roused  from  the  slumber  on  that  fiery  couch. 
At  their  great  Emperor's  call,  as  next  in  worth. 
Came  singly  where  he  stood  on  the  bare  strand. 
While  the  promiscuous  crowd  stood  yet  aloof. 
The  chief  were  those  who,  from  the  pit  of 

HeU  3S1 

^  Rhine  ^  Danube  '  \^andals  and  other  barba- 
rians, who  overran  the  Roman  Empire  *  south  of 
*  formerly  *  religious  rites 


204 


JOHN    MILTON 


Roaming  to  seek  their  prey  on  Earth,  durst  fix 
Their  seats,  long  after,  next  the  seat  of  God, 
Their  altars  by  his  altar,  gods  adored 
Among  the  nations  round,  and  durst  abide 
Jehovah  thundering  out  of  Sion,  throned   386 
Between  the  Cherubim ;  yea,  often  placed 
Within  his  sanctuary  itself  their  shrines. 
Abominations  ;  and  with  cursed  things 
His  holy  rites  and  solemn  feasts  profaned. 
And   with   their   darkness   durst   affront   his 

light.  391 

First   Moloch,   horrid  king,   besmeared  with 

blood 
Of  human  sacrifice,  and  parents'  tears. 
Though,  for  the  noise  of  drums  and  timbrels 

loud. 
Their   children's   cries   unheard   that   passed 

through  fire  _  395 

To  his  grim  idol.     Him  the  Ammonite 
Worshipped  in  Rabba  and  her  watery  plain, 
In  Argob  and  in  Basan,  to  the  stream 
Of  utmost  Arnon.     Nor  content  with  such 
Audacious  neighbourhood,  the  wisest  heart 
Of  Solomon  he  led  by  fraud  to  build  401 

His  temple  right  against  the  temple  of  God 
On  that  opprobrious  1  hill,  and  made  his  grove 
The  pleasant  valley  of  Hinnon,  Tophet  thence 
And  black  Gehenna  called,  the  type  of  Hell. 
Next  Chemos,  the  obscene  dread  of  Moab's 

sons,  406 

From  Aroar  to  Nebo  and  the  wild 
Of  southmost  Abarim  ;  in  Hesebon 
And  Horonaim,  Scon's  realm,  beyond 
The  flowery  dale  of  Sibma  clad  with  vines. 
And  Eleale  to  the  Asphaltic  pool.^  41 1 

Peor  his  other  name,  when  he  enticed 
Israel  in  Sittim,  on  their  march  from  Nile, 
To  do  him  wanton  rites,  which  cost  them  woe. 
Yet  thence  his  lustful  orgies  he  enlarged     415 
Even  to  that  hill  of  scandal,  by  the  grove 
Of  Moloch  homicide,  lust  hard  by  hate. 
Till  good  josiah  drove  them  thence  to  Hell. 
With  these  came  they  who,  from  the  bordering 

flood 
Of  old  Euphrates  to  the  brook  that  parts  420 
Egypt  from  Syrian  ground,  had  general  names 
Of  Baalim  and  Ashtaroth  —  those  male. 
These    feminine.     For    Spirits,    when    they 

please. 
Can  either  sex  assume,  or  both  ;  so  soft 
And  uncompoundcd  is  their  essence  pure,  425 
Not  tied  or  manacled  with  joint  or  limb, 
Nor  founded  on  the  brittle  strength  of  bones, 

^  offensive        ^  the  Dead  Sea 


Like  cumbrous  flesh  ;  but,  in  what  shape  they 

choose. 
Dilated  or  condensed,  bright  or  obscure. 
Can  execute  their  aery  purposes,  430 

And  works  of  love  or  enmity  fulfil. 
For  those  the  race  of  Israel  oft  forsook 
Their  living  Strength,  and  unfrequented  left 
His  righteous  altar,  bowing  lowly  down      434 
To  bestial  gods;    for  which  their  heads  as  low 
Bowed  down  in  battle,  sunk  before  the  spear 
Of  despicable  foes.     With  these  in  troop 
Came  Astoreth,  whom  the  Phoenicians  called 
Astarte,  Queen  of  Heaven,  with  crescent  horns ; 
To  whose  bright  image  nightly  by  the  moon 
Sidonian  virgins  paid  their  vows  and  songs ; 
In  Sion  also  not  unsung,  where  stood         442 
Her  temple  on  the  offensive  mountain,  built 
By  that  uxorious  king^  whose  heart,  though 

large. 
Beguiled  by  fair  idolatresses,  fell  445 

To  idols  foul.     Thammuz  came  next  behind, 
Whose  annual  wound  in  Lebanon  allured 
The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate 
In  amorous  ditties  all  a  summer's  day,       449 
While  smooth  Adonis  from  his  native  rock 
Ran  purple  to  the  sea,  supposed  with  blood 
Of  Thammuz  yearly  wounded  :   the  love-tale 
Infected  Sion's  daughters  with  like  heat. 
Whose  wanton  passions  in  the  sacred  porch 
Ezekiel  saw,-  when,  by  the  vision  led,         455 
His  eye  surveyed  the  dark  idolatries 
Of  alienated  Judah.     Next  came  one 
Who  mourned  in  earnest,  when  the  captive 

ark 
Maimed  his  brute  image,  head  and  hands  lopt 

off 
In  his  own  temple,''  on  the  grunsel-edge,''  460 
Where  he  fell  flat,  and  shamed  his  worshippers  : 
Dagon  his  nam.e,  sea-monster,  upward  man 
And  downward  fish  ;  yet  had  his  temple  high 
Reared  in  Azotus,^  dreaded  through  the  coast 
Of  Palestine,  in  Gath  and  Ascalon,  465 

And  Accaron  and  Gaza's  frontier  bounds. 
Him  followed  Rimmon,  whose  delightful  seat 
Was  fair  Damascus,  on  the  fertile  banks 
Of  Abbana  and  Pharphar,  lucid  streams. 
He  also  against  the  house  of  God  was  bold  :  470 
A  leper®  once  he  lost,  and  gained  a  king, 
Ahaz,  his  sottish  conqueror,  whom  he  drew 
God's  altar  to  disparage  and  displace 
For  one  of  Syrian  mode,  whereon  to  burn 
His  odious  offerings,  and  adore  the  gods    475 

^  Solomon      ^  Ezek.  viii :  14      ^  Cf.  Ode  on  the 
NaHviiy,  1.  199  ^  threshold  ^  Ashdod  *  Naaman 


PARADISE    LOST 


205 


Whom  he  had  vanquished.     After  these  ap- 
peared 
A  crew  who.  under  names  of  old  renown, 
Osiris,  Isis,  Orus,  and  their  train. 
With  monstrous  shapes  and  sorceries  abused 
Fanatic  Egypt  and  her  priests,  to  seek       480 
Their   wandering  gods   disguised   in   brutish 

forms 
Rather  than  human.     Nor  did  Israel  'scape 
The    infection,    when    their    borrowed    gold 

composed 
The  calf  in  Oreb  ;  and  the  rebel  king 
Doubled  that  sin  in  Bethel  and  in  Dan,     485 
Likening  his  Maker  to  the  grazed  ox  — 
Jehovah,  who,  in  one  night,  when  he  passed 
From   Egypt    marching,    equalled   with   one 

stroke 
Both  her  iirst-born  and  all  her  bleating  gods. 
Belial  came  last,  than  whom  a  Spirit  more 

lewd 
Fell  not  from  Heaven,  or  more  gross  to  love 
Vice  for  itself.     To  him  no  temple  stood    492 
Or  altar  smoked ;   yet  who  more  oft  than  he 
In  temples  and  at  altars,  when  the  priest 
Turns  atheist,  as  did  Eli's  sons,  who  filled 
With  lust  and  violence  the  house  of  God  ?  496 
In  courts  and  palaces  he  also  reigns. 
And  in  luxurious  cities,  where  the  noise 
Of  riot  ascends  above  their  loftiest  towers. 
And  injury  and  outrage ;  and  when  night  500 
Darkens  the  streets,  then  wander  forth  the 

sons 
Of  Belial,  flown  ^  with  insolence  and  wine. 
Witness  the  streets  of  Sodom,  and  that  night 
In  Gibeah,  when  the  hospitable  door 
Exposed  a  matron,  to  avoid  worse  rape.     505 
These  were  the  prime  in  order  and  in  might ; 
The  rest  were  long  to   tell,   though  far  re- 
nowned 
The  Ionian  gods  —  of  Javan's^  issue  held 
Gods,  yet  confessed  later   than  Heaven   and 

Earth, 
Their    boasted    parents ;  —  Titan,    Heaven's 
first-born,  510 

With    his    enormous    brood,    and    birthright 

seized 
By  younger  Saturn ;    he  from  mightier  Jove, 
His  own  and  Rhea's  son,  like  measure  found ; 
So   Jove   usurping   reigned.     These,   first   in 

Crete 
And  Ida  known,  thence  on  the  snowy  top  515 
Of  cold  Olympus  ruled  the  middle  air, 

^  filled,  flushed  '■^  son  of  Japheth  and  ancestor 
of  the  Greeks 


Their  highest  Heaven ;    or  on  the  Delphian 

cHff, 
Or  in  Dodona,  and  through  all  the  bounds 
Of  Doric  land ;   or  who  with  Saturn  old 
Fled  over  Adria  to  the  Hesperian  fields,^      520 
And  o'er  the  Celtic  roamed  the  utmost  isles. 
All  these  and  more  came  flocking ;  but  with 
looks 
Downcast  and  damp,  yet  such  wherein  ap- 
peared 
Obscure  some  glimpse  of  joy,  to  have  found 

their  Chief 
Not  in  despair,  to  have  found  themselves  not 
lost      ,  .  .  525 

In  loss  itself ;  which  on  his  countenance  cast 
Like  doubtful  hue.  But  he,  his  wonted  pride 
Soon  recollecting,-  with  high  words  that  bore 
Semblance  of  worth,  not  substance,  gently^ 

raised 
Their   fainting  courage,   and  dispelled   their 
fears :  530 

Then  straight  commands  that  at  the  warlike 

sound 
Of  trumpets  loud  and  clarions,  be  upreared 
His   mighty  standard.     That   proud   honour 

claimed 
Azazel  as  his  right,  a  Cherub  tall : 
Who  forthwith  from  the  glittering  staff  un- 
furled 535 
The  imperial  ensign,  which,  full  high  advanced, 
Shone  like  a  meteor  streaming  to  the  wind. 
With  gems  and  golden  lustre  rich  emblazed,^ 
Seraphic  arms  and  trophies ;   all  the  while 
Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds  :    540 
At  which  the  universal  host  up-sent 
A  shout  that  tore  Hell's  concave,  and  beyond 
Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 
All  in  a  moment  through  the  gloom  w^ere  seen 
Ten  thousand  banners  rise  into  the  air,      545 
With  orient  colours  waving  ;  with  them  rose 
A  forest  huge  of  spears  ;   and  thronging  helms 
Appeared,  and  serried  shields  in  thick  array 
Of  depth  immeasurable.     Anon  they  move 
In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood^     550 
Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders  —  such  as  raised 
To  highth  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old 
Arming  to  battle,  and  instead  of  rage 
Deliberate  valour  breathed,  firm  and  unmoved 
With  dread  of  death  to  flight  or  foul  retreat ; 
Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and  swage,^ 
With  solemn  touches,  troubled  thoughts,  and 
chase                                                        557 

^  Italy     ^  resuming     '  gallantly    *  ornamented 
^  music  of  the  solemn  Dorian  mode  •"  assuage 


2o6 


JOHN    MILTON 


Anguish  and  doubt  and  fear  and  sorrow  and 

pain 
From  mortal  or  immortal  minds.     Thus  they, 
Breathing  united  force  with  fixed  thought,  560 
Moved  on  in  silence  to  soft  pipes  that  charmed 
Their  painful  steps  o'er  the  burnt  soil ;    and 

now 
Advanced  in  view  they  stand,  a  horrid  front 
Of  dreadful  length  and  dazzling  arms,  in  guise 
Of  warriors  old,  with  ordered  spear  and  shield, 
Awaiting  what  command  their  mighty  Chief 
Had  to  impose.     He  through  the  armed  files 
Darts  his  experienced  eye,  and  soon  traverse^ 
The  whole  battalion  views  —  their  order  due. 
Their  visages  and  stature  as  of  gods ;  570 

Their  number  last  he  sums.     And  now  his 

heart 
Distends  with  pride,   and  hardening  in  his 

strength 
Glories ;    for  never,  since  created  man, 
Met   such   embodied   force   as,   named  with 

these, 
Could  merit  more  than  that  small  infantry  ^57  5 
Warred  on  by  cranes :    though  all  the  giant 

brood 
Of  Phlegra  ^  with  the  heroic  race  were  joined 
That  fought  at  Thebes  and  Ilium,  on  each  side 
Mixed  with  auxiliar  gods ;  and  what  resounds 
In  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son,^  580 

Begirt  with  British  and  Armoric  knights ; 
And  all  who  since,  baptized  or  infidel, 
Jousted  in  Aspramont,^  or  Montalban, 
Damasco,  or  Marocco,  or  Trebisond ; 
Or  whom  Biserta  sent  from  Afric  shore      585 
When  Charlemain  with  all  his  peerage  fell 
By  Fontarabbia.     Thus  far  these  beyond 
Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observed 
Their  dread  commander.     He,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent,       590 
Stood  like  a  tower  ;   his  form  had  yet  not  lost 
All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appeared 
Less  than  Archangel  ruined,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured :    as  when  the  sun  new- 
risen 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air     595 
Shorn  of  his  beams,  or  from  behind  the  moon, 
In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs.     Darkened  so,  yet  shone 
Above  them  all  the  Archangel ;   but  his  face 

^  cross-wise  ^  the  Pygmies  ^  where  the  gods  and 
giants  fought  ■*  King  Arthur  ^  This  and  the  fol- 
lowing are  places  celebrated  in  the  romances  of 
Charlemagne. 


Deep  scars  of  thunder  had   intrenched,  and 
care  601 

Sat  on  his  faded  cheek,  but  under  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate^  pride 
Waiting  revenge.     Cruel  his  eye,  but  cast 
Signs  of  remorse'^  and  passion,  to  behold  605 
The  fellows  of  his  crime,  the  followers  rather 
(Far  other  once  beheld  in  bliss),  condemned 
Forever  now  to  have  their  lot  in  pain ; 
Millions  of  Spirits  for  his  fault  amerced' 
Of  Heaven,  and  from  eternal  splendors  flung 
For  his  revolt ;   yet  faithful  how  they  stood, 
Their  glory  withered :   as,  when  Heaven's  fire 
Hath  scathed^  the  forest  oaks  or  momitain 

pines. 
With  singed  top  their  stately  growth,  though 

bare, 
Stands  on  the  blasted  heath.     He  now  pre- 
pared 615 
To  speak ;    whereat  their  doubled  ranks  they 

bend 
From  wing  to  wing,  and   half    enclose    him 

round 

With  all  his  peers :  attention  held  them  mute. 

Thrice  he  assayed,  and  thrice,  in  spite  of  scorn, 

Tears,  such  as  Angels  weep,  burst  forth:    at 

last  620 

Words  interwove  with  sighs  found  out  their 

way :  — 

"  O  myriads  of  immortal  Spirits  !     O  powers 

Matchless,    but   with   the   Almighty !  —  and 

that  strife 
Was  not  inglorious,  though  the  event  was  dire. 
As  this  place  testifies,  and  this  dire  change,  625 
Hateful  to  utter.     But  what  power  of  mind. 
Foreseeing  or  presaging,  from  the  depth 
Of  knowledge  past   or  present,   could  have 

feared 
How  such  united  force  of  gods,  how  such 
As  stood  like  these,  could  ever  know  repulse  ? 
For  who  can  yet  believe,  though  after  loss,  631 
That  all  these  puissant  legions,  whose  exile 
Hath  emptied  Fleaven,  shall  fail  to  reascend. 
Self-raised,  and  repossess  their  native  seat  ? 
For  me,  be  witness  all  the  host  of  Heaven,  635 
If  counsels  different,  or  dangers  shunned 
By  me,  have  lost  our  hopes.     But  he  who 

reigns 
Monarch  in  Heaven,  till  then  as  one  secure 
Sat  on  his  throne,  upheld  by  old  repute. 
Consent  or  custom,  and  his  regal  state       640 
Put  forth  at  full,  but  still  his  strength  con- 
cealed ; 

^  calm     ^  pity     '  deprived     ■*  injured 


PARADISE   LOST 


207 


WTiich  tempted  our  attempt,  and  wrought  our 

fall. 
Henceforth  his  might  we  know,  and  know  our 

own, 
So  as  not  either  to  provoke,  or  dread 
New  war  provoked.     Our  better  part  remains 
To  work  in  close  ^  design,  by  fraud  or  guile,  646 
What  force  effected  not ;    that  he  no  less 
At  length  from  us  may  find,  who  overcomes 
By  force  hath  overcome  but  half  his  foe. 
Space  may  produce  new  worlds ;    whereof  so 

rife  650 

There  went  a  fame  in  Heaven  that  he  erelong 
Intended  to  create,  and  therein  plant 
A  generation  whom  his  choice  regard 
Should  favour  equal  to  the  Sons  of  Heaven. 
Thither,  if  but  to  pry,  shall  be  perhaps      655 
Our  first  eruption  :  thither  or  elsewhere ; 
For  this  infernal  pit  shall  never  hold 
Celestial  Spirits  in  bondage,  nor  the  Abyss 
Long    under    darkness     cover.     But     these 

thoughts. 
Full  cotmsei  must  mature.    Peace  is  despaired, 
For  who  can  think  submission?     War,  then, 

war  661 

Open  or  understood,^  must  be  resolved." 
He  spake ;  and,  to  confirm  his  words,  out-flew 
Millions  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the 

thighs 
Of  mighty  Cherubim  ;   the  sudden  blaze     665 
Far  round  illumined  Hell.     Highly  they  raged 
Against  the  Highest,  and  fierce  with  grasped 

arms 
Clashed  on  their  sounding  shields  the  din  of 

war. 
Hurling  defiance  toward  the  vault  of  Heaven. 
There  stood  a  hill  not  far,   whose  grisly 

top  670 

Belched  fire  and  rolling  smoke  ;  the  rest  entire 
Shone  with  a  glossy  scurf,  undoubted  sign 
That  in  his  womb^  was  hid  metallic  ore, 
The  work  of  sulphur.      Thither,  winged  with 

speed, 
A    numerous    brigade   hastened :       as    when 

bands  675 

Of  pioneers,*  -Rath  spade  and  pickaxe  armecl. 
Forerun  the  royal  camp,  to  trench  a  field. 
Or  cast  a  rampart.     Mammon  led  them  on, 
Mammon,  the  least  erected  *  Spirit  that  fell 
From  Heaven,  for  even  in  Heaven  his  looks 

and  thoughts  680 

Were  always  downward  bent,  admiring  more 

^  secret  ^  its  interior  *  soldiers  who  clear  the 
way  for  an  army  *  elevated 


The  riches  of  Heaven's  pavement,  trodden 

gold, 
Than  aught  divine  or  holy  else  enjoyed 
In  vision  beatific.     By  him  first 
Men  also,  and  by  his  suggestion  taught,    685 
Ransacked    the    Centre,    and    with    impious 

hands 
Rifled  the  bowels  of  their  mother  Earth 
For  treasures  better  hid.     Soon  had  his  crew 
Opened  into  the  hill  a  spacious  wound, 
And  digged  out  ribs  of  gold.     Let  none  ad- 
mire^ 6go 
That  riches  grow  in  Hell ;   that  soil  may  best 
Deserve   the   precious   bane.^    And  here  let 

those 
Who  boast  in  mortal  things,  and  wondering 

teU 
Of  Babel,*  and  the  works  of  Memphian  '^  kings, 
Learn  how  their  greatest  monuments  of  fame, 
And  strength,  and  art,  are  easily  outdone  696 
By  Spirits  reprobate,  and  in  an  hour 
\Vhat  in  an  age  they,  with  incessant  toil 
And  hands  innumerable,  scarce  perform. 
Nigh  on  the  plain,  in  many  cells  prepared,  700 
That  underneath  had  veins  of  liquid  fire 
Sluiced  from  the  lake,  a  second  multitude 
With  wondrous  art  founded  the  massy  ore. 
Severing  each  kind,  and  scummed  the  bullion 

dross. 
A  third  as  soon  had  formed  within  the  ground 
A  various  mould,  and  from  the  boiling  cells  706 
By  strange  conveyance  filled  each  hollow  nook : 
As  in  an  organ,  from  one  blast  of  wind. 
To   many  a   row  of  pipes  the  sound-board 

breathes. 
Anon  out  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge  710 

Rose  like  an  exhalation,  with  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet  — 
Built  like  a  temple,  where  pilasters  round 
Were  set,  and  Doric  pillars  overlaid 
With  golden  architrave ;   nor  did  there  want 
Cornice    or    frieze,    with    bossy*   sculptures 

graven:  716 

The  roof  was  fretted  gold.     Not  Babylon, 
Nor  great  Alcairo,^  such  magnificence 
Equalled  in  all  their  glories,  to  enshrine 
Belus  or  Serapis''  their  gods,  or  seat  720 

Their  kings,  when  Egypt  with  Assyria  strove 
In  wealth  and  luxury.     The  ascending  pile 
Stood  fixed  her  stately  highth,  and  straight 

the  doors, 

^  wonder  ^  destroyer  *  the  temple  of  Balus  in 
Babylon  ■*  Egyptian  *  projecting  from  the  walls 
^  Memphis  in  Egypt  "  gods  of  Babylon  and  Egypt 


2o8 


JOHN    MILTON 


Opening  their  brazen  folds,  discover,  wide 
Within,  her  ample  spaces  o'er  the  smooth  725 
And  level  pavement :   from  the  arched  roof, 
Pendent  by  subtle  magic,  many  a  row 
Of  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets,  fed 
With  naphtha  and  asphaltus,  yielded  light 
As  from  a  sky.     The  hasty  multitude         730 
Admiring  entered,  and  the  work  some  praise. 
And  some  the  architect.     His  hand  was  known 
In  Heaven  by  many  a  towered  structure  high. 
Where  sceptred  Angels  held  their  residence. 
And  sat  as  Princes,  whom  the  supreme  King 
Exalted  to  such  power,  and  gave  to  rule,    736 
Each  in  his  Plierarchy,  the  Orders^  bright. 
Nor  was  his  name  unheard  or  unadored 
In  ancient  Greece  ;   and  in  Ausonian  -  land 
Men  called  him  Mulciber ;   and  how  he  fell 
From  Heaven  they  fabled,  thrown  by  angry 

Jove  741 

Sheer  o'er  the  crystal  battlements  :  from  morn 
To  noon  he  fell,  from  noon  to  dewy  eve, 
A  summer's  day ;   and  with  the  setting  sun 
Dropt  from  the  zenith,  like  a  falling  star,  745 
On  Lemnos,  the  ^^gaean  isle.    Thus  they  relate, 
Erring ;  for  he  with  this  rebellious  rout  ^ 
Fell  long  before ;    nor  aught  availed  him  now 
To  have  built  in  Heaven  high  towers ;     nor 

did  he  'scape 
By  all  his  engines,'*  but  was  headlong  sent  7  50 
With  his  industrious  crew  to  build  in  Hell. 
Meanwhile   the  winged  heralds,   by   com- 

m.and 
Of  sovran  power,  with  awful  ceremony 
And  trumpet's  sound,   throughout   the  host 

proclaim 
A  solemn  council  forthwith  to  be  held        755 
At  Pandemonium,  the  high  capital 
Of    Satan    and    his    peers.     Their    summons 

called 
From  every  band  and  squared  regiment 
By  place  or  choice  the  worthiest ;    they  anon 
With  hundreds  and  with  thousands  trooping 

came  760 

Attended.  All  access  was  thronged,  the  gates 
And  porches  wide,  but  chief  the  spacious  hall 
(Though  like  a  covered  field,  where  champions 

bold 
Wont  ride  in  armed,  and  at  the  Soldan's  ^  chair 
Defied  the  best  of  Paynym  chivalry  765 

To  mortal  combat,  or  career  with  lance) 
Thick  swarmed,  both  on  the  ground  and  in 

the  air, 

^  There  were  nine   orders,  or  classes,  of  angels. 
^  Italy  ^  company  ^  contrivances  '•'  Sultan's 


Brushed  with  the  hiss  of  rustling  wings.     As 

bees 
In  spring-time,   when  the  Sun  with  Taurus 

rides,^  769 

Pour  forth  their  populous  youth  about  the 

hive 
In   clusters;      they   among   fresh   dews   and 

flowers 
Fly  to  and  fro,  or  on  the  smoothed  plank, 
The  suburb  of  their  straw-built  citadel, 
New  rubbed  with  balm,  expatiate  ^  and  confer 
Their  state-affairs.     So  thick  the  aery  crowd 
Swarmed    and   were    straitened  ;^      till,    the 

signal  given,  776 

Behold  a  wonder  !    they  but  now  who  seemed 
In  bigness  to  surpass  Earth's  giant  sons. 
Now  less  than  smallest  dwarfs,  in  narrow  room 
Throng  numberless,  like  that  pygmean  race 
Beyond  the  Indian  mount ;  *  or  faery  elves,  781 
Whose  midnight  revels,  by  a  forest-side 
Or  fountain,  some  belated  peasant  sees. 
Or  dreams  he  sees,  while  overhead  the  Moon 
Sits  arbitress,  and  nearer  to  the  Earth        785 
Wheels  her  pale  course ;    they,  on  their  mirth 

and  dance 
Intent,  with  jocund  music  charm  his  ear ; 
At  once  with  joy  and  fear  his  heart  rebounds. 
Thus  incorporeal  Spirits  to  smallest  forms 
Reduced  their  shapes  immense,  and  were  at 

large,  _  790 

Though  without  number  still,  amidst  the  hall 
Of  that  infernal  court.     But  far  within, 
And  in  their  own  dimensions  like  themselves, 
The  great  Seraphic  Lords  and  Cherubim 
In  close  recess^  and  secret  conclave  sat,     795 
A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden  seats. 
Frequent  ®  and  full.''     After  short  silence  then. 
And  summons  read,  the  great  consult  began. 

OF   EDUCATION 
TO  MASTER   SA^IUEL  HARTLIB 

[An  Extract] 

(THEIR  EXERCISE) 

The  course  of  study  hitherto  briefly  de- 
scribed, is  what  I  can  guess  by  reading,  likest 
to  those  ancient  and  famous  schools  of 
Pythagoras,  Plato,  Isocrates,  Aristotle,  and 

^  is  in  the  sign  of  Taurus,  of.  Chaucer,  Prol.  of 
C.  T.,  note  on  1.  8  ^  move  about  ^  gathered  close 
together  ■*  the  Himalaya  range  ^  secret  retirement 
''  numerous  ^  complete  in  number 


OF    EDUCATION 


209 


such  others,  out  of  which  were  bred  such  a 
number  of  renowned  philosophers,  orators, 
historians,  poets,  and  princes  all  over  Greece, 
Italy,  and  Asia,  besides  the  flourishing  studies 
of  Cyrene  and  Alexandria.  But  herein  it 
shall  exceed  them,  and  supply  a  defect  as 
great  as  that  which  Plato  noted  in  the  com- 
monwealth of  Sparta ;  whereas  that  city 
trained  up  their  youth  most  for  war,  and 
these  in  their  academies  and  Lycaeum  all 
for  the  gown,  this  institution  of  breeding 
which  I  here  delineate  shall  be  equally  good 
both  for  peace  and  war. 

Therefore  about  an  hour  and  a  half  ere  they 
eat  at  noon  should  be  allowed  them  for  ex- 
ercise, and  due  rest  afterwards ;  but  the 
time  for  this  may  be  enlarged  at  pleasure, 
according  as  their  rising  in  the  morning  shall 
be  early.  The  exercise  which  I  commend 
first,  is  the  exact  use  of  their  weapon,  to  guard, 
and  to  strike  safely  with  edge  or  point ;  this 
will  keep  them  healthy,  nimble,  strong,  and 
well  in  breath,  is  also  the  likeliest  means  to 
make  them  grow  large  and  tall,  and  to  inspire 
them  with  a  gallant  and  fearless  courage, 
which  being  tempered  with  seasonable  lec- 
tures and  precepts  to  them  of  true  fortitude 
and  patience,  will  turn  into  a  native  and  heroic 
valour,  and  make  them  hate  the  cowardice  of 
doing  wrong.  They  must  be  also  practised 
in  all  the  locks  and  grips  of  wrestling,  wherein 
Englishmen  were  wont  to  excel,  as  need  may 
often  be  in  fight  to  tug,  to  grapple,  and  to 
close.  And  this  perhaps  will  be  enough, 
wherein  to  prove  and  heat  their  single  strength. 

The  interim  of  unsweating  themselves  regu- 
larly, and  convenient  rest  before  meat,  may 
both  with  profit  and  delight  be  taken  up  in 
recreating  and  composing  their  travailed^ 
spirits  with  the  solemn  and  divine  harmonies 
of  music  heard  or  learned ;  either  whilst  the 
skilful  organist  plies  his  grave  and  fancied 
descant  ^  in  lofty  fugues,  or  the  whole  sym- 
phony with  artful  and  unimaginable  touches 
adorn  and  grace  the  well-studied  chords  of 
some  choice  composer  ;  sometimes  the  lute  or 
soft  organ  stop  waiting  on  elegant  voices, 
either  to  religious,  martial,  or  civil  ditties ; 
which,  if  wise  men  and  prophets  be  not 
extremely  out,  have  a  great  power  over  dis- 
positions and  manners,  to  smooth  and  make 
them  gentle  from  rustic  harshness  and  dis- 
tempered passions.     The  like  also  would  not 

^  wearied    "  solemn  and  elaborate  variations 


be  unexpedient  after  meat,  to  assist  and 
cherish  nature  in  her  first  concoction,^  and 
send  their  minds  back  to  study  in  good  tune 
and  satisfaction. 

Where  having  followed  it  close  under  vigi- 
lant eyes,  till  about  two  hours  before  supper, 
they  are  by  a  sudden  alarum  or  watchword,  to 
be  called  out  to  their  military  motions,  under 
sky  or  covert,  according  to  the  season,  as  was 
the  Roman  wont ;  first  on  foot,  then  as  their 
age  permits,  on  horseback,  to  all  the  art  of 
cavalry  ;  that  having  in  sport,  but  with  much 
exactness  and  daily  muster,  served  out  the 
rudiments  of  their  soldiership,  in  all  the  skill 
of  embattling, 2  marching,  encamping,  fortify- 
ing, besieging,  and  battering  with  all  the 
helps  of  ancient  and  modern  stratagems, 
tactics,  and"  warlike  maxims,  they  may  as  it 
were  out  of  a  long  war  come  forth  renowned 
and  perfect  commanders  in  the  service  of  their 
country.  They  would  not  then,  if  they  were 
trusted  with  fair  and  hopeful  armies,  suffer 
them  for  want  of  just  and  wise  discipline  to 
shed  away  from  about  them  like  sick  feathers, 
though  they  be  never  so  oft  supplied ;  they 
would  not  suft'er  their  empty  and  unrecruit- 
able  ^  colonels  of  twenty  men  in  a  company,  to 
quaff  out,  or  convey  into  secret  hoards,  the 
wages  of  a  delusive  ■*  list,  and  a  miserable  rem- 
nant ;  yet  in  the  meanwhile  to  be  overmas- 
tered with  a  score  or  two  of  drunkards,  the 
only  soldiery  left  about  them,  or  else  to  com- 
ply with  *  all  rapines  and  violences.  No, 
certainly,  if  they  knew  aught  of  that  knowl- 
edge that  belongs  to  good  men  or  good 
governors,  they  would  not  suffer  these  things. 

But  to  return  to  our  own  institute ;  be- 
sides these  constant  exercises  at  home,  there  is 
another  opportunity  of  gaining  experience 
to  be  won  from  pleasure  itself  abroad ;  in 
those  vernal  seasons  of  the  year  when  the  air 
is  calm  and  pleasant,  it  were  an  injury  and 
sidlenness  against  nature,  not  to  go  out  and 
see  her  riches,  and  partake  in  her  rejoicing 
with  heaven  and  earth.  I  should  not  there- 
fore be  a  persuader  to  them  of  studying  much 
then,  after  two  or  three  years  that  they  have 
well  laid  their  grounds,  but  to  ride  out  in 
companies  with  prudent  and  staid  guides  to 
all  the  quarters  of  the  land ;  learning  and 
observing   all   places   of   strength,    all    com- 

^  process  of  digestion  ^  drawing  up  in  battle 
array  ^  lacking  soldiers  and  incapable  of  recruit- 
ing ^  false  ^  allow 


2IC 


JOHN   MILTON 


modities  ^  of  building  and  of  soil,  for  towns  and 
tillage,  harbours  and- ports  for  trade.  Some- 
times taking  sea  as  far  as  to  our  navy,  to 
learn  there  also  what  they  can  in  the  practi- 
cal knowledge  of  sailing  and  of  seafight. 
These  ways  would  try  all  their  peculiar  gifts 
of  nature,  and  if  there  were  any  secret  excel- 
lence among  them,  woidd  fetch  it  out,  and 
give  it  fair  opportunities  to  advance  itself 
by,  which  could  not  but  mightily  redound  to 
the  good  of  this  nation,  and  bring  into  fashion 
again  those  old  admired  virtues  and  excellen- 
cies with  far  more  advantage  now  in  this 
purity  of  Christian  knowledge. 


From  AREOPAGITICA 

A  SPEECH   FOR  THE  LIBERTY   OF    UN- 
LICENSED  PRINTING 

To  THE  Parliament  of  England 


I  deny  not  but  that  it  is  of  greatest  concern- 
ment in  the  church  and  commonwealth,  to 
have  a  vigilant  eye  how  books  demean  them- 
selves as  well  as  men ;  and  thereafter  to  con- 
fine, imprison,  and  do  sharpest  justice  on 
them  as  malefactors :  for  books  are  not  abso- 
lutely dead  things,  but  do  contain  a  potency 
of  life  in  them  to  be  as  active  as  that  soul  was 
whose  progeny  they  are ;  nay,  they  do  pre- 
serve as  in  a  vial  the  purest  efficacy  and 
extraction  of  that  living  intellect  that  bred 
them.  I  know  they  are  as  lively,  and  as 
vigorously  productive,  as  those  fabiilous 
dragon's  teeth  ;  ^  and  being  sown  up  and  down, 
may  chance  to  spring  up  armed  men.  And 
yet  on  the  other  hand,  unless  wariness  be  used, 
as  good  almost  kill  a  man  as  kill  a  good  book ; 
who  kills  a  man  kills  a  reasonable  creature, 
God's  image ;  but  he  who  destroys  a  good 
book,  kills  reason  itself,  kills  the  image  of 
God  as  it  were  in  the  eye.  Many  a  man  lives 
a  burden  to  the  earth  ;  but  a  good  book  is  the 
precious  life-blood  of  a  master  spirit,  im- 
balmed  and  treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  fife 
beyond  life.  'Tis  true,  no  age  can  restore  a 
life,  whereof  perhaps  there  is  no  great  loss ; 
and  revolutions  of  ages  do  not  oft  recover  the 
loss  of  a  rejected  truth,  for  the  want  of  which 

^  advantages  ^  sown  by  Cadmus,  cf .  Gayley, 
pp.  1 1 4-1 1 7 


whole  nations  fare  the  worse.  We  should  be 
wary  therefore  what  persecution  we  raise 
against  the  living  labours  of  public  men,  how 
we  spill  ^  the  seasoned  life  of  man  preserved 
and  stored  up  in  books ;  since  we  see  a  kind 
of  homicide  may  be  thus  committed,  some- 
times a  martyrdom,  and  if  it  extend  to  the 
whole  impression,  a  kind  of  massacre,  whereof 
the  execution  ends  not  in  the  slaying  of  an 
elemental  life,  but  strikes  at  that  ethereal  and 
fifth  essence,  the  breath  of  reason  itself,  slays 
an  immortality  rather  than  a  life.  But  lest 
I  should  be  condemned  of  introducing  li- 
cense, while  I  oppose  licensing,  I  refuse  not 
the  pains  to  be  so  much  historical  as  will 
serve  to  show  what  hath  been  done  by 
ancient  and  famous  commonwealths  against 
this  disorder,  till  the  very  time  that  this 
project  of  Hcensing  crept  out  of  the  inquisi- 
tion, was  catched  up  by  our  prelates,  and 
hath  caught  some  of  our  presbyters. 


Good  and  evil  we  know  in  the  field  of  this 
world  grow  up  together  almost  inseparably ; 
and  the  knowledge  of  good  is  so  involved  and 
interwoven  with  the  knowledge  of  evil  and  in 
so  many  cunning  resemblances  hardly  to  be 
discerned,  that  those  confused  seeds,  which 
were  imposed  on  Psyche^  as  an  incessant 
labour  to  cull  out  and  sort  asunder,  were  not 
more  intermixed.  It  was  from  out  the  rind 
of  one  apple  tasted  that  the  knowledge  of 
good  and  evil  as  two  twins  cleaving  together 
leaped  forth  into  the  world.  And  perhaps 
this  is  that  doom  which  Adam  fell  into  of 
knowmg  good  and  evil,  that  is  to  say  of 
knowing  good  by  evil.  As  therefore  the  state 
of  man  now  is,  what  wisdom  can  there  be  to 
choose,  what  continence  to  forbear,  without 
the  knowledge  of  evil?  He  that  can  appre- 
hend and  consider  vice  with  all  her  baits  and 
seeming  pleasures,  and  yet  abstain,  and  yet 
distinguish,  and  yet  prefer  that  which  is 
truly  better,  he 'is  the  true  warfaring  Chris- 
tian. I  cannot  praise  a  fugitive  and  clois- 
tered virtue,  unexercised  and  unbreathed,^ 
that  never  sallies  out  and  sees  her  adversary, 
but  slinks  out  of  the  race,  where  that  immortal 
garland  is  to  be  run  for  not  without  dust  and 
heat.  Assuredly  we  bring  not  innocence  into 
the  world,  we  bring  impurity  much  rather: 

^  destroy  ^  in  the  temple  of  Venus,  cf.  Ga3'ley, 
p.  156  '  unpractised 


AREOPAGITICA 


211 


that  which  purifies  us  is  trial,  and  trial  is  by 
what  is  contrary.  That  virtue  therefore 
which  is  but  a  youngHng  in  the  contemplation 
of  evil,  and  knows  not  the  utmost  that  vice 
promises  to  her  followers,  and  rejects  it,  is 
but  a  blank  virtue,  not  a  pure ;  her  white- 
ness is  but  an  excremental  ^  whiteness  ;  which 
was  the  reason  w^hy  our  sage  and  serious  poet 
Spenser,  whom  I  dare  be  known  to  think  a 
better  teacher  than  Scotus  or  Aquinas,^  de- 
scribing true  temperance  under  the  person  of 
Guion,  brings  him  in  with  his  palmer  through 
the  cave  of  Mammon  and  the  bower  of  earthly 
bliss, ^  that  he  might  see  and  know,  and  yet 
abstain.  Since  therefore  the  knowledge  and 
survey  of  vice  is  in  this  world  so  necessary 
to  the  constituting  of  human  virtue,  and  the 
scanning  of  error  to  the  confirmation  of  truth, 
how  can  we  more  safely  and  with  less  danger 
scout  into  the  regions  of  sin  and  falsity  than 
by  reading  all  mianner  of  tractates,  and  hear- 
ing all  manner  of  reason?  And  this  is  the 
benefit  which  may  be  had  of  books  promis- 
cuously read. 


If  we  think  to  regulate  printing,  thereby  to 
rectify  manners,  we  must  regulate  all  recrea- 
tions and  pastimes,  all  that  is  deUghtful  to 
man.  No  music  must  be  heard,  nor  song  be 
set  or  sung,  but  what  is  grave  and  doric. 
There  must  be  licensing  dancers,  that  no 
gesture,  motion,  or  deportment  be  taught 
our  youth  but  what  by  their  allowance  shall 
be  thought  honest ;  for  such  Plato  was  pro- 
vided of.  It  will  ask  more  than  the  work  of 
twenty  licensers  to  examine  all  the  lutes,  the 
violins  and  the  guitars  in  every  house ;  they 
must  not  be  suffered  to  prattle  as  they  do, 
but  must  be  licensed  what  they  may  say. 
And  who  shall  silence  all  the  airs  and  madri- 
gals that  whisper  softness  in  chambers? 
The  windows  also,  and  the  balconies  must  be 
thought  on ;  there  are  shrev^'d  *  books  with 
dangerous  frontispieces  set  to  sale ;  who  shall 
prohibit  them?  shall  twenty  licensers?  The 
villages  also  must  have  their  visitors  to  in- 
quire what  lectures  the  bagpipe  and  the  rebec 
reads,  even  to  the  ballatry  and  the  gamut  of 
every   municipal   fiddler,   for   these   are   the 

^external  ^  Duns  Scotus  (1265  ?-i3o8?)  and 
Thomas  Aquinas  (1225  ?-i274),  founders  of  the 
two  chief  systems  of  mediaeval  philosophy  ^  See 
Faerie  Qiieene,  II,  vii  and  xii  ^  wicked 


countryman's  Arcadias  and  his  Montemayors.^ 
Next,  what  more  national  corruption,  for 
which  England  hears  ill  abroad,  than  house- 
hold gluttony?  who  shall  be  the  rectors -of 
our  daily  rioting?  and  what  shall  be  done  to 
inhibit  the  multitudes  that  frequent  those 
houses  where  drunkenness  is  sold  and  har- 
boured? Our  garments  also  should  be 
referred  to  the  licensing  of  some  more  sober 
work-masters  to  see  them  cut  into  a  less  wan- 
ton garb.  Who  shall  regulate  all  the  mixed 
conversation  of  our  youth  male  and  fem.ale 
together,  as  is  the  fashion  of  this  country? 
who  shall  stilH  appoint  Vv'hat  shall  be  dis- 
coursed, what  presumed,  and  no  further? 
Lastly,  who  shall  forbid  and  separate  all  idle 
resort,  all  evil  company?  These  things  will 
be,  and  must  be ;  but  how  they  shall  be  least 
hurtful,  how  least  enticing,  herein  consists 
the  grave  and  governing  wisdom  of  a  state. 
To  sequester  out  of  the  world  into  Atlantic 
and  Utopian*  poHties,  which  never  can  be 
drawn  into  use,  will  not  mend  our  condition ; 
but  to  ordain  wisely  as  in  this  world  of  evil, 
in  the  midst  whereof  God  hath  placed  us  un- 
avoidably. Nor  is  it  Plato's  Hcensing  of 
books  wdl  do  this,  which  necessarily  pulls 
along  ^^ith  it  so  many  other  kinds  of  licensing, 
as  will  make  us  all  both  ridiciilous  and  weary, 
and  yet  frustrate ;  but  those  unwritten,  or 
at  least  unconstraining  laws  of  virtuous  edu- 
cation, religious  and  civil  nurture,  which 
Plato  there  mentions  as  the  bonds  and  liga- 
ments of  the  commonwealth,  the  pillars  and 
the  sustainers  of  every  written  statute ;  these 
they  be  which  will  bear  chief  sway  in  such 
matters  as  these,  when  all  licensing  will  be  easily 
eluded.  Impimity  and  remissness,  for  certain, 
are  the  bane  of  a  commonwealth  ;  but  here  the 
great  art  lies  to  discern  in  what  the  lav;  is  to 
bid  restraint  and  punishment,  and  in  what 
things  persuasion  only  is  to  work.  If  every  ac- 
tion which  is  good,  or  evil  in  man  at  ripe  years, 
were  to  be  under  pittance^  and  prescription 
and  compulsion,  what  were  virtue  but  a  name, 
what  praise  could  be  then  due  to  well-doing, 
what  gramercy  ^  to  be  sober,  just  or  continent  ? 


^  The  Diana  Enamorada  of  Jorge  de  Monte- 
mayor,  published  in  1542,  was  one  of  the  most  famous 
pastoral  romances.  ^ controllers  ^constantly  ^At- 
lantis and  Utopia  were  imaginary  ideal  common- 
wealths described  by  Plato  and  Sir  Thomas  More. 
^  allowance  ^  thanks 


212 


JOHN    MILTON 


Lords  and  Commons  of  England,  consider 
what  nation  it  is  whereof  ye  are  the  governors  : 
a  nation  not  slow  and  dull,  but  of  a  quick, 
ingenious,  and  piercing  spirit,  acute  to  invent, 
subtle  and  sinewy  to  discourse,  not  beneath 
the  reach  of  any  point  the  highest  that  human 
capacity  can  soar  to.  Therefore  the  studies 
of  learning  in  her  deepest  sciences  have  been 
so  ancient  and  so  eminent  among  us,  that 
writers  of  good  antiquity  and  ablest  judgment 
have  been  persuaded  that  even  the  school  of 
Pythagoras  and  the  Persian  wisdom  ^  took  be- 
ginning from  the  old  philosophy  of  this  island. 
And  that  wise  and  civil  Roman,  Julius  Agric- 
ola,  who  governed  once  here  for  Caesar,  pre- 
ferred-the  natural  wits  of  Britain  before  the 
laboured  studies  of  the  French.  Nor  is  it 
for  nothing  that  the  grave  and  frugal  Transyl- 
vanian  sends  out  yearly  from  as  far  as  the 
mountainous  borders  of  Russia  and  beyond 
the  Hercynian  wilderness,^  not  their  youth, 
but  their  staid  men,  to  learn  our  language  and 
our  theologic  arts.  Yet  that  which  is  above 
all  this,  the  favour  and  the  love  of  heaven,  we 
have  great  argument  to  think  in  a  peculiar 
manner  propitious  and  propending  towards 
us.  Why  else  was  this  nation  chosen  before 
any  other,  that  out  of  her  as  out  of  Sion  should 
be  proclaimed  and  sounded  forth  the  first 
tidings  and  trumpet  of  reformation  to  all 
Europe?  And  had  it  not  been  the  obstinate 
perverseness  of  our  prelates  against  the  divine 
and  admirable  spirit  of  Wiclif,  to  suppress 
him  as  a  schismatic  and  innovator,  perhaps 
neither  the  Bohemian  Huss  and  Jerome,^  no, 
nor  the  name  of  Luther  or  of  Calvin  had  been 
ever  known  ;  the  glory  of  reforming  all  our 
neighbours  had  been  completely  ours.  But 
now,  as  our  obdurate  clergy  have  with  vio- 
lence demeaned  *  the  matter,  we  are  become 
hitherto  the  latest  and  the  backwardest 
scholars,  of  whom  God  offered  to  have  made 
us  the  teachers. 

Now  once  again  by  all  concurrence  of  signs 
and  by  the  general  instinct  of  holy  and  devout 
men,  as  they  daily  and  solemnly  express  their 
thoughts,  God  is  decreeing  to  begin  some  new 
and  great  period  in  his  church,  even  to  the  re- 
forming of  reformation  itself.  What  does  he 
then  but  reveal  himself  lo  his  servants,  and  as 
his  manner  is,  first  to  his  Englishmen ;   I  say 

'  the  religion  of  Zoroaster  ^  the  wooded  moun- 
tains of  central  Germany  •''  Jerome  of  Prague,  a 
religious  reformer  associated  with  Huss  ^  conducted 


as  his  manner  is,  first  to  us,  though  we  mark 
not  the  method  of  his  counsels  and  are  un- 
worthy ?  Behold  now  this  vast  city :  ^  a  city 
of  refuge,  the  mansion  house  of  liberty,  en- 
compassed and  surrounded  with  his  protec- 
tion ;  the  shop  of  war  hath  not  there  more  an- 
vils and  hammers  waking,  to  fashion  out  the 
plates  and  instruments  of  armed  justice  in 
defence  of  beleaguered  truth,  than  there  be 
pens  and  heads  there,  sitting  by  their  studious 
lamps,  musing,  searching,  revolving  new  no- 
tions and  ideas  wherewith  to  present  as  with 
their  homage  and  their  fealty  the  approaching 
reformation,  others  as  fast  reading,  trying  all 
things,  assenting  to  the  force  of  reason  and 
convincement.  What  could  a  man  require 
more  from  a  nation  so  pliant  and  so  prone  to 
seek  after  knowledge?  What  wants  there  to 
such  a  towardly  and  pregnant  ^  soil  but  wise 
and  faithful  labourers,  to  make  a  knowing 
people,  a  nation  of  prophets,  of  sages,  and  of 
worthies  ?  We  reckon  more  than  five  months 
yet  to  harvest ;  there  need  not  be  five  weeks  ; 
had  we  but  eyes  to  lift  up,  the  fields  are  white 
already.' 


Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puis- 
sant nation  rousing  herself  like  a  strong  man 
after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks. 
Methinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle  muing  *  her 
mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  undazzled 
eyes  at  the  full  midday  beam,  purging  and 
unsealing  her  long  abused  sight  at  the  foun- 
tain itself  of  heavenly  radiance,  while  the 
whole  noise  of  timorous  and  fiocking  birds, 
with  those  also  that  love  the  twilight,  flutter 
about,  amazed  at  what  she  means,  and  in 
their  envious  gabble  would  prognosticate  a 
year  of  sects  and  schisms. 

What  should  ye  do  then,  shoidd  ye  suppress 
all  this  flowery  crop  of  knowledge  and  new 
light  sprung  up  and  yet  springing  daily  in  this 
city,  should  ye  set  an  oligarchy  of  twenty  in- 
grossers  ^  over  it,  to  bring  a  famine  upon  our 
minds  again,  when  we  shall  knov/  nothing  but 
what  is  measured  to  us  by  their  bushel?  Be- 
lieve it.  Lords  and  Commons,  they  who  coun- 
sel ye  to  such  a  suppressing  do  as  good  as  bid 
ye  suppress  yourselves ;  and  I  will  soon  show 
how.     If  it  be  desired  to  know  the  immediate 

^  London  ^  productive  '  cf.  St.  John  iv  :  35 
■•  renewing  (by  moulting)  *  merchants  who  corner 
necessaries 


AREOPAGITICA 


213 


cause  of  ail  this  free  writing  and  free  speaking, 
there  cannot  be  assigned  a  truer  than  your  own 
mild  and  free  and  humane  government ;  it  is 
the  liberty,  Lords  and  Commons,  which  your 
own  valorous  and  happy  counsels  have  pur- 
chased us,  liberty  which  is  the  nurse  of  all 
great  wits ;  ^  this  is  that  which  hath  rarefied 
and  enlightened  our  spirits  like  the  influence 
of  heaven  ;  this  is  that  which  hath  enfran- 
chised, enlarged  and  lifted  up  our  apprehen- 
sions degrees  above  themselves.  Ye  cannot 
make  us  now  less  capable,  less  knowing,  less 
eagerly  pursuing  of  the  truth,  unless  ye  first 
make  yourselves,  that  made  us  so,  less  the 
lovers,  less  the  founders  of  our  true  liberty. 
We  can  grow  ignorant  again,  brutish,  formal, 
and  slavish,  as  ye  found  us ;  but  you  then 
must  first  become  that  which  ye  cannot  be, 
oppressive,  arbitrary,  and  tyrannous,  as  they 
were  from  whom  ye  have  freed  us.  That  our 
hearts  are  now  more  capacious,  our  thoughts 
more  erected  to  the  search  and  expectation  of 
greatest  and  exactest  things,  is  the  issue  of 
your  own  virtue  propagated  in  us  ;  ye  cannot 
suppress  that  unless  ye  reinforce  an  abrogated 
and  merciless  law,  that  fathers  may  despatch 
at  will  their  own  children.  And  who  shall 
then  stick  closest  to  ye,  and  excite  others? 
Not  he  who  takes  up  arms  for  coat  and  con- 
duct and  his  four  nobles  of  Danegelt.^  Al- 
though I  dispraise  not  the  defence  of  just 
immunities,  yet  love  my  peace  better,  if  that 
were  all.  Give  me  the  liberty  to  know,  to 
utter,  and  to  argue  freely  according  to  con- 
science, above  all  liberties. 

What  would  be  best  advised,  then,  if  it  be 
found  so  hurtful  and  so  unequal  ^  to  suppress 
opinions  for  the  newness  or  the  unsuitableness 
to  a  customary  acceptance,  will  not  be  my 
task  to  say ;  I  only  shall  repeat  what  I  have 
learned  from  one  of  your  own  honourable 
number,  a  right  noble  and  pious  lord,  who  had 
he  not  sacrificed  his  life  and  fortunes  to  the 
church  and  commonwealth,  we  had  not  now 
missed  and  bewailed  a  worthy  and  undoubted 
patron  of  this  argument.  Ye  know  him  I 
am  sure  ;  yet  I  for  honour's  sake  (and  may  it 
be  eternal  to  him  !)  shall  name  him,  the  Lord 
Brook.  He  writing  of  episcopacy,  and  by  the 
way  treating  of  sects  and  schisms,  left  ye  his 
vote,  or  rather  now  the  last  words  of  his  dy- 
ing charge,  which  I  know  will  ever  be  of  dear 

^  intelligences  ^  A  tax  levied  for  defence  against 
the  Danes.  ^  unjust 


and  honoured  regard  with  ye,  so  full  of  meek- 
ness and  breathing  charity,  that  next  to  His 
last  testament,  W'ho  bequeathed  love  and 
peace  to  His  disciples,  I  cannot  call  to  mind 
where  I  have  read  or  lieard  words  more  mild 
and  peaceful.  He  there  exhorts  us  to  hear 
with  patience  and  humility  those,  however 
they  be  miscalled,  that  desire  to  live  purely, 
in  such  a  use  of  God's  ordinances,  as  the  best 
guidance  of  their  conscience  gives  them,  and 
to  tolerate  them,  though  in  some  disconform- 
ity  to  ourselves.  The  book  itself  will  tell  us 
more  at  large  being  published  to  the  world 
and  dedicated  to  the  parliament  by  him  who, 
both  for  his  life  and  for  his  death,  deserves 
that  what  advice  he  left  be  not  laid  by 
without  perusal. 

And  now  the  time  in  special  is  by  privilege 
to  write  and  speak  what  may  help  to  the 
further  discussing  of  matters  in  agitation. 
The  temple  of  Janus  with  his  two  controver- 
sal  ^  faces  might  now  not  unsignificantly  be 
set  open .2  And  though  all  the  winds  of  doc- 
trine were  let  loose  to  play  upon  the  earth, 
so  Truth  be  in  the  field,  we  do  injuriously 
by  licensing  and  prohibiting  to  misdoubt  her 
strength.  Let  her  and  Falsehood  grapple ; 
who  ever  knew  Truth  put  to  the  worse  in  a 
free  and  open  encounter?  Her  confuting  is 
the  best  and  surest  suppressing.  He  who 
hears  what  praying  there  is  for  light  and 
clearer  knowledge  to  be  sent  down  am.ong 
us,  would  think  of  other  matters  to  be  consti- 
tuted beyond  the  discipline  of  Geneva,  framed 
and  fabricked  already  to  our  hands.  Yet 
when  the  new  light  which  we  beg  for  shines  in 
upon  us,  there  be  who  envy  and  oppose,  if  it 
come  not  first  in  at  their  casements.  What 
a  collusion  is  this,  whenas  we  are  exhorted 
by  the  wiseman  to  use  diligence,  to  seek  for 
wisdom  as  for  hidden  treasures  early  and  late, 
that  another  order  shall  enjoin  us  to  know 
nothing  but  by  statute  !  When  a  man  hath 
been  labouring  the  hardest  labour  in  the  deep 
mines  of  knowledge,  hath  furnished  out  his 
findings  in  all  their  equipage,  drawn  forth  his 
reasons  as  it  were  a  battle  ^  ranged,  scattered 
and  defeated  aU  objections  in  his  way,  calls 
out  his  adversary  into  the  plain,  oft'ers  him 
the  advantage  of  wind  and  sun,  if  he  please, 
only  that  he  may  try  the  matter  by  dint  of 
argument,  for  his  opponents  then  to  skvdk,  to 

^  turned  opposite  ways   ^  His  temple  at  Rome 
was  kept  open  in  time  of  war.    ^  battalion 


214 


RICHARD    CRASHAW 


lay  ambushments,  to  keep  a  narrow  bridge  of 
licensing  where  the  challenger  should  pass, 
though  it  be  valour  enough  in  soldiership,  is 
but  weakness  and  cowardice  in  the  wars  of 
Truth.  For  who  knows  not  that  Truth  is 
strong  next  to  the  Almighty?  She  needs  no 
policies,  no  stratagems,  nor  licensings  to  make 
her  victorious ;  those  are  the  shifts  and  the 
defences  that  Error  uses  against  her  power. 
Give  her  but  room,  and  do  not  bind  her  when 
she  sleeps,  for  then  she  speaks  not  true,  as 
the  old  Proteus  did,  who  spake  oracles  only 
when  he  was  caught  and  bound ;  ^  but  then 
rather  she  turns  herself  into  all  shapes  except 
her  own,  and  perhaps  tunes  her  voice  accord- 
ing to  the  time,  as  Micaiah  did  before  Ahab,^ 
until  she  be  adjured  into  her  own  likeness. 

SIR   JOHN   SUCKLING 

(1609-1642) 

THE   CONSTANT  LOVER 

Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved 
Three  whole  days  together  ! 

And  am  like  to  love  three  more, 

If  it  prove  fair  weather.  4 

Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 

Such  a  constant  lover.  8 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me : 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 

Had  it  any  been  but  she.  1 2 

Had  it  any  been  but  she, 

And  that  very  face. 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

A  dozen  dozen  in  her  place.  16 

WHY   SO   PALE   AND   WAN? 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale?  5 

^  See  the  story  told  by  Menelaus  in  the  Odyssey, 
Bk.  iv   ^  cf.  I  Kings  xxii :  15-16 


Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her. 

Saying  nothing  do  't  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute?  10 

Quit,  quit  for  shame  !     This  will  not  move ; 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her : 

The  devil  take  her  !  1 5 

RICHARD    CRASHAW 

(i6i3?-i649) 

IN    THE    HOLY    NATIVITY    OF    OUR 
LORD    GOD 

A  HYMN  SUNG  AS  BY  THE   SHEPHERDS 

Chorus 

Come,  we  shepherds,  whose  blest  sight 
Hath  met  Love's  noon  in  Nature's  night ; 
Come,  lift  we  up  our  loftier  song 
And  wake  the  sun  that  lies  too  long. 

To  all  our  world  of  well-stol'n  joy 
He  slept,  and  dreamt  of  no  such  thing ; 

While  we  found  out  heaven's  fairer  eye 
And  kissed  the  cradle  of  our  King. 

Tell  him  he  rises  now,  too  late 
To  show  us  aught  worth  looking  at.  10 

Tell  him  we  now  can  show  him  more 
Than  he  e'er  showed  to  mortal  sight ; 

Than  he  himself  e'er  saw  before ; 
Which  to  be  seen  needs  not  his  light. 

Tell  him,  Tityrus,  where  th'  hast  been 
Tell  him,  Thyrsis,  what  th'  hast  seen. 

Tityrus.    Gloomy  night  embraced  the  place 
Where  the  noble  Infant  lay. 

The  Babe  looked  up  and  showed 

His  face ; 

In  spite  of  darkness,  it  was  day.        20 

It  was  Thy  day.  Sweet !  and  did  rise 

Not  from  the  east,  but  from  Thine 

eyes. 

Chorus.   It  was  Thy  day,  Sweet  .  .  . 

Thyrsis.   Winter  chid  aloud  ;   and  sent 

The  angry  North  to  wage  his  wars. 
The  North  forgot  his  fierce  intent ; 


IN  THE  HOLY  NATIVITY  OF  OUR  LORD  GOD 


215 


And  left  perfumes  instead  of  scars. 
By    those    sweet    eyes'    persuasive 

powers, 
Where  he  meant   frost   he   scattered 

flowers. 


By  those  sweet  eyes  .  .  . 


30 


We  saw  Thee  in  Thy  balmy  nest, 
Young  Dawn  of  our  Eternal  Day  ! 
We  saw  Thine  eyes  break  from  their 
east 
And  chase  the  trembling  shades  away. 
We   saw   Thee,   and   we   blest   the 
sight, 
We  saw  Thee  by  Thine  own  sweet 
light. 

Poor  World,  said  I,  what  wilt  thou 
do 
To  entertain  this  starry  Stranger  ? 

Is  this  the  best  thou  canst  bestow  ? 
A  cold  and  not  too  cleanly,  manger  ? 
Contend,  the  powers  of  heaven  and 
earth,  41 

To  fit  a  bed  for  this  huge  birth  ! 

Contend  the  powers  .  .  . 

Proud  world,   said  I ;    cease  your 
contest 
And  let  the  mighty  Babe  alone  ; 
The   phoenix    builds   the    phoenix' 
nest, 
Love's  architecture  is  his  own  ; 

The   Babe  whose  birth  embraves^ 
this  morn. 
Made    His    own    bed    e'er   He    was 
born. 


The  Babe  whose 


50 


Cho. 


I   saw   the   curl'd  drops,   soft  and 
slow, 
Come  hovering  o'er  the  place's  head ; 
Off'ring    their    whitest    sheets    of 
snow 
To  furnish  the  fair  Infant's  bed. 

Forbear,  said  I ;  be  not  too  bold  ; 
Your    fleece    is   white,    but    'tis    too 
cold. 

Forbear,  said  I  .  .  . 

^  makes  illustrious 


Thyr.       I  saw  the  obsequious  seraphim 
Their  rosy  fleece  ^  of  fire  bestow, 
For  well  they  now  can  spare  their 
wings  60 

Since  Heaven  itself  lies  here  below. 

Well  done,  said  I ;  but  are  you  sure 
Your  down  so  warm,  will  pass  for 
pure? 

Cho.         Well  done,  said  I  .  .  . 

Tit.  No,  no,  your  King's  not  yet  to  seek 

Where  to  repose  His  royal  head ; 
See,  see  how  soon  His  new-bloomed 
cheek 
'Twixt   mother's   breasts   is   gone   to 
bed! 
Sweet  choice,  said  we  !  no  way  but  so 
Not  to  lie  cold,  yet  sleep  in  snow.     70 

Cho.  Sweet  choice,  said  we  .  .  . 

Both.        We  saw  Thee  in  Thy  balmy  nest, 
Bright  Dawn  of  our  Eternal  Day  ! 
We  saw  Thine  eyes  break  from  their 
east 
And  chase  the  trembling  shades  away. 
We  saw  Thee,  and  we  blest  the  sight. 
We  saw  Thee  by  Thine  own  sweet 
Light. 

Cho.         We  saw  Thee  .  .  . 


Full  Chorus 

Welcome,  all  wonders  in  one  night ! 
Eternity  shut  in  a  span,  80 

Summer  in  winter,  day  in  night, 
Heaven  in  earth,  and  God  in  man. 
Great  Little  One !     Whose  all-em- 
bracing birth 
Lifts  earth  to  heaven,  stoops  heaven 
to  earth. 

Welcome  —  though  nor  to  gold  nor 
sUk, 
To  more  than  -Cassar's  birthright  is  ; 

Two  sister-seas  of  virgin-milk 
With  many  a  rarely-tempered  kiss 
That  breathes  at  once  both  maid 
and  mother,  89 

Warms  in  the  one,  cools  in  the  other. 

^  not  of  wool,  but  of  feathers  from  their  wings 


2l6 


JEREMY    TAYLOR 


Welcome  —  though    not    to    those 
gay  flies  ^ 
Gilded  i'  th'  beams  of  earthly  kings, 

Slippery  souls  in  smiling  eyes  — 
But    to    poor    shepherds,    homespun 
things, 
Whose  wealth's  their  flock,  whose 
wit's  to  be 
Well  read  in  their  simplicity. 

Yet,  when   j^oung  April's  husband 
show'rs 
Shall  bless  the  fruitful  Maia's  bed, 
We'll   bring   the   first-born   of   her 
flow'rs 
To  kiss  Thy  feet  and  crown  Thy  head. 
To  Thee,  dread  Lamb  !  Whose  love 
must  keep  loi 

The  Shepherds,  more  than  they  the 
sheep. 

To  Thee,  meek  Majesty  !  soft  King 
Of  simple  graces  and  sweet  loves  ! 
Each  of  us  his  lamb  will  bring. 
Each  his  pair  of  silver  doves  ! 

Till  burnt  at  last  in  fire  of  Thy  fair 
eyes. 
Ourselves  become  our  own  best  sacri- 
fice ! 


JEREMY   TAYLOR    (1613-1667) 

THE  RULE  AND  EXERCISES  OF  HOLY 
DYING 

CHAP.  L  — A      GENERAL    PREPARATION 
TOWARDS    A    HOLY    AND     BLESSED 
DEATH,  BY  WAY  OF  CONSIDERATION 

From  Section  II.  —  [Or  the  Vanity  and 
Shortness  of  Man's  Life]  :  The  Con- 
sideration   REDUCED    TO    PRACTICE 

It  will  be  very  material  to  our  best  and 
noblest  purposes,  if  we  represent  this  scene  of 
change  and  sorrow,  a  little  more  dressed  up 
in  circumstances ;  for  so  we  shall  be  more  apt 
to  practise  those  rules  the  doctrine  of  which 
is  consequent  to  this  consideration.  It  is  a 
mighty  change,  that  is  made  by  the  death  of 
every  person,  and  it  is  visible  to  us,  who  are 
alive.     Reckon  but  from  the  sprightfulness  of 

^  I.e.,  courtiers 


youth,  and  the  fair  cheeks  and  full  eyes  of 
childhood,  from  the  vigorousness  and  strong 
flexure  of  the  joints  of  five-and-twenty,  to  the 
hollowness  and  dead  paleness,  to  the  loath- 
someness and  horror  of  a  three  day's  burial, 
and  we  shall  perceive  the  distance  to  be  very 
great  and  very  strange.  But  so  have  I  seen 
a  rose  newly  springing  from  the  clefts  of  its 
hood,  and,  at  first,  it  was  fair  as  the  morning, 
and  full  with  the  dew  of  heaven,  as  a  lamb's 
fleece ;  but  when  a  ruder  breath  had  forced 
open  its  virgin  modesty,  and  dismantled  its 
too  youthful  and  unripe  retirements,  it  began 
to  put  on  darkness,  and  to  decline  to  softness 
and  the  symptoms  of  a  sickly  age ;  it  bowed 
the  head,  and  broke  its  stalk,  and,  at  night, 
having  lost  some  of  its  leaves  and  all  its 
beauty,  it  fell  into  the  portion  of  Aveeds  and 
outworn  faces.  The  same  is  the  portion  of 
every  man  and  every  woman ;  the  heritage 
of  worms  and  serpents,  rottenness  and  cold 
dishonour,  and  our  beauty  so  changed,  that 
our  acquaintance  quickly  knew  us  not ;  and 
that  change  mingled  with  so  much  horror  or 
else  meets  so  with  our  fears  and  weak  dis- 
coursings,  that  they  who,  six  hours  ago,  tended 
upon  us,  either  with  charitable  or  ambitious 
services,  cannot,  without  some  regret,  stay  in 
the  room  alone,  where  the  body  lies  stripped 
of  its  life  and  honour.  I  have  read  of  a  fair 
young  German  gentleman,  who,  living,  often 
refused  to  be  pictured,  but  put  off  the  impor- 
tunity of  Ms  friends'  desire,  by  giATing  way, 
that,  after  a  few  days'  burial,  they  might  send 
a  painter  to  his  vault,  and,  if  they  saw  cause 
for  it,  draw  the  imiage  of  his  death  unto  the 
life.  They  did  so,  and  found  his  face  half 
eaten,  and  his  midriff  and  backbone  full  of 
serpents  ;  and  so  he  stands  pictured  among  his 
armed  ancestors.  So  does  the  fairest  beauty 
change,  and  it  will  be  as  bad  with  you  and 
me;  and  then,  what  servants  shall  we  have 
to  wait  upon  us  in  the  grave  ?  what  friends  to 
visit  us  ?  what  oflicious  people  to  cleanse  away 
the  moist  and  unwholesome  cloud  reflected 
upon  our  faces  from  the  sides  of  the  weeping 
vaults,  which  are  the  longest  weepers  for  our 
funeral  ? 

This  discourse  will  be  useful,  if  we  consider 
and  practise  by  the  following  rules  and 
considerations  respectively. 

I.  All  the  rich  and  all  the  covetous  men  in 
the  world  will  perceive,  and  all  the  world  will 
perceive  for  them,  that  it  is  but  an  ill  recom- 
pense for  all  their  cares,  that,  by  this  time,  all 


THE    RULE   AND    EXERCISES    OF    HOLY    DYING 


217 


that  shall  be  left,  will  be  this,  that  the  neigh- 
bours shall  say,  "He  died  a  rich  man;"  and 
yet  his  wealth  will  not  profit  him  in  the 
grave,  but  hugely  swell  the  sad  accounts  of 
doomsday.  And  he  that  kills  the  Lord's 
people  ^^■ith  unjust  or  ambitious  wars  for  an 
unrewarding  interest,  shall  have  this  char- 
acter, that  he  threw  away  all  the  days  of  his 
life,  that  one  year  might  be  reckoned  \nth  his 
name,  and  computed  by  his  reign  or  consul- 
ship ;  and  many  men,  by  great  labours  and 
affronts,  many  indignities  and  crimes,  labour 
only  for  a  pompous  epitaph,  and  a  loud  title 
upon  their  marble ;  whilst  those,  into  whose 
possessions  their  heirs  or  kindred  are  entered, 
are  forgotten,  and  lie  unregarded  as  their 
ashes,  and  withovit  concernment  or  relation, 
as  the  turf  upon  the  face  of  their  grave.  A 
man  may  read  a  sermon,  the  best  and  most 
passionate  that  ever  man  preached,  if  he  shall 
but  enter  into  the  sepulchres  of  kings.  In  the 
same  Escurial,^  where  the  Spanish  princes  Hve 
in  greatness  and  power,  and  decree  war  or 
peace,  they  have  \\isely  placed  a  cemetery, 
where  their  ashes  and  their  glory  shall  sleep 
tUl  time  shall  be  no  more  ;  and  where  our  kings 
have  been  cro-\Mied,  their  ancestors  lie  in- 
terred, and  they  must  walk  over  their  grand- 
sire's  head  to  take  his  cro\^-n.  There  is  an 
acre  sown  with  royal  seed,  the  copy  of  the 
greatest  change,  from  rich  to  naked,  from 
ceiled  roofs  to  arched  coffins,  from  living  like 
gods  to  che  like  men.  There  is  enough  to  cool 
the  flames  of  lust,  to  abate  the  heights  of  pride, 
to  appease  the  itch  of  covetous  desires,  to 
sully  and  dash  out  the  dissembling  colours  of 
a  lustful,  artificial,  and  imaginary  beauty. 
There  the  warlike  and  the  peaceful,  the  fortu- 
nate and  the  miserable,  the  beloved  and  the 
despised  princes  mingle  their  dust,  and  pay 
down  their  sj^mbol  of  mortality,  and  tell  all . 
the  world,  that,  when  we  die,  our  ashes  shall 
be  equal  to  kings',  and  our  accounts  easier, 
and  our  pains  or  our  crowns  shall  be  less.  To 
my  apprehension  it  is  a  sad  record,  which  is 
left  by  Athenaeus  ^  concerning  Ninus,  the  great 
Assyrian  monarch,  whose  life  and  death  are 
summed  up  in  these  words  :  "  Ninus,  the  Assyr- 
ian, had  an  ocean  of  gold,  and  other  riches 
more  than  the  sand  in  the  Caspian  Sea ;   he 

^  a  famous  building  near  Madrid,  consisting 
of  a  monastery,  a  church,  a  palace,  and  a  mauso- 
leum of  the  Kings  of  Spain  ^  a  gossipy  Greek 
writer  of  the  second  century  after  Christ 


never  saw  the  stars,  and  perhaps  he  never 
desired  it ;  he  never  sticred  up  the  holy  fire 
among  the  Magi,  nor  touched  his  god  with  the 
sacred  rod  according  to  the  laws ;  he  never 
offered  sacrifice,  nor  worshipped  the  deity, 
nor  administered  justice,  nor  spake  to  his 
people,  nor  numbered  them ;  but  he  was  most 
valiant  to  eat  and  drink,  and,  having  mingled 
his  wines,  he  threw  the  rest  upon  the  stones. 
This  man  is  dead  :  behold  his  sepulchre  ;  and 
now  hear  where  Xinus  is.  Sometimes  I  was 
Ninus,  and  drew  the  breath  of  a  li\^ng  man ; 
but  now  am  nothing  but  clay.  I  have  noth- 
ing, but  what  I  did  eat,  and  what  I  served  to 
myself  in  lust,  that  was  and  is  all  my  portion. 
The  wealth  ■with  which  I  was  esteemed  blessed, 
my  enemies,  meeting  together,  shall  bear 
away,  as  the  mad  Thyades  ^  carry  a  raw  goat. 
I  am  gone  to  hell ;  and  when  I  went  tliither,  I 
neither  carried  gold,  nor  horse,  nor  silver 
chariot.  I  that  wore  a  mitre,-  am  now  a  little 
heap  of  dust."  I  know  not  anything,  that 
can  better  represent  the  evil  condition  of  a 
■v\'icked  man,  or  a  changing  greatness.  From 
the  greatest  secular  dignity  to  dust  and  ashes 
his  nature  bears  him,  and  from  thence  to  hell 
his  sins  carry  him,  and  there  he  shall  be  for- 
ever imder  the  dominion  of  chains  and  de\'ils, 
wrath  and  an  intolerable  calamity.  This  is 
the  reward  of  an  vmsanctified  condition,  and 
a  greatness  ill  gotten  or  fll  administered. 

2.  Let  no  man  extend  his  thoughts,  or  let 
his  hopes  wander  towards  future  and  far- 
distant  events  and  accidental  contingencies. 
This  day  is  mine  and  yours,  but  ye  know  not 
what  shall  be  on  the  morrow ;  and  every 
morning  creeps  out  of  a  dark  cloud,  leaving 
behind  it  an  ignorance  and  silence  deep  as 
midnight,  and  undiscerned  as  are  the  phan- 
tasms that  make  a  chrisom-child  ^  to  smile : 
so  that  we  cannot  discern  what  comes  here- 
after, unless  we  had  a  light  from  heaven 
brighter  than  the  \dsion  of  an  angel,  even  the 
spirit  of  prophecy.  Without  revelation,  we 
cannot  tell,  whether  we  shall  eat  to-morrow, 
or  whether  a  squinancy  ■*  shall  choke  us  :  and 
it  is  written  in  the  unrevealed  folds  of  Divine 
predestination,  that  many,  who  are  this  day 
alive,  shall  to-morrow  be  laid  upon  the  cola 
earth,  and  the  women  shall  weep  over  their 
shroud,  and  dress  them  for  their  funeral. 


^  worshippers  of  Bacchus  ^  i.e.,  crown  ^  newly 
christened  child  *  quinsy 


2l8 


DENHAM    AND    LOVELACE 


SIR  JOHN  DENHAM    (i6i 5-1669)     RICHARD  LOVELACE  (1618-1658). 


From  COOPER'S  HILL 

My  eye,  descending  from  the  hill,  surveys 
Where  Thames  amongst  the  wanton  valleys 

strays ;  60 

Thames,  the  most  loved  of  all  the  Ocean's 

sons, 
By  his  old  sire  to  his  embraces  rmis, 
Hasting  to  pay  his  tribute  to  the  sea, 
Like  mortal  life  to  meet  eternity ; 
Though  with  those  streams  he  no  resemblance 

hold. 
Whose  foam  is  amber,  and  their  gravel  gold. 
His  genuine  and  less  guilty  wealth  to  explore, 
Search  not  his  bottom,  but  survey  his  shore, 
O'er   which  he  kindly  spreads  Ms  spacious 

wing. 
And  hatches  plenty  for  th'  ensuing  spring ;  70 
Nor  then  destroys  it  with  too  fond  a  stay, 
Like  nlothers  which  their  infants  overlay, 
Nor,  with  a  sudden  and  impetuous  wave, 
Like  profuse  kings,   resumes  the  wealth  he 

gave; 
No  unexpected  inundations  spoil 
The  mower's  hopes,  nor  mock  the  plough- 
man's toil. 
But  godlike  his  unwearied  bounty  flows. 
First  loves   to   do,   then  loves   the  good  he 

does; 
Nor  are  his  blessings  to  his  banks  confined. 
But  free  and  common  as  the  sea  or  wind ;   80 
When  he  to  boast  or  to  disperse  his  stores. 
Full  of  the  tributes  of  his  grateful  shores, 
Visits  the  world,  and  in  Ms  flying  towers,^ 
Brings  home  to  us,  and  makes  both   Indies 

ours, 
Finds  wealth  where  'tis,  bestows  it  where  it 

wants. 
Cities  in  deserts,  woods  in  cities  plants ; 
So  that  to  us  no  thing,  no  place  is  strange, 
While  his  fair  bosom  is  the  world's  exchange. 
O   could   I   flow   like   thee,   and    make   thy 

stream 
My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme  !  90 

Though  deep,  yet  clear,  though  gentle,  yet  not 

dull. 
Strong  without  rage,  without  o'erflowing  full. 

^  ships 


TO  LUCASTA,  GOING  TO  THE  WARS 

Tell  me  not.  Sweet,  I  am  unkind, 
That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly.  4 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase. 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield.  8 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  thou  too  shalt  adore  ; 
I  could  not  love  thee.  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honour  more.  12 


From  THE   GRASSHOPPER 

O  Thou  that  swing'st  upon  the  waving  hair 

Of  some  well-filled  oaten  beard, 
Drunk  every  night  with  a  delicious  tear 

Dropt  thee  from  heaven,  where  thou  wert 
rear'd.  4 

The  joys  of  earth  and  air  are  thine  entire, 
That  with  thy  feet  and  wings  dost  hop  and 

fly; 

And  when  thy  poppy  works,  thou  dost  retire 
To  thy  carved  acorn-bed  to  lie.  8 

Up  with  the  day,   the  sun   thou  welcom'st 
then, 

Sport'st  in  the  gilt  plaits  of  Ms  beams, 
And  all  these  merry  days  mak'st  merry,  men. 

Thyself,  and  melancholy  streams.  12 

TO   ALTHEA,   FROM   PRISON 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  v/ithin  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates  ; 
Wlien  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fetter'd  to  her  eye. 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty.  8 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 
With  no  allaying  Thames,^ 

^  diluting  water 


COWLEY    AND    MARVELL 


219 


Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 
Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames ; 

When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 
WTien  healths  and  draughts  go  free  — 

Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty.  16 

WTien,  Hke  committed^  Unnets,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty. 

And  glories  of  my  King ; 
\\lien  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  \™ids,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty.  24 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage  ; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 

And  in  my  soul  am  free. 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty.  32 

ABRAIL\M    COWLEY    (1618-1667) 
THE  WISH 

Well  then  !    I  now  do  plainly  see 
This  busy  world  and  I  shall  ne'er  agree. 
The  very  honey  of  all  earthly  joy 
Does  of  all  meats  the  soonest  cloy ; 

And  they,  methinks,  deserve  my  pity 
Who  for  it  can  endure  the  stings. 
The  crowd  and  buzz  and  murmurings, 

Of  this  great  hive,  the  city.  8 

Ah,  yet.  ere  I  descend  to  the  grave 

May  I  a  small  house  and  large  garden  have ; 

And  a  few  friends,   and  many  books,   both 

true. 
Both  wise,  and  both  delightful  too  ! 

And  since  love  ne'er  will  from  me  flee, 
A  Mistress  moderately  fair, 
And  good  as  guardian  angels  are, 

Only  beloved  and  loving  me.  t6 

0  fountains  !  when  in  you  shall  I 
Myself  eased  of  unpeaceful  thoughts  espy  ? 
O  fields  !     O  woods  !  when,  when  shall  I  be 
made 

^  ca,ored 


The  happy  tenant  of  your  shade  ? 

Here's    the    spring-head    of    Pleasure's 
flood: 
Here's  wealthy  Nature's  treasury, 
WTiere  all  the  riches  lie  that  she 

Has  coin'd  and  stamp'd  for  good.  24 

Pride  and  ambition  here 

Only  in  far-fetch'd  metaphors  appear ; 

Here  nought  but  winds  can  hurtful  murmurs 

scatter, 
And  nought  but  Echo  flatter. 

The  gods,  when  they  descended,  hither 
From  heaven  did  always  choose  their  way : 
And  therefore  we  may  boldly  say 

That  'tis  the  way  too  thither.  32 

How  happy  here  should  I 
And  one  dear  She  live,  and  embracing  die  ! 
She  who  is  all  the  world,  and  can  exclude 
In  deserts  sohtude. 

I  should  have  then  this  only  fear : 
Lest  men,  when  they  my  pleasures  see, 
Should  hither  throng  to  live  like  me, 

And  so  make  a  city  here.  40 

ANDREW   MARVELL    (1621-1678) 

THE   GARDEN 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze, 

To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays, 

And  their  incessant  labours  see 

Crowned  from  some  single  herb  or  tree 

Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 

Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid. 

While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close 

To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose  !  8 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 

And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear  ? 

Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 

In  busy  companies  of  men. 

Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below. 

Only  among  the  plants  will  grow ; 

Society  is  aU  but  rude 

To  this  delicious  solitude.  16 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame. 
Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name. 
Little,  alas  !  they  know  or  heed, 
How  far  these  beauties  hers  exceed  ! 


220 


ANDREW    MARVELL 


Fair  trees  !  wheres'e'er  your  barks  I  wound 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found.         24 


When  we  have  run  our  passion's  heat, 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat. 
The  gods,  that  mortal  beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race ; 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so, 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow ; 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed. 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 


32 


What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead  ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head ; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine ; 
The  nectarine,  and  curious  ^  peach. 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Insnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 


40 


Meanwhile  the  mind,  from  pleasure  less, 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness ;  — 
The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find ; 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these. 
Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas. 
Annihilating  all  that's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade.  48 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 

Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 

Casting  the  body's  vest  aside. 

My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide : 

There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 

Then  whets  and  combs  its  silver  wings, 

And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight. 

Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light.  56 

Such  was  that  happy  garden-state, 

While  man  there  walked  without  a  mate. 

After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet. 

What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet  ! 

But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 

To  wander  solitary  there : 

Two  paradises  'twere  in  one, 

To  live  in  paradise  alone.  64 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers,  and  herbs,  this  diaP  new; 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Docs  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run, 
And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 

^  rare,  exotic  ^a  bed  of  various  flowers  which, 
opening  at  successive  hours,  indicate  the  time  of 
day 


Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we  ! 

How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 

Be  reckoned  but  with  herbs  and  flowers  ?     72 

TO  HIS   COY   MISTRESS 

Had  we  but  world  enough,  and  time. 

This  coyness,  Lady,  were  no  crime, 

We  would  sit  down  and  think  which  way 

To  walk  and  pass  our  long  love's  day. 

Thou  by  the  Indian  Ganges'  side 

Shouldst  rubies  find ;  I  by  the  tide 

Of  Humber  would  complain.     I  would 

Love  you  ten  years  before  the  Flood, 

And  you  should,  if  you  please,  refuse 

Till  the  conversion  of  the  Jews.  10 

My  vegetable  love  should  grow 

Vaster  than  empires,  and  more  slow ; 

An  hundred  years  should  go  to  praise 

Thine  eyes  and  on  thy  forehead  gaze ; 

Two  hundred  to  adore  each  breast, 

But  thirty  thousand  to  the  rest ; 

An  age  at  least  to  every  part. 

And  the  last  age  should  show  your  heart. 

For,  Lady,  you  deserve  this  state. 

Nor  would  I  love  at  lower  rate.  20 

But  at  my  back  I  always  hear 
Time's  winged  chariot  hurrying  near ; 
And  yonder  all  before  us  lie 
Deserts  of  vast  eternity. 
Thy  beauty  shall  no  more  be  found. 
Nor,  in  thy  marble  vault,  shall  sound 
My  echoing  song ;  then  worms  shall  try 
That  long  preserved  virginity. 
And  your  quaint  honour  turn  to  dust, 
And  into  ashes  all  my  lust :  30 

The  grave's  a  fine  and  private  place, 
But  none,  I  think,  do  there  embrace. 

Now  therefore,  while  the  youthful  hue 
Sits  on  thy  skin  like  morning  dew. 
And  while  thy  willing  soul  transpires 
At  every  pore  with  instant  fires. 
Now  let  us  sport  us  while  we  may. 
And  now,  like  amorous  birds  of  prey, 
Rather  at  once  our  time  devour 
I'han  languish  in  his  slow-chapt  ^  power.    40 
Let  us  roll  all  our  strength  and  all 
Our  sweetness  up  into  one  ball. 
And  tear  our  pleasures  with  rough  strife 
Thorough  ^  the  iron  gates  of  life  : 
Thus,  though  we  cannot  make  our  sun 
Stand  still,  yet  we  will  make  him  run. 

^  Time  is  represented  as   having  jaws    {chaps) 
that  move  slowly.  ^  through 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


221 


HENRY   VAUGHAN    (1622-1695) 

THE   RETREAT 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 

Shined  in  my  angel-infancy  ! 

Before  I  understood  this  place 

Appointed  for  ni}^  second  race, 

Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought 

But  a  white,  celestial  thought ; 

When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 

A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love. 

And  looking  back  —  at  that  short  space  — 

Could  see  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face ;      10 

When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 

My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 

And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 

Some  shadows  of  eternity  ; 

Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  v^ound 

My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 

Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense, 

A  several  sin  to  every  sense. 

But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 

Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness.  20 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back. 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain, 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train  ; 
From  whence  the  enlightened  spirit  sees 
That  shady  city  of  palm  trees. 
But  ah  !  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way  ! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love. 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move ;       30 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 


From  THE  WORLD 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night. 

Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 

All  calm,  as  it  was  bright ; 


And  round  beneath  it  Time  in  hours,  days, 
years,  4 

Driven  by  the  spheres 
Like  a  vast  shadow  moved ;    in   which  the 
world 
And  all  her  train  were  hurled. 

THE   TIMBER 

Sure  thou  didst  flourish  once ;    and  many 
springs, 
Many  bright  mornings,  much  dew,  many 
showers, 
Pass'd  o'er  thy  head ;   many  Hght  hearts  and 
wings, 
Which  now  are  dead,  lodged  in  thy  livmg 
bowers.  4 

And  still  a  new  succession  sings  and  flies ; 

Fresh    groves    grow   up,    and    their   green 
branches  shoot 
Towards  the  old  and  still  enduring  skies,       7 

While  the  low  violet  thrives  at  their  root. 

But  thou  beneath  the  sad  and  heavy  line 

Of  death  dost  waste,  all  senseless,  cold,  and 

dark; 

Where  not  so  much  as  dreams  of  light  may 

shine,  i  j 

Nor  any  thought  of  greenness,  leaf,  or  bark. 

And  yet  —  as  if  some  deep  hate  and  dissent. 

Bred  in  thy  growth  betwixt  high  winds  and 

thee, 

Were  still  alive  —  thou  dost  great  storms  resent 

Before  they  come,  and  know'st  how  near 

they  be.  16 

Else  aU  at  rest  thou  Hest,  and  the  fierce  breath 
Of  tempests  can  no  more  disturb  thy  ease  ; 

But  this  thy  strange  resentment  after  death 
Means  only  those  who  broke  in  life  thy 
peace.  20 


THE    RESTORATION 


JOHN   DRYDEN    (1631-1700) 

From    STANZAS    ON    OLIVER    CROM- 
WELL 

And  now  'tis  time  ;  for  their  officious  haste 
Who  would  before  have  borne  him  to  the 
sky, 

Like  eager  Romans,  ere  all  rites  were  past, 
Did  let  too  soon  the  sacred  eagle  fly.         4 

Though  our  best  notes  are  treason  to  his  fame 
Joined  with  the  loud  applause  of  public 
voice, 

Since  Heaven  what  praise  we  offer  to  his  name 
Hath  rendered  too  authentic  by  its  choice  ;  8 

Though  in  his  praise  no  arts  can  liberal  be, 
Since  they,  whose  Muses  have  the  highest 
flown, 

Add  not  to  his  immortal  memory. 

But  do  an  act  of  friendship  to  their  own  ;  1 2 

Yet  'tis  our  duty  and  our  interest  too 

Such  monuments  as  we  can  build  to  raise, 

Lest  all  the  world  prevent  ^  what  we  should  do. 
And  claim  a  title  in  him  by  their  praise.  16 

How  shall  I  then  begin  or  where  conclude 
To  draw  a  fame  so  truly  circular  ? 

For  in  a  round  what  order  can  be  shewed, 
Where  all  the  parts  so  equal-perfect  are  ?  20 

His  grandeur  he  derived  from  Heaven  alone, 
For  he  was  great,  ere  Fortune  made  him  so  ; 

And  wars,  like  mists  that  rise  against  the  sun. 

Made  him  but  greater  seem,  not  greater 

grow.  24 

No  borrowed  bays  his  temples  did  adorn, 
But  to  our  crown  he  did  fresh  jewels  bring ; 

Nor  was  his  virtue  poisoned,  soon  as  born. 
With  the  too  early  thoughts  of  being  king.  28 


anticipate 


From    ABSALOM    AND    ACHITOPHEL 


Of  these  the  false  AchitopheP  was  first,     150 

A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  curst : 

For  close  ^  designs  and  crooked  counsels  fit, 

Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit,^ 

Restless,  unfixed  in  principles  and  place, 

In  power  unpleased,  impatient  of  disgrace :  135 

A  fiery  soul,  which,  working  out  its  way. 

Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay 

And  o'er-informed  *'  the  tenement  of  clay. 

A  daring  pilot  in  extremity, 

Pleased  with  the  danger,  when  the  waves  went 

high, 
He  sought  the  storms ;  but,  for  a  calm  unfit, 
Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands  to  boast  his 

wit.  162 

Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied 
And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide ; 
Else,  why  should  he,  with  wealth  and  honour 

blest, 
Refuse  his  age  the  needful  hours  of  rest  ?     166 
Punish  a  body  which  he  could  not  please. 
Bankrupt  of  Hf e,  yet  prodigal  of  ease  ? 
And  all  to  leave  what  with  his  toil  he  won 
To  that  unf  eathered  two-legg'd  thing,  a  son.  1 70 


A  numerous  host  of  dreaming  saints  succeed 
Of  the  true  old  enthusiastic  breed  :  530 

'Gainst  form  and  order  they  their  power  em- 
ploy, 
Nothing  to  build  and  all  things  to  destroy. 
But  far  more  numerous  was  the  herd  of  such 
Who  think  too  Uttle  and  who  talk  too  much. 
These  out  of  mere  instinct,  they  knew  not 

why. 
Adored  their  fathers'  God  and  property,     536 
And  by  the  same  blind  benefit  of  Fate 
The  Devil  and  the  Jebusite  *  did  hate  : 
Born  to  be  saved  even  in  their  own  despite, 
Because  they  could  not  help  believing  right.  540 

1  the    Earl   of    Shaftesbury  ^  secret    ^  intellect 
"•  overfilled  ^  their  enemies,  the  Catholics 


THE    HIND    AND    THE    PANTHER 


123 


Such  were  the  tools  ;  but  a  whole  Hydra  ^  more 
Remains  of  sprouting  heads  too  long  to  score. 
Some  of  their  chiefs  were  princes  of  the  land ; 
In  the  first  rank  of  these  did  Zimri  ^  stand, 
A  man  so  various  that  he  seemed  to  be     545 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome : 
Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong. 
Was  everything  by  starts  and  nothing  long ; 
But  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon 
Was  chymist,^  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon  ; 
Then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drink- 
ing, _      _         SSI 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinK- 

ing. 
Blest  madman,  who  could  every  hour  employ 
With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy  i 
Railing  and  praising  were  his  usual  themes.sss 
And  both,  to  show  his  judgment,  in  extremes  : 
So  over  violent  or  over  civil 
That  every  man  with  him  was  God  or  Devil. 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art ; 
Notliiiig  went  imrewarded  but  destrt.         560 
Beggared  by  fools  whom  still  he  found  ^  too 

late, 
He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate. 
He  laughed  himself  from  Court ;  then  sought 

relief 
By  forming  parties,  but  could  ne'er  be  chief : 
For  spite  of  him,  the  weight  of  business  fell  565 
On  Absalom  and  wise  Achitophel ; 
Thus  W'icked  but  in  will,  of  means  bereft, 
He  left  not  faction,  but  of  that  was  left. 


From  THE  HIND  AND  THE  PANTHER  ^ 

A  milk-white  Hind,  immortal  and  unchanged, 
Fed  on  the  lawns  and  in  the  forest  ranged ; 
Without  unspotted,  innocent  wdthin. 
She  feared  no  danger,  for  she  knew  no  sin. 
Yet  had  she  oft  been  chased  with  horns  and 
hounds  5 

And    Scythian  ^    shafts,   and    many  winged 

w^ounds 
Aimed  at  her  heart ;  was  often  forced  to  fly. 
And  doomed  to  death,  though  fated  not  to  die. 

Not  so  her  young ;   for  their  unequal  line 
Was  hero's  make,  half  human,  half  divine.   10 

^  a  fabulous  monster  with  a  hundred  heads, 
killed  by  Hercules  ^  the  Duke  of  Buckin2;ham, 
whom  Dryden  hated  personally  ^  alchemist  ^  found 
out  ^  For  the  churches  symbolized  by  the  beasts 
see  the  Notes.  ^  a  general  term  for  barbarians 


Their  earthly  mould  obnoxious  was  to  fate, 
The  immortal  part  assumed  immortal  state. 
Of  these  a  slaughtered  army  lay  in  blood, 
Extended  o'er  the  Caledonian  ^  wood. 
Their  native  walk ;  whose  vocal  blood  arose  1 5 
And  cried  for  pardon  on  their  perjured  foes. 
Their  fate  was  fruitful,  and  the  sanguine  seed, 
Endued  with  souls,  increased  the  sacred  breed. 
So  captive  Israel  multipUed  m  chains, 
A  numerous  exile,  and  enjoyed  her  pains.     2c 
With  grief  and  gladness  mixed,  their  mother 

viewed 
Her  martyred   offspring   and   their   race  re- 
newed ; 
Their  corps  to  perish,  but  their  kind  to  last, 
So  much  the  deathless  plant  the  dying  fruit 
surpassed.  24 

Panting  and  pensive  now  she  ranged  alone, 
And  w^andered  in  the  kingdoms  once  her  own. 
The  common  himt,  though  from  their  rage  re- 
strained 
By  sovereign  pow-er,  her  company  disdained. 
Grinned  as  they  passed,  and  wnth  a  glaring  eye 
Gave  gloomy  signs  of  secret  enmity.  30 

'Tis  true  she  boimded  by  and  tripped  so  light, 
They  had  not  time  to  take  a  steady  sight ; 
For  truth  has  such  a  face  and  such  a  mien 
As  to  be  loved  needs  only  to  be  seen. 

The  bloody  Bear,  an  Independent  beast  35 
Unlicked  to  form,-  in  groans  her  hate  expressed. 
Among  the  timorous  kind  the  quaking  Hare 
Professed  neutrality,  but  would  not  swear. 
Next  her  the  buft'oon  Ape,  as  atheists  use,^  39 
Mimicked  all  sects  and  had  his  own  to  choose  ; 
Still  when  the  Lion  looked,  his  knees  he  bent, 
And  paid  at  chiu'ch  a  courtier's  compHment. 
The  bristled  Baptist  Boar,  impure  as  he. 
But  whitened  with  the  foam  of  sanctity. 
With  fat  pollutions  filled  the  sacred  place,  45 
And  mountains  levelled  in  his  furious  race : 
So  first  rebeUion  founded  was  in  grace. 
But,  since  the  mighty  ravage  which  he  made 
In  German  forests  •*  had  his  guilt  betrayed. 
With  broken  tusks  and  with  a  borrowed  name. 
He  shunned  the  vengeance  and  concealed  the 
shame,  5 1 

So  lurked  in  sects  unseen.     With  greater  guile 
False  Reynard  fed  on  consecrated  spoil ; 
The  graceless  beast  by  Athanasius  first 
Was   chased   from   Nice,    then    by    Socinus 
nursed, 

^  Scottish  ^  Bear  cubs  are  said  to  be  shapeless 
lumps  until  licked  into  shape  by  the  mother  bear. 
^  are  accustomed  *  at  Miinster 


224 


JOHN    DRYDEN 


His  impious  race  their  blasphemy  renewed,    56 
And  nature's   king   through   nature's   optics 

viewed ; 
Reversed  they  viewed  him  lessened  to  their 

eye, 
Nor  in  an  infant  could  a  God  descry. 
New  swarming  sects  to  this  obliquely  tend,    60 
Hence  they  began,  and  here  they  all  wUl  end. 

But  if  they  think  at  all,  'tis  sure  no  higher  316 
Than  matter  put  in  motion  may  aspire ; 
Souls  that  can  scarce  ferment  their  mass  of 

clay, 
So  drossy,  so  divisible  are  they 
As  would  but  serve  pure  bodies  for  allay  ,^     3  20 
Such   souls   as  shards  ^  produce,  such  beetle 

things 
As  only  buzz  to  heaven  with  evening  wings, 
Strike  in  the  dark,  offending  but  by  chance, 
Such  are  the  blindfold  blo\^s  of  ignorance. 
They  know  not  beings,  and  but  hate  a  name ; 
To  them  the  Hind  and  Panther  are  the  same. 


25 


30 


Timotheus,^  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  quire. 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre : 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky. 
And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove,^ 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  ^  the  god : 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  '^  he  rode. 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  ^  pressed  ; 
.And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast, 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign 
of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity,  they  shout  around  ;         35 
A  present  deity,  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound : 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god, 

♦Affects  to  nod,  40 

And  seems  to  sihake  the  spheres. 


ALEXANDER'S      FEAST ;       OR, 
POWER  OF  MUSIC 


THE 


A  SONG   IN    HONOUR    OF    ST.    CECILIA'S 
DAY,   1697 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  PhiHp's  warlike  son  : 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne  ;  5 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around ; 
Their   brows   with   roses   and   with   myrtles 
bound : 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned.) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side. 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride,  10 

In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  1 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

Chorus 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 


Chorus 

With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god. 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 


45 


alloy 


dung 


The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician 
sung. 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair,  and  ever  young. 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ; 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums  oo 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face : 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath  ;   he  comes,  he 
comes. 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young. 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain  ;       55 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure ; 
Rich  the  treasure. 
Sweet  the  pleasure. 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain.  60 

^a  celebrated  Athenian  musician  (d.  357  B.C.), 
said  to  have  improved  the  cithara  by  adding  one 
string  to  it  ^  fabled  to  have  been  Alexander's 
father  ^  disguised  ^  uplifted  in  shining  spirals 
*  Olympias,  mother  of  Alexander 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST 


225 


Chorus 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure ; 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain.  65 

Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain ; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice 
he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes  ;         70 
And  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied. 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  JMuse, 
Soft  pity  to  infuse ; 
He  sung  Darius  ^  great  and  good,  75 

By  too  severe  a  fate. 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen. 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood  ; 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need  80 

By  those  his  former  bounty  fed ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  dov.ncast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soiii  85 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below : 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole. 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

Chorus 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below ;  go 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole. 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree ; 

'Twas  but  a  kindred-sound  to  move     95 

For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures. 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 

War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble ; 

Honour  but  an  empty  bubble  ;  100 

Never  ending,  still  beginning. 

Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying : 
If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning. 

Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying : 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee,  105 

Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 

^  whom  Alexander  had  conquered 


The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause : 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the 
cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain. 
Gazed  on  the  fair  no 

Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again ; 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  op- 
pressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Chorus 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain. 

Gazed  on  the  fair  1 1 7 

Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked. 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again  ;     1 20 
At  length,  with  l6ve  and  wine  at  once  op- 
pressed. 
The  vanqvdshed  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again ; 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder  125 

And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of 
thunder. 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 

Has  raised  up  his  head  ; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead. 
And,  amazed,  he  stares  around.    130 
"Revenge,  revenge  !"  Timotheus  cries; 
"  See  the  Furies  arise  ; 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear. 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair. 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their 
eyes?  135 

Behold  a  ghastly  band. 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were 
slain. 
And  unburied  remain 
Inglorious  on  the  plain :  140 

Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes. 

And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods." 

The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy ;     146 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to 

destroy ; 

Thais  led  the  waj^ 

To  light  him  to  his  prey,  149 

And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 


226 


JOHN    DRYDEN 


Chorus 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to 
destroy ; 

Thais  led  the  way, 

To  light  him  to  his  prey,  153 

And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

Thus  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 
And  sounding  lyre. 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft 
desire.  160 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  ^  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Erflarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds,       165 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown 
before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 
Or  both  divide  the  crown : 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 

She  drew  an  angel  down.^  170 

Grand  Chorus 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds,   175 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown 
before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown : 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 

She  drew  an  angel  down.  iSo 

LINES    PRINTED    UNDER    THE    EN- 
GRAVED   PORTRAIT   OF   MILTON 

{In  Tonson's  folio  edition  of  the  Paradise 
Lost,  1688) 

Three  poets,''  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed, 

^  St.  Cecilia,  the  patron  saint  of  musicians  and, 
according  to  legend,  the  inventor  of  the  organ  — 
the  "vocal  frame,"  as  JJryden  calls  it  "^  An  angel 
came  to  hear  her  play.  ^  Homer,  Vergil,  and  Milton 


The  next  in  majesty,  in  both  the  last. 
The  force  of  Nature  could  no  farther  go ; 
To  make  a  third  she  joined  the  former  two. 

From  AN  ESSAY  OF  DRAMATIC 
POESY 


This  moderation  of  Crites,  as  it  was  pleasing 
to  all  the  company,  so  it  put  an  end  to  that  dis- 
pute ;  which  Eugenius,  who  seemed  to  have 
the  better  of  the  argument,  would  urge  no 
farther.  But  Lisideius,  after  he  had  acknowl- 
edged himself  of  Eugenius  his  opinion  con- 
cerning the  ancients,  yet  told  him,  he  had 
forborne,  tiU  his  discourse  were  ended,  to 
ask  him,  why  he  preferred  the  English  plays 
above  those  of  other  nations?  and  whether 
vvc  ought  not  to  submit  our  stage  to  the  exact- 
ness of  our  next  neighbours? 

Though,  said  Eugenius,  I  am  at  all  times 
ready  to  defend  the  honour  of  my  country 
against  the  French,  and  to  maintain,  we  are  as 
\\  ell  able  to  vanquish  them  with  our  pens,  as 
oar  ancestors  have  been  with  their  swords; 
yet,  if  you  please,  added  he,  looking  upon  Ne- 
ander,  I  will  commit  this  cause  to  my  friend's 
management ;  his  opinion  of  our  plays  is  the 
same  with  mine :  and  besides,  there  is  no 
reason,  that  Crites  and  I,  who  have  now  left 
the  stage,^  should  reenter  so  suddenly  upon 
it ;   which  is  against  the  laws  of  comedy. 

If  the  question  had  been  stated,  replied 
Lisideius,  who  had  writ  best,  the  French  or 
English,  forty  years  ago,  I  should  have  been 
of  your  opinion,  and  adjudged  the  honour  to 
our  own  nation ;  but  since  that  time,  (said  he, 
turning  towards  Neander,)  we  have  been  so 
long  together  bad  Englishmen,  that  we  had  not 
leisure  to  be  good  poets.  Beaumont,  Fletcher, 
and  Jonson,  (who  were  only  capable  of  bring- 
ing us  to  that  degree  of  perfection  which  we 
have,)  were  just  then  leaving  the  world ;  as 
if  in  an  age  of  so  much  horror,  wit,  and  those 
milder  studies  of  humanity,  had  no  farther 
l)usiness  among  us.  But  the  muses,  who  ever 
follow  peace,  went  to  plant  in  another  coun- 
try :  it  was  then  that  the  great  Cardinal  of 
Richelieu  began  to  take  them  into  his  pro- 
tection ;  and  that,  by  his  encouragement, 
Corneille,  and  some  other  Frenchmen,  re- 
formed their  theatre,  which  before  was  as 

^  i.e.,  ceased  from  discussion 


AN    ESSAY    OF    DRAMATIC    POESY 


227 


much  below  ours,  as  it  now  surpasses  it  and 
the  rest  of  Europe.  But  because  Crites,  in 
his  discourse  for  the  ancients,  has  prevented 
me,  by  observing  many  rules  of  the  stage, 
which  the  moderns  have  borrowed  from  them, 
I  shall  only,  in  short,  demand  of  you,  whether 
you  are  not  convinced  that  of  all  nations  the 
French  have  observed  them?  In  the  unity 
of  time  you  find  them  so  scrupulous,  that  it 
yet  remains  a  dispute  among  their  poets, 
whether  the  artificial  day  of  twelve  hours, 
more  or  less,  be  not  meant  by  Aristotle, 
rather  than  the  natural  one  of  twenty -four; 
and  consequently,  whether  all  plays  ought 
not  to  be  reduced  into  that  compass.  This 
I  can  testify,  that  in  all  their  dramas  writ 
within  these  last  twenty  years  and  upwards, 
I  have  not  observed  any  that  have  extended 
the  time  to  thirty  hours.  In  the  unity  of 
place  they  are  full  as  scrupulous  ;  for  many  of 
their  critics  limit  it  to  that  very  spot  of  ground 
where  the  play  is  supposed  to  begin ;  none 
of  them  exceed  the  compass  of  the  same  town 
or  city. 

The  unity  of  action  in  all  their  plays  is  yet 
more  conspicuous ;  for  they  do  not  burden 
them  with  under-plots,  as  the  English  do : 
which  is  the  reason  why  many  scenes  of  our 
tragi-comedies  carry  on  a  design  that  is 
nothing  of  kin  to  the  main  plot ;  and  that 
we  see  two  distinct  webs  in  a  play,  like  those 
in  ill-wrought  stuffs ;  and  two  actions,  that 
is,  two  plays,  carried  on  together,  to  the  con- 
founding of  the  audience ;  who,  before  they 
are  warm  in  their  concernments  for  one  part, 
are  diverted  to  another ;  and  by  that  means 
espouse  the  interest  of  neither.  From  hence 
likewise  it  arises,  that  the  one  half  of  our 
actors  are  not  known  to  the  other.  They 
keep  their  distances,  as  if  they  were  Mon- 
tagues and  Capulets,  and  seldom  begin  an 
acquaintance  tiU  the  last  scene  of  the  fifth 
act,  when  they  are  all  to  meet  upon  the  stage. 
There  is  no  theatre  m  the  world  has  anything 
so  absurd  as  the  English  tragi-comedy ;  it  is 
a  drama  of  our  own  mvention,  and  the  fashion 
of  it  is  enough  to  proclaim  it  so  ;  here  a  covirse 
of  mirth,  there  another  of  sadness  and  passion, 
and  a  third  of  honour  and  a  duel :  thus,  in  two 
hours  and  a  half  we  run  through  aU  the  fits  of 
Bedlam.  The  French  affords  you  as  much 
variety  on  the  same  day,  but  they  do  it  not 
so  unseasonably,  or  mal  a  propos,  as  we :  our 
poets  present  you  the  play  and  the  farce 
together ;    and  our  stages  still  retain  some- 


what of  the  original  civility^  of  the  Red 
Bull :  2 

Atque  ursum  et  pugiles  media  inter  carmina 
poscunt.^ 

The  end  of  tragedies  or  serious  plays,  says 
Aristotle,  is  to  beget  admiration,  compassion, 
or  concernment ;  but  are  not  mirth  and  com- 
passion things  incompatible  ?  and  is  it  not  evi- 
dent, that  the  poet  must  of  necessity  destroy 
the  former  by  intermingling  of  the  latter  ?  that 
is,  he  must  ruin  the  sole  end  and  object  of  his 
tragedy,  to  introduce  somewhat  that  is  forced 
into  it,  and  is  not  of  the  body  of  it.  Would 
you  not  think  that  physician  mad,  who,  hav- 
ing prescribed  a  purge,  should  immediately 
order  you  to  take  restringents? 

But  to  leave  our  plays,  and  return  to  theirs. 
I  have  noted  one  great  advantage  they  have 
had  in  the  plotting  of  their  tragedies ;  that  is, 
they  are  always  grounded  upon  some  known 
history  :  according  to  that  of  Horace,  Ex  nolo 
fictum  carmen  sequar;  ^  and  in  that  they  have 
so  imitated  the  ancients,  that  they  have  sur- 
passed them.  For  the  ancients,  as  was  ob- 
served before,  took  for  the  foundation  of 
their  plays  some  poetical  fiction,  such  as 
\mder  that  consideration  could  move  but  little 
concernment  in  the  audience,  because  they 
already  knew  the  event  of  it.  But  the  French 
goes  farther : 

Atque  ita  mentitur,  sic  veris  falsa  remiscet, 
Prima  ne  medium,  medio  ne  discrepet  itmim} 

He  so  interweaves  truth  with  probable  fiction, 
that  he  puts  a  pleasmg  fallacy  upon  us,  mends 
the  intrigues  of  fate,  and  dispenses  with  the 
severity  of  history,  to  reward  that  virtue 
which  has  been  rendered  to  us  there  unfortu- 
nate. Sometimes  the  story  has  left  the  suc- 
cess so  doubtful,  that  the  writer  is  free,  by 
the  privilege  of  a  poet,  to  take  that  which  of 
two  or  more  relations  will  best  suit  with  his 
design  :  as  for  example,  in  the  death  of  Cyrus, 
whom  Justin  ^  and  some  others  report  to  have 
perished  in  the  Scythian  war,  but  Xenophon 

^  Spoken  ironically.  -  one  of  the  older  theatres 
of  London  ^  And  in  the  midst  of  the  poems  they 
call  for  the  bears  and  the  boxers.  "*  On  a  known 
fact  I  base  a  feigned  song.  ^  He  so  mixes  false 
with  true  that  the  middle  may  not  disagree  with 
the  beginning  nor  the  end  with  the  middle.  ^  a 
Roman  historian 


228 


JOHN    DRYDEN 


affirms  to  have  died  in  his  bed  of  extreme  old 
age.  Nay  more,  when  the  event  is  past 
dispute,  even  then  we  are  wilhng  to  be  de- 
ceived, and  the  poet,  if  he  contrives  it  with 
appearance  of  truth,  has  all  the  audience  of 
his  party ;  at  least  during  the  time  his  play 
is  acting :  so  naturally  we  are  kind  to  virtue, 
when  our  own  interest  is  not  in  question,  that 
we  take  it  up  as  the  general  concernment  of 
mankind.  On  the  other  side,  if  you  consider 
the  historical  plays  of  Shakespeare,  they  are 
rather  so  many  chronicles  of  kings,  or  the  busi- 
ness many  times  of  thirty  or  forty  years, 
cramped  into  a  representation  of  two  hours 
and  a  half ;  which  is  not  to  imitate  or  paint 
nature,  but  rather  to  draw  her  in  miniature, 
to  take  her  in  Httle  ;  to  look  upon  her  through 
the  wrong  end  of  a  perspective,^  and  receive 
her  images  not  only  much  less,  but  infinitely 
more  imperfect  than  the  life :  this,  instead 
of  making  a  play  delightful,  renders  it 
ridiculous : 

Quodcumque  ostendis  mihi  sic,  incredulus  odi} 

For  the  spirit  of  man  cannot  be  satisfied  but 
with  truth,  or  at  least  verisimility ;  and  a  poem 
is  to  contain,  if  not  to.  ^Tv/xa,^  yet  iTvixoiaiv 
ofx-oia,^  as  one  of  the  Greek  poets  has  expressed 
it. 

Another  thing  in  which  the  French  differ 
from  us  and  from  the  Spaniards,  is,  that  they 
do  not  embarrass,  or  cumber  themselves  with 
too  much  plot ;  they  only  represent  so  much  of 
a  story  as  will  constitute  one  whole  and  great 
action  sufficient  for  a  play :  we,  who  under- 
take more,  do  but  multiply  adventures; 
which,  not  being  produced  from  one  another, 
as  effects  from  causes,  but  barely  following, 
constitute  many  actions  in  the  drama,  and 
consequently  make  it  many  plays. 

But  by  pursuing  closely  one  argument, 
which  is  not  cloyed  with  many  turns,  the 
French  have  gained  more  liberty  for  verse,  in 
which  they  write :  they  have  leisure  to  dwell 
on  a  subject  which  deserves  it ;  and  to  repre- 
sent the  passions,  (which  we  have  acknowl- 
edged to  be  the  poet's  work,)  without  being 
hurried  from  one  thing  to  another,  as  we  are 
in  the  plays  of  Calderon,*  which  we  have  seen 
lately  upon  our  theatres,  under  the  name  of 
Spanish  plots.     I  have  taken  notice  but  of 

^  telescope  ^  Whatever  you  show  me  thus,  I  dis- 
believe and  hate.  ^  true  things  ■*  things  resembling 
truth  ^  a  famous  Spanish  dramatist 


one  tragedy  of  ours,  whose  plot  has  that  uni- 
formity and  unity  of  design  in  it,  which  I 
have  commended  in  the  French ;  and  that  is 
"Rollo,"  ^  or  rather,  under  the  name  of  Rollo, 
the  story  of  Bassianus  and  Geta  in  Herodian  :  ^ 
there  indeed  the  plot  is  neither  large  nor  intri- 
cate, but  just  enough  to  fill  the  minds  of  the 
audience,  not  to  cloy  them.  Besides,  you 
see  it  founded  upon  the  truth  of  history,  — 
only  the  time  of  the  action  is  not  reduceable 
to  the  strictness  of  the  rules ;  and  you  see  in 
some  places  a  little  farce  mingled,  which  is 
below  the  dignity  of  the  other  parts ;  and  in 
this  all  our  poets  are  extremely  peccant :  even 
Ben  Jonson  himself,  in  "Sejanus"  and 
"Catiline,"  has  given  us  this  olio  of  a  play, 
this  unnatural  mixture  of  comedy  and  tragedy, 
which  to  me  sounds  jvist  as  ridiculously  as  the 
history  of  David  with  the  merry  humours  of 
Goliath.  In  "Sejanus"  you  may  take  notice 
of  the  scene  betwixt  Livia  and  the  physician, 
which  is  a  pleasant  satire  upon  the  artificial 
helps  of  beauty:  in  "Catiline"  you  may  see 
the  parliament  of  women ;  the  little  envies  of 
them  to  one  another ;  and  aU  that  passes 
betwixt  Curio  and  Fulvia :  scenes  admirable 
in  their  kind,  but  of  an  ill  mingle  with  the  rest. 
But  I  return  again  to  the  French  writers, 
who,  as  I  have  said,  do  not  burden  themselves 
too  much  with  plot,  which  has  been  re- 
proached to  them  by  an  ingenious  person  of 
our  nation  as  a  fault ;  for  he  says,  they  com- 
monly make  but  one  person  considerable  in  a 
play ;  they  dwell  on  him,  and  his  concern- 
ments, while  the  rest  of  the  persons  are  only 
subservient  to  set  him  off.  If  he  intends  this 
by  it,  —  that  there  is  one  person  in  the  play 
who  is  of  greater  dignity  than  the  rest,  he 
must  tax,  not  only  theirs,  but  those  of  the 
ancients,  and,  which  he  would  be  loth  to  do, 
the  best  of  ours ;  for  it  is  impossible  but  that 
one  person  must  be  more  conspicuous  in  it 
than  any  other,  and  consequently  the  great- 
est share  in  the  action  must  devolve  on  him. 
We  see  it  so  in  the  management  of  all  affairs ; 
even  in  the  most  equal  aristocracy,  the  balance 
cannot  be  so  justly  poised,  but  some  one  will 
be  superior  to  the  rest,  either  in  parts,  for- 
tune, interest,  or  the  consideration  of  some 
glorious  exploit ;  which  will  reduce  the 
greatest  part  of  business  into  his  hands. 

'  The  Bloody  Brother,  or  Rollo  Duke  of  Nor- 
mandy, a  play  by  Fletcher  and  others  ^  a  Greek 
writer  of  the  history  of  Rome  from  180-238 


AN    ESSAY    OF    DRAMATIC    POESY 


229 


But,  if  he  would  have  us  to  imagine,  that  in 
exalting  one  character  the  rest  of  them  are 
neglected,  and  that  all  of  them  have  not  some 
share  or  other  in  the  action  of  the  play,  I  de- 
sire him  to  produce  any  of  Corneille's  trage- 
dies, wherein  every  person  (like  so  many 
servants  in  a  well-governed  family)  has  not 
some  employment,  and  who  is  not  necessary 
to  the  carrying  on  of  the  plot,  or  at  least  to 
your  understanding  it. 

There  are  indeed  some  protatic  ^  persons  in 
the  ancients,  whom  they  make  use  of  in  their 
plays,  either  to  hear,  or  give  the  relation  :  ^  but 
the  French  avoid  this  with  great  address, 
making  their  narrations  only  to,  or  by  such, 
who  are  some  way  interested  in  the  main  de- 
sign. And  now  I  am  speaking  of  relations,  I 
cannot  take  a  fitter  opportunity  to  add  this 
in  favour  of  the  French,  that  they  often  use 
them  with  better  judgment  and  more  a  propos 
than  the  English  do.  Not  that  I  commend 
narrations  in  general,  —  but  there  are  two 
sorts  of  them ;  one,  of  those  things  which 
are  antecedent  to  the  play,  and  are  related  to 
make  the  conduct  of  it  more  clear  to  us ;  but 
it  is  a  faidt  to  choose  such  subjects  for  the 
stage  as  will  force  us  on  that  rock,  because  we 
see  they  are  seldom  listened  to  by  the  audi- 
ence, and  that  is  many  times  the  ruin  of  the 
play ;  for,  being  once  let  pass  without  atten- 
tion, the  audience  can  never  recover  them- 
selves to  understand  the  plot ;  and  indeed  it 
is  somewhat  unreasonable,  that  they  should 
be  put  to  so  much  trouble,  as,  that  to  compre- 
hend what  passes  in  their  sight,  they  must 
have  recourse  to  what  was  done,  perhaps,  ten 
or  twenty  years  ago. 

But  there  is  another  sort  of  relations,  that  is, 
of  things  happening  in  the  action  of  the  play, 
and  supposed  to  be  done  behind  the  scenes ; 
and  this  is  many  times  both  convenient  and 
beautiful :  for,  by  it  the  French  avoid  the 
tumult  to  which  we  are  subject  in  England, 
by  representing  duels,  battles,  and  the  like ; 
which  renders  our  stage  too  like  the  theatres 
where  they  fight  prizes.  For  what  is  more 
ridiculous  than  to  represent  an  army  with  a 
drum  and  five  men  behind  it ;  all  which,  the 
hero  of  the  other  side  is  to  drive  in  before  him  ? 
or  to  see  a  duel  fought,  and  one  slain  with  two 
or  three  thrusts  of  the  foils,  which  we  know 
are  so  blunted,  that  we  might  give  a  man 

^  introductory  -  narration  of  events  not  shown 
on  the  stage 

AE 


an  hour  to  kill  another  in  good  earnest  with 
them? 

I  have  observed,  that  in  all  our  tragedies  the 
audience  cannot  forbear  laughing  when  the 
actors  are  to  die ;  it  is  the  most  comic  part 
of  the  whole  play.  All  passions  may  be  lively 
represented  on  the  stage,  if  to  the  well-writing 
of  them  the  actor  supplies  a  good  commanded 
voice,  and  limbs  that  move  easily,  and  without 
stiffness ;  but  there  are  many  actions  which 
can  never  be  imitated  to  a  just  height :  dying 
especially  is  a  thing  which  none  but  a  Roman 
gladiator  could  naturally  perform  on  the  stage, 
when  he  did  not  imitate,  or  represent,  but  do 
it ;  and  therefore  it  is  better  to  omit  the  repre- 
sentation of  it. 


I  shall  grant  Lisideius,  without  much  dis- 
pute, a  great  part  of  what  he  has  urged 
against  us;  for  I  acknowledge,  that  the 
French  contrive  their  plots  more  regularly, 
and  observe  the  laws  of  comedy,  and  decorum 
of  the  stage,  (to  speak  generally,)  with  more 
exactness  than  the  English.  Farther,  I  deny 
not  but  he  has  taxed  us  justly  in  some  irreg- 
ularities of  ours,  which  he  has  mentioned; 
yet,  after  all,  I  am  of  opinion,  that  neither  of 
our  faults,  nor  their  virtues,  are  considerable 
enough  to  place  them  above  us. 

For  the  lively  imitation  of  nature  being  in 
the  definition  of  a  play,  those  which  best  ful- 
fil that  law,  ought  to  be  esteemed  superior 
to  the  others.  'Tis  true,  those  beauties  of 
the  French  poesy  are  such  as  will  raise  per- 
fection higher  where  it  is,  but  are  not  sufficient 
to  give  it  where  it  is  not :  they  are  indeed  the 
beauties  of  a  statue,  but  not  of  a  man,  because 
not  animated  with  the  soul  of  poesy,  which  is 
imitation  of  humour  and  passions :  and  this 
Lisideius  him.self,  or  any  other,  however 
biassed  to  their  party,  cannot  but  acknowl- 
edge, if  he  Avill  either  compare  the  humours 
of  our  comedies,  or  the  characters  of  our 
serious  plays,  ■^\'ith  theirs.  He  who  will  look 
upon  theirs  which  have  been  written  tiU 
these  last  ten  years,  or  thereabouts,  will  find 
it  an  hard  matter  to  pick  out  two  or  three  pass- 
able humours  amongst  them.  CorneUle  him- 
self, their  arch-poet,  what  has  he  produced 
except  "The  Liar,"  1  and  you  know  how  it  was 
cried  up  in  France ;  but  when  it  came  upon 
the   English  stage,   though  well  translated, 

^  Le  Menteur 


230 


JOHN   DRYDEN 


and  that  part  of  Dorant  acted  to  so  much 
advantage  as  I  am  confident  it  never  received 
in  its  own  country,  the  most  favourable  to  it 
would  not  put  it  in  competition  with  many 
of  Fletcher's  or  Ben  Jonson's.  In  the  rest 
of  Corneille's  comedies  you  have  little  hu- 
mour;  he  tells  you  himself,  his  way  is,  first 
to  show  two  lovers  in  good  intelligence  with 
each  other;  in  the  working  up  of  the  play, 
to  embroil  them  by  some  mistake,  and  in  the 
latter  end  to  clear  it,  and  reconcile  them. 

But  of  late  years  Moliere,  the  younger  Cor- 
neille,^  Quinault,^  and  some  others,  have  been 
imitating  afar  off  the  quick  turns  and  graces 
of  the  English  stage.  They  have  mixed  their 
serious  plays  with  mirth,  like  our  tragi-come- 
dies,  since  the  death  of  Cardinal  Richelieu, 
which  Lisideius,  and  many  others,  not  ob- 
serving, have  commended  that  in  them  for 
a  virtue,  which  they  themselves  no  longer 
practise.  Most  of  their  new  plays  are,  like 
some  of  ours,  derived  from  the  Spanish  novels. 
There  is  scarce  one  of  them  without  a  veil,^ 
and  a  trusty  Diego, ^  who  drolls  much  after  the 
the  rate  of  the  "Adventures."^  But  their 
hvunours,  if  I  may  grace  them  v/ith  that  name, 
are  so  thin  sown,  that  never  above  one  of 
them  comes  up  in  any  play.  I  dare  take  upon 
me  to  find  more  variety  of  them  in  some  one 
play  of  Ben  Jonson's,  than  in  all  theirs  to- 
gether: as  he  who  has  seen  the  "Alchemist," 
"The  SUent  Woman,"  or  "Bartholomew 
Fair,"  cannot  but  acknowledge  with  me. 

I  grant  the  French  have  performed  what 
was  possible  on  the  ground-work  of  the  Span- 
ish plays;  what  Avas  pleasant  before,  they 
have  made  regular :  but  there  is  not  above  one 
good  play  to  be  writ  on  all  those  plots ;  they 
are  too  much  alike  to  please  often,  which  we 
need  not  the  experience  of  our  own  stage  to 
justify.  As  for  their  new  way  of  mingling 
mirth  with  serious  plot,  I  do  not,  with  Lisi- 
deius, condemn  the  thing,  though  I  cannot 
approve  their  manner  of  doing  it.  He  tells 
us,  we  cannot  so  speedily  recollect  ourselves 
after  a  scene  of  great  passion  and  concern- 
ment, as  to  pass  to  another  of  mirth  and 
humour,  and  to  enjoy  it  with  any  relish : 
but  why  should  he  imagine  the  soul  of  man 

^  Thomas,  younger  brother  of  Pierre  Corneille 
^  Philippe  Quinault,  the  creator  of  lyric  tragedy 
^  nun  ^servant  ^  The  Adventures  of  Five  Hours, 
a  play  translated  by  Sir  Samuel  Take  from 
Calderon 


more  heavy  than  his  senses?  Does  not  the 
eye  pass  from  an  unpleasant  object  to  a 
pleasant,  in  a  much  shorter  time  than  is  re- 
qmred  to  this?  and  does  not  the  unpleasant- 
ness of  the  first  commend  the  beauty  of  the 
latter?  The  old  rule  of  logic  might  have 
convinced  him,  that  contraries,  when  placed 
near,  set  off  each  other.  A  continued  gravity 
keeps  the  spirit  too  much  bent ;  we  must 
refresh  it  sometimes,  as  we  bait  in  a  jour- 
ney, that  we  may  go  on  with  greater  ease. 
A  scene  of  mirth,  mixed  with  tragedy,  has  the 
same  effect  upon  us  which  our  music  has 
betwixt  the  acts ;  wliich  we  find  a  relief  to 
us  from  the  best  plots  and  language  of  the 
stage,  if  the  discourses  have  been  long.  I 
must  therefore  have  stronger  arguments,  ere 
I  am  convinced  that  compassion  and  mirth  in 
the  same  subject  destroy  each» other;  and  in 
the  meantime,  cannot  but  conclude,  to  the 
honour  of  our  nation,  that  we  have  invented, 
increased,  and  perfected,  a  more  pleasant  way 
of  writing  for  the  stage,  than  was  ever  known 
to  the  ancients  or  moderns  of  any  nation, 
which  is  tragi-comedy. 

And  this  leads  me  to  wonder  why  Lisideius 
and  many  others  should  cry  up  the  barren- 
ness of  the  French  plots,  above  the  variety 
and  copiousness  of  the  English.  Their  plots 
are  single,  they  carry  on  one  design,  which  is 
pushed  forward  by  all  the  actors,  every  scene 
in  the  play  contributing  and  moving  towards 
it.  Our  plays,  besides  the  main  design,  have 
underplots,  or  by-concernments,  of  less  con- 
siderable persons  and  intrigues,  which  are 
carried  on  with  the  motion  of  the  mam  plot : 
as  they  say  the  orb  of  the  fixed  stars,  and 
those  of  the  planets,  though  they  have 
motions  of  their  own,  are  whirled  about  by 
the  motion  of  the  prhnum  mobile,'^  in  which 
they  are  contained.  That  similitude  ex- 
presses much  of  the  English  stage;  for  if 
contrary  motions  may  be  found  in  nature 
to  agree ;  if  a  planet  can  go  east  and  west  at 
the  same  time ;  —  one  Avay  by  virtue  of  his 
own  motion,  the  other  by  the  force  of  the  first 
mover  ;  ^  —  it  wiU  not  be  difficult  to  imagine 
how  the  under-plot,  which  is  only  different, 
not  contrary  to  the  great  design,  may  natu- 
rally be  conducted  along  with  it. 

Eugenius  has  already  shown  us,  from  the 
confession   of   the    French    poets,    that   the 

1  See  the  note  on  Milton's  Hymn  on  the  Nativity, 
1.  48.    ^  primuru  mobile 


AN    ESSAY    OF    DRAMATIC    POESY 


231 


unity  of  action  is  sufficiently  preserved,  if 
all  the  imperfect  actions  of  the  play  are 
conducing  to  the  main  design ;  but  when 
those  petty  intrigues  of  a  play  are  so  ill 
ordered,  that  they  have  no  coherence  with 
the  other,  I  must  grant  that  Lisideius  has 
reason  to  tax  that  want  of  due  connec- 
tion; for  coordination  in  a  play  is  as  dan- 
gerous and  unnatural  as  in  a  state.  In  the 
meantime  he  must  acknowledge,  our  variety, 
if  well  ordered,  will  afford  a  greater  pleasure 
to  the  audience. 


I  hope  I  have  already  proved  m  this  dis- 
course, that  though  we  are  not  altogether  so 
punctual  ^  as  the  French,  in  observing  the  laws 
of  comedy,  yet  our  errors  are  so  few,  and  little, 
and  those  things  wherein  we  excel  them  so 
considerable,  that  we  ought  of  right  to  be 
preferred  before  them.  But  what  will  Lisi- 
deius say,  if  they  themselves  acknowledge 
they  are  too  strictly  bounded  by  those  laws, 
for  breaking  which  he  has  blamed  the  Eng- 
lish? I  will  allege  Corneille's  words,  as  I 
find  them  in  the  end  of  his  Discourse  of  the 
three  Unities:  //  est  facile  aux  speculatifs 
acstre  sever es,  etc.  "It  is  easy  for  specula- 
tive persons  to  judge  severely ;  but  if  they 
would  produce  to  public  view  ten  or  twelve 
pieces  of  this  natiu^e,  they  would  perhaps  give 
more  latitude  to  the  rules  than  I  have  done, 
when,  by  experience,  they  had  known  how 
much  we  are  limited  and  constrained  by  them, 
and  how  many  beauties  of  the  stage  they  ban- 
ished from  it."  To  illustrate  a  little  what  he 
has  said :  —  by  their  servile  observations  of 
the  unities  of  time  and  place,  and  integrity  of 
scenes,  they  have  brought  on  themselves  that 
dearth  of  plot,  and  narrowness  of  imagination, 
which  may  be  observed  in  all  their  plays. 
How  many  beautiful  accidents  might  natu- 
rally happen  in  two  or  three  days,  which  can- 
not arrive  with  any  probability  in  the  com- 
pass of  twenty-four  hours?  There  is  time  to 
be  allowed  also  for  maturity  of  design,  which 
amongst  great  and  prudent  persons,  such  as 
are  often  represented  in  tragedy,  cannot,  with 
any  likelihood  of  truth,  be  brought  to  pass  at 
so  short  a  warning.  Farther,  by  tying  them- 
selves strictly  to  the  unity  of  place,  and  un- 
broken scenes,  they  are  forced  many  times  to 
omit  some  beauties  which  cannot  be  shown 


where  the  act  began ;  but  might,  if  the  scene 
were  interrupted,  and  the  stage  cleared  for 
the  persons  to  enter  in  another  place ;  and 
therefore  the  French  poets  are  often  forced 
upon  absurdities:  for  if  the  act  begins  in  a 
chamber,  all  the  persons  in  the  play  must  have 
some  business  or  other  to  come  thither,  or 
else  they  are  not  to  be  shown  that  act ;  and 
sometimes  their  characters  are  very  unfitting 
to  appear  there :  as  suppose  it  were  the  king's 
bed-chamber,  yet  the  meanest  man  in  the 
tragedy  must  comie  and  despatch  his  business 
there,  rather  than  in  the  lobby,  or  court-yard, 
(which  is  fitter  for  him,)  for  fear  the  stage 
should  be  cleared,  and  the  scenes  broken. 
Many  times  they  fall  by  it  into  a  greater  incon- 
venience ;  for  they  keep  their  scenes  un- 
broken, and  yet  change  the  place;  as  in  one 
of  their  newest  plays,  where  the  act  begins 
in  the  street.  There  a  gentleman  is  to  meet 
his  friend ;  he  sees  him  with  his  man,  coming 
out  from  his  father's  house ;  they  talk  to- 
gether, and  the  first  goes  out:  the  second, 
who  is  a  lover,  has  made  an  appointment 
with  his  mistress  ;  she  appears  at  the  window, 
and  then  we  are  to  imagine  the  scene  lies 
under  it.  This  gentleman  is  called  away,  and 
leaves  his  servant  with  his  mJstress  :  presently 
her  father  is  heard  from  within ;  the  young 
lady  is  afraid  the  serving-man  should  be  dis- 
covered, and  thrusts  him  into  a  place  of  safety, 
which  is  supposed  to  be  her  closet.  After 
this,  the  father  enters  to  the  daughter,  and  now 
the  scene  is  in  a  house :  for  he  is  seeking  from 
one  room  to  another  for  this  poor  Philipin,^  or 
French  Diego,  who  is  heard  from  within, 
drolling  and  breaking  many  a  miserable 
conceit  on  the  subject  of  his  sad  condition. 
In  this  ridiculous  manner  the  play  goes  for- 
ward, the  stage  being  never  empty  all  the 
while :  so  that  the  street,  the  window,  the 
two  houses,  and  the  closet,  are  made  to  walk 
about,  and  the  persons  to  stand  still.  Now, 
what,  I  beseech  you,  is  more  easy  than  to 
write  a  regular  French  play,  or  more  difficult 
than  to  write  an  irregular  English  one,  like 
those  of  Fletcher,  or  of  Shakespeare? 

If  they  content  themselves,  as  Corneille 
did,  with  some  flat  design,  which,  like  an  ill 
riddle,  is  found  out  ere  it  be  half  proposed, 
such  plots  we  can  make  every  way  regular  as 
easily  as  they ;  but  whenever  they  endeavour 
to  rise  to  any  quick  turns  and  counter-turns  of 


^  exact 


^  a  conventional  name  for  a  servant 


232 


JOHN    DRYDEN 


plot,  as  some  of  them  have  attempted,  since 
Corneille's  plays  have  been  less  in  vogue,  you 
see  they  write  as  irregularly  as  we,  though 
they  cover  it  more  speciously.  Hence  the 
reason  is  perspicuous,  why  no  French  plays, 
when  translated,  have,  or  ever  can  succeed  on 
the  English  stage.  For,  if  you  consider  the 
plots,  our  own  are  fuller  of  variety ;  if  the 
writing,  ours  are  more  quick  and  fuller  of 
spirit ;  and  therefore  'tis  a  strange  mistake 
in  those  who  decry  the  way  of  writing  plays  in 
verse,  as  if  the  English  therein  imitated  the 
French.  We  have  borrowed  nothing  from 
them  ;  our  plots  are  weaved  in  English  looms  : 
we  endeavour  therein  to  follow  the  variety 
and  greatness  of  characters,  which  are  de- 
rived to  us  from  Shakespeare  and  Fletcher ; 
the  copiousness  and  well-knitting  of  the  in- 
trigues we  have  from  Jonson ;  and  for  the 
verse  itself  we  have  English  precedents  of 
elder  date  than  any  of  Corneille's  plays.  Not 
to  name  our  old  comedies  before  Shakespeare, 
which  were  all  writ  in  verse  of  six  feet,  or 
Alexandrines,  such  as  the  French  now  use,  — 
I  can  show  in  Shakespeare,  many  scenes  of 
rhyme  together,  and  the  like  in  Ben  Jonson's 
tragedies:  in  "Catiline"  and  "Sejanus" 
sometimes  thirty  or  forty  lines,  —  I  mean  be- 
sides the  chorus,  or  the  monologues ;  which, 
by  the  way,  showed  Ben  no  enemy  to  this  way 
of  writing,  especially  if  you  read  his  "Sad 
Shepherd,"  which  goes  sometimes  on  rhyme, 
sometimes  on  blank  verse,  like  an  horse  who 
eases  himself  on  trot  and  amble.  You  find 
him  likewise  commending  Fletcher's  pastoral 
of  "The  Faithful  Shepherdess,"  which  is  for 
the  most  part  rhyme,  though  not  refined  to 
that  purity  to  which  it  hath  since  been 
brought.  And  these  examples  are  enough 
to  clear  us  from  a  servile  imitation  of  the 
French. 

But  to  return  whence  I  have  digressed :  I 
dare  boldly  afiirm  these  two  things  of  the 
English  drama ;  —  First,  that  we  have  many 
plays  o[  ours  as  regular  as  any  of  theirs,  and 
which,  besides,  have  more  variety  of  plot  and 
characters  ;  and,  secondly,  that  in  most  of  the 
irregular  plays  of  Shakespeare  or  Fletcher, 
(for  Ben  Jonson's  are  for  the  most  part  regu- 
lar), there  is  a  more  masculine  fancy,  and 
greater  spirit  in  the  writing,  than  there  is  in 
any  of  ihc  French.  I  could  produce  even  in 
Shakespeare's  and  Pletcher's  works,  some 
plays  which  are  almost  exactly  formed  ;  as  the 
"Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  and  "The  Scorn- 


ful Lady  "  :  ^  but,  because  (generally  speaking) 
Shakespeare,  who  writ  first,  did  not  perfectly 
observe  the  laws  of  comedy,  and  Fletcher, 
who  came  nearer  to  perfection,  yet  through 
carelessness  made  many  faults  ;  I  will  take  the 
pattern  of  a  perfect  play  from  Ben  Jonson, 
who  was  a  careful  and  learned  observer  of  the 
dramatic  laws,  and  from  all  his  comedies  I 
shall  select  "The  Silent  Woman;"  of  which 
I  v.'ill  make  a  short  examen,  according  to 
those  rules  which  the  French  observe. 

As  Neander  was  beginning  to  examine  "The 
Silent  Woman,"  Eugenius,  earnestly  regard- 
ing him :  I  beseech  you,  Neander,  said  he, 
gratify  the  company,  and  me  in  particular,  so 
far  as,  before  you  speak  of  the  play,  to  give 
us  a  character  of  the  author ;  and  tell  us 
frankly  your  opinion,  whether  you  do  not 
think  all  writers,  both  French  and  English, 
ought  to  give  place  to  him  ? 

I  fear,  repHed  Neander,  that,  in  obeying 
your  commands,  I  shall  draw  some  envy  on 
myself.  Besides,  in  performing  them,  it  will 
be  first  necessary  to  speak  somewhat  of 
Shakespeare  and  Fletcher,  his  rivals  in  poesy  ; 
and  one  of  them,  in  my  opinion,  at  least  his 
equal,  perhaps  his  superior. 

To  begin  then  with  Shakespeare.  He  was 
the  man  who  of  all  modern,  and  perhaps  an- 
cient poets,  had  the  largest  and  most  compre- 
hensive soul.  All  the  images  of  nature  were 
still  present  to  him,  and  he  drew  them  not 
laboriously,  but  luckily :  when  he  describes 
anything,  you  more  than  see  it,  you  feel  it  too. 
Those  who  accuse  him  to  have  wanted  learn- 
ing, give  him  the  greater  commendation :  he 
was  naturally  learned ;  he  needed  not  the 
spectacles  of  books  to  read  nature  ;  he  looked 
inwards,  and  found  her  there.  I  cannot  say 
he  is  everywhere  alike ;  were  he  so,  I  should 
do  him  injury  to  compare  him  with  the  great- 
est of  mankind.  He  is  many  times  flat, 
insipid ;  his  comic  wit  degenerating  into 
clenches,^  his  serious  swelling  into  bombast. 
But  he  is  always  great,  when  some  great  occa- 
sion is  presented  to  him :  no  man  can  say,  he 
ever  had  a  fit  subject  for  his  wit,  and  did  not 
then  raise  himself  as  high  above  the  rest  of 
poets. 

Quantum  lenta  solent  inter  viburna  cupressi} 

^  by  Fletcher  and  Beaumont  ^  comic  "  gags" 
'  As  do  the  tall  cypresses  above  the  laggard 
shrubs. 


AN    ESSAY    OF    DRAMATIC    POESY 


233 


The  consideration  of  this  made  Yir.  Hales 
of  Eton  say,  that  there  was  no  subject  of 
which  any  poet  ever  writ,  but  he  would  pro- 
duce it  much  better  done  in  Shakespeare ; 
and  however  others  are  now  generally  pre- 
ferred before  him,  yet  the  age  wherein  he 
lived,  which  had  contemporaries  with  him, 
Fletcher  and  Jonson,  never  equalled  them  to 
him  in  their  esteem:  and  in  the  last  king's 
court,  when  Ben's  reputation  was  at  highest, 
Sir  John  Suckling,  and  with  him  the  greater 
part  of  the  courtiers,  set  our  Shakespeare  far 
above  him. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  of  whom  I  am  next 
to  speak,  had,  with  the  advantage  of  Shake- 
speare's wit,  which  was  their  precedent,  great 
natural  gifts,  improved  by  study  ;  Beaumont 
especially  being  so  accurate  a  judge  of  plays, 
that  Ben  Jonson,  while  he  lived,  submitted 
all  his  writings  to  his  censure,  and  'tis  thought, 
used  his  judgment  in  correcting,  if  not  con- 
triving, all  his  plots.  What  value  he  had  for 
him,  appears  by  the  verses  he  writ  to  him ; 
and  therefore  I  need  speak  no  farther  of  it. 
The  first  play  that  brought  Fletcher  and  him 
in  esteem,  was  their  "Philaster";  for  before 
that,  they  had  written  two  or  three  very 
unsuccessfully :  as  the  like  is  reported  of  Ben 
Jonson,  before  he  writ  "Ever>^  INIan  in  his 
Humour."  Their  plots  were  generally  more 
regular  than  Shakespeare's,  especially  those 
which  were  made  before  Beaumont's  death ; 
and  they  understood  and  imitated  the  con- 
versation of  gentlemen  much  better ;  whose 
wild  debaucheries,  and  quickness  of  wit  in 
repartees,  no  poet  before  them  could  paint  as 
they  have  done.  Humour,^  which  Ben  Jonson 
derived  from  particular  persons,  they  made 
it  not  their  business  to  describe :  they  repre- 
sented all  the  passions  ver>'  lively,  but  above 
all,  love.  I  am  apt  to  believe  the  English 
language  in  them  arrived  to  its  highest  per- 
fection ;  what  words  have  since  been  taken  in, 
are  rather  superfluous  than  ornamental. 
Their  plays  are  now  the  m.ost  pleasant  and 
frequent  entertainments  of  the  stage ;  two  of 
theirs  being  acted  through  the  year  for  one  of 
Shakespeare's  or  Jonson's :  the  reason  is, 
because  there  is  a  certain  gaiety  in  their  come- 
dies, and  pathos  in  their  more  serious  plays, 
which  suits  generally  with  all  men's  humours. 
Shakespeare's   language   is   likewise    a   little 

^  a  natural  or  affected  peculiarity  of  thought  or 
action 


obsolete,  and  Ben  Jonson's  wit  comes  short 
of  theirs. 

As  for  Jonson,  to  whose  character  I  am  now 
arrived,  if  we  look  upon  him  while  he  was  him- 
self, (for  his  last  plays  were  but  his  dotages,) 
I  think  him  the  most  learned  and  judicious 
writer  which  any  theater  ever  had.  He  was  a 
most  severe  judge  of  himself,  as  well  as  others. 
One  cannot  say  he  wanted  wit,  but  rather  that 
he  v.'as  frugal  of  it.  In  his  works  you  find 
little  to  retrench  or  alter.  Wit  and  language, 
and  humour  also  in  some  measure,  we  had  be- 
fore him ;  but  something  of  art  was  wanting 
to  the  drama,  tiU  he  came.  He  managed  his 
strength  to  more  advantage  than  any  who 
preceded  him.  You  seldom  find  him  making 
love  in  any  of  his  scenes,  or  endeavouring  to 
move  the  passions ;  his  genius  was  too  sullen 
and  saturnine  to  do  it  gracefully,  especially 
when  he  knew  he  came  after  those  who  had 
performed  both  to  such  an  height.  Humour 
was  his  proper  sphere ;  and  in  that  he  de- 
lighted most  to  represent  mechanic  people.^ 
He  was  deeply  conversant  in  the  ancients, 
both  Greek  and  Latin,  and  he  borrowed  boldly 
from  them :  there  is  scarce  a  poet  or  historian 
among  the  Roman  authors  'of  those  times, 
whom  he  has  not  translated  in  "Sejanus" 
and  "Catiline."  But  he  has  done  his  rob- 
beries so  openly,  that  one  may  see  he  fears 
not  to  be  taxed  by  any  law.  He  invades 
authors  like  a  monarch ;  and  what  would  be 
theft  in  other  poets,  is  only  victory  in  him. 
With  the  spoils  of  these  writers  he  so  repre- 
sents old  Rome  to  us,  in  its  rites,  ceremonies, 
and  customs,  that  if  one  of  their  poets  had 
written  either  of  his  tragedies,  we  had  seea 
less  of  it  than  in  him.  If  there  was  any  fault 
in  his  language,  it  was,  that  he  weaved  it  too 
closely  and  laboriously,  in  his  comedies  espe- 
cially :  perhaps  too,  he  did  a  little  too  much 
Romanize  our  tongue,  leaving  the  words 
which  he  translated  almost  as  much  Latin  as 
he  found  them :  wherein,  though  he  learnedly 
followed  their  language,  he  did  not  enough 
comply  with  the  idiom  of  ours.  If  I  would 
compare  him  with  Shakespeare,  I  must  ac- 
knowledge him  the  more  correct  poet, 
but  Shakespeare  the  greater  wit.^  Shake- 
speare was  the  Homer,  or  father  of  our  dra- 
matic poets;  Jonson  was  the  Virgil,  the 
pattern  of  elaborate  writing;  I  admire  him, 
but  I  love  Shakespeare.     To  conclude  of  him ; 


tradespeople 


genius 


234 


SAMUEL    PEPYS 


as  he  has  given  us  the  most  correct  plays,  so 
in  the  precepts  which  he  has  laid  down  in  his 
"Discoveries,"  we  have  as  many  and  profit- 
able rules  for  perfecting  the  stage,  as  any 
wherewith  the  French  can  furnish  us. 


SAMUEL   PEPYS   (1633-1703) 
From  his  DIARY 

September  ist.  (Lord's  day.)  Last  night 
being  very  rainy,  [the  water]  broke  into  my 
house,  the  gutter  being  stopped,  and  spoiled 
all  my  ceilings  almost.  At  church  in  the 
morning.  After  dinner  we  were  very  merry 
with  Sir  W.  Pen  ^  about  the  loss  of  his  tankard, 
though  all  be  but  a  cheate,  and  he  do  not  yet 
understand  it ;  but  the  tankard  was  stole  by 
Sir  W.  Batten,  and  the  letter,  as  from  the 
thief,  wrote  by  me,  which  makes  veiy  good 
sport.  Captain  Holmes  and  I  by  coach  to 
White  Hall ;  in  our  way,  I  found  him  by  dis- 
course to  be  a  great  friend  of  my  Lord's,^  and 
he  told  me  there  was  a  many  did  seek  to  re- 
move him ;  but  they  were  old  seamen,  such  as 
Sir  J.  Minnes,  but  he  would  name  no  more, 
though  he  do  believe  Sir  W.  Batten  is  one  of 
them  that  do  envy  him,  but  he  says  he  knows 
that  the  King  do  so  love  him,  and  the  Duke 
of  York  too,  that  there  is  no  fear  of  him.  He 
seems  to  be  very  well  acquainted  with  the 
king's  mind,  and  with  all  the  several  factions 
at  Court,  and  spoke  all  with  so  much  frank- 
ness, that  I  do  take  him  to  be  my  Lord's 
good  friend,  and  one  able  to  do  him  great 
service,  being  a  cunning  fellow,  and  one,  by 
his  own  confession  to  me,  that  can  put  on  two 
several  faces,  and  look  his  enemies  in  the  face 
w'ith  as  much  love  as  his  friends.  But,  good 
God  !  what  an  age  is  this,  and  what  a  world 
is  this  !  that  a  man  cannot  live  wathout  play- 
ing the  knave  and  dissimulation. 

2d.  Mr.  Pickering  and  I  to  Westminster 
Hall  ^  again,  and  there  walked  an  houre  or  two 
talking,  and,  though  he  be  a  fool,  yet  he  keeps 
much  company,  and  will  tell  all  he  sees  or 
hears,  and  so  a  man  may  understand  what  the 
common  talk  of  the  town  is.     And  I  find  that 

*  an  English  admiral  and  commissioner  of  the 
Admiralty,  father  of  the  founder  of  Pennsylvania 
^  Edward  Montagu,  earl  of  Sandwich,  general  of 
the  English  fleet   ^  the  parliament  building 


there  are  endeavours  to  get  my  Lord  out  of 
play  at  sea,  which  I  believe  Mr.  Coventry  ^  and 
the  Duke  ^  do  think  will  make  them  more  abso- 
lute ;  but  I  hope  for  all  this,  they  will  not  be 
able  to  do  it.  My  wife  tells  me  that  she  met 
at  Change  ^  with  my  young  ladies  of  the  Ward- 
robe,'^ and  there  helped  them  to  buy  things, 
and  also  with  Mr.  Somerset,  who  did  give  her 
a  bracelet  of  rings,  which  did  a  little  trouble 
me,  though  I  know  there  is  no  hurt  yet  in  it, 
but  only  for  fear  of  further  acquaintance. 

3d.  Dined  at  home,  and  then  with  my 
wiife  to  the  Wardrobe,  where  my  Lady's  child 
was  christened,  my  Lord  Crewe  and  his  lady, 
and  my  Lady  Montagu,  my  Lord's  mother-in- 
law,  were  the  witnesses,  and  named  Catherine, 
the  Queen  elect's  name ;  but  to  my  and  all 
our  trouble,  the  Parson  of  the  parish  chris- 
tened her,  and  did  not  sign  the  child  with  the 
sign  of  the  cross.  After  that  was  done,  we 
had  a  very  fine  banquet. 

4th.  My  wife  come  to  me  to  Whitehall,^ 
and  we  went  and  w^alked  a  good  while  in  St. 
James's  Parke  to  see  the  brave  alterations. 

Sth.  Put  my  mother  and  Pall^  into  the 
wagon,  and  saw  them  going  presently  —  Pall 
crying  exceedingly.  To  my  uncle  Fenner's  to 
dinner,  in  the  way  meeting  a  French  footman 
with  feathers,  who  was  in  quest  of  my  wife, 
and  spoke  with  her  privately,  but  I  could  not 
tell  what  it  was,  only  my  wife  promised  to  go 
to  some  place  to-morrow  morning,  which  do 
trouble  my  mind  how  to  know  whither  it  was. 
My  wife  and  I  to  the  fair,  and  I  showed  her 
the  Italians  dancing  the  ropes,  and  the  women 
that  do  strange  tumbling  tricks. 

6th.  I  went  to  the  Theatre,  and  saw 
"Elder  Brother"^  acted;  meeting  herewith 
Sir  J.  Askew,  Sir  Theophilus  Jones,  and  an- 
other knight,  with  Sir  W.  Pen,  we  to  the  Ship 
taverne,  and  there  staid,  and  were  merry  till 
late  at  night. 

7  th.  Having  appointed  the  young  ladies  at 
the  Wardrobe  to  go  with  them  to  the  play  to- 
day, my  wife  and  I  took  them  to  the  Theatre, 
where  we  seated  ourselves  close  by  the  King, 

^Sir  William  Coventry,  M.P.,  later  a  commis- 
sioner of  the  Admiralty  ^  the  Duke  of  York,  Lord 
High  Admiral  ^  the  Royal  Exchan!;e,  where  there 
were  many  fine  shops  ''  The  Earl  of  Sandwich  had 
been  assigned  official  residence  at  the  King's  Ward- 
robe; the  young  ladies  belonged  to  his  family. 
^  the  royal  palace  '^  his  sister  Paulina  ''  a  play  by 
Fletcher 


HIS    DIARY 


235 


and  Duke  of  York,  and  Madame  Palmer,^ 
which  was  gi'eat  content ;  and,  indeed,  I  can 
never  enough  admire  her  beauty.  And  here 
was  ''Bartholomew  Fayre,"  ^  with  the  puppet- 
showe,  acted  to-day,  which  had  not  been  these 
forty  years,  it  being  so  satyrical  against  Puri- 
tanism, they  durst  not  till  now,  which  is 
strange  they  should  already  dare  to  do  it,  and 
the  King  to  countenance  it,  but  I  do  never  a 
whit  like  it  the  better  for  the  puppets,  but 
rather  the  worse.  Thence  home  wath  the 
ladies,  it  being  by  reason  of  our  staying  a 
great  w^hile  for  the  King's  coming,  and  the 
length  of  the  play,  near  nine  o'clock  before  it 
was  done. 

8th.  (Lord's  day.)  To  church,  and  com- 
ing home  again,  found  our  new  mayd  Doll 
asleep,  that  she  could  not  hear  to  let  us  in, 
so  that  we  w^ere  fain  to  send  a  boy  in  at  a 
window  to  open  the  door  to  us.  Begun  to 
look  over  my  accounts,  and,  upon  the  whole, 
I  do  find  myself,  by  what  I  can  yet  see,  worth 
near  600/,  for  which  God  be  blessed. 

9th.  To  Salisbury  Court  play-house,  where 
was  acted  the  first  timiC,  "'Tis  pity  she's  a 
W — e,"  ^  a  simple  play,  and  iU  acted,  only  it 
was  my  fortune  to  sit  by  a  most  pretty  and 
ingenious  lady,  w^hich  pleased  me  much. 
To  the  Dolphin,  to  drink  the  305.  that  we  got 
the  other  day  of  Sir  W.  Pen  about  his  tankard. 
Here  was  Sir  R.  Slingsby,  Holmes,  Captain 
Allen,  Mr.  Turner,  his  wife  and  daughter,  my 
Lady  Batten,  and  Mrs.  Martha,  &c.,  and  an 
excellent  company  of  fiddlers ;  so  we  exceed- 
ing merry  till  late ;  and  then  we  begun  to  tell 
Sir  W.  Pen  the  business,  but  he  had  been 
drinking  to-da)',  and  so  is  almost  gone,  that 
we  could  not  make  him  understand  it,  which 
caused  us  more  sport. 

nth.  To  Dr.  WUliams,  w'ho  did  carry  me 
into  his  garden,  where  he  hath  abundance  of 
grapes :  and  he  did  show^  me  how  a  dog  that 
he  hath  do  kUl  aU  the  cats  that  come  thither 
to  kill  his  pigeons,  and  do  afterwards  bury 
them ;  and  do  it  with  so  much  care  that  they 
shall  be  quite  covered;  that  if  the  tip  of  the 
tail  hangs  out,  he  will  take  up  the  cat  again, 
and  dig  the  hole  deeper,  which  is  very  strange  ; 
and  he  tells  me,  that  he  do  believe  he  hath 
killed  above  100  cats.  Home  to  my  house  to 
dinner,  where  I  found  my  wife's  brother  Baity 

*  mistress  of  the  King,  later  created  Duchess 
of  Cleveland  ^  a  comedy  by  Ben  Jonson  ^  a 
tragedy  by  John  Ford 


as  fine  as  hands  could  make  him,  and  his 
servant,  a  Frenchman,  to  wait  on  him,  and 
come  to  have  my  wife  \dsit  a  young  lady 
which  he  is  a  servant '  to,  and  have  hope  to 
trepan,^  and  get  for  his  wife.  I  did  give  w-ay 
for  my  wife  to  go  with  him.  Walking  through 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  observed  at  the  Opera 
a  new  play,  "  Twelfth  Night,"  was  acted  there, 
and  the  King  there :  so  I,  against  my  own 
mind  and  resolution,  could  not  forbear  to  go 
in,  which  did  make  the  play  seem  a  burthen 
to  me ;  and  I  took  no  pleasure  at  all  in  it : 
and  so,  after  it  was  done,  went  home  with  my 
mind  troubled  for  my  going  thither,  after  my 
swearing  to  my  wife  that  I  would  never  go  to 
a  play  without  her.  My  wife  was  with  her 
brother  to  see  his  mistress  ^  to-day,  and  says 
she  is  3'oung,  rich,  and  handsome,  but  not 
likely  for  him  to  get. 

1 2th.  To  my  Lady's  to  dinner  at  the  Ward- 
robe ;  and  in  my  way  upon  the  Thames,  I  saw 
the  King's  new  pleasure-boat  that  is  come  now 
for  the  Kiiig  to  take  pleasure  in  above  bridge, 
and  also  two  Gundaloes,*  that  are  lately 
brought,  -which  are  very  rich  and  fine.  Called 
at  Sir  W.  Batten's,  and  there  hear  that  Sir 
W.  Pen  do  take  our  jest  of  the  tankard  very 
ill,  which  I  am  sorry  for. 

13th.  I  was  sent  for  by  my  uncle  Fenner 
to  come  and  advise  about  the  burial  of  my 
aunt,  the  butcher,^  who  died  yesterday. 
Thence  to  the  Wardrobe,  where  I  found  my 
v.dfe,  and  thence  she  and  I  to  the  water  to 
spend  the  afternoon  in  pleasure,  and  so  we 
went  to  old  George's,^  and  there  eat  as  much 
as  w^e  would  of  a  hot  shoulder  of  mutton,  and 
so  to  boat  again  and  home. 

14th.  Before  we  had  dined  comes  Sir  R. 
Slingsby,  and  his  lady,  and  a  great  deal  of 
company,  to  take  my  wife  and  I  out  b}-  barge, 
to  show  them  the  King's  and  Duke's  yachts. 
We  had  great  pleasure,  seeing  all  four  yachts,  , 
viz.,  these  two,  and  the  two  Dutch  ones. 

15th.  (Lord's  day.)  To  my  aunt  Kate's  in 
the  morning,  to  help  my  uncle  Fenner  to  put 
things  in  order  against  anon  for  the  burial. 
After  sermon,  with  my  wife  to  the  burial  of 
my  aunt  Kite,  where,  besides  us  and  my  uncle 
Fenner's  family,  there  was  none  of  any  qual- 
ity, but  poor  and  rascally  people.  So  w^e  went 
to  church  with  the  corps,  and  there  had,  ser- 

^  suitor  ^  ensnare  ^  sweetheart  ^  two  gondolas, 
presented  to  the  King  by  the  Duke  of  Venice 
^  the  butcher's  wife   ^  a  tavern 


236 


SAMUEL   PEPYS 


vice  read  at  the  grave,  and  back  again  with 
Pegg  Kite,  who  will  be,  I  doubt,  a  troublesome 
carrion  to  us  executors,  but  if  she  will  not  be 
ruled,  I  shall  fling  up  my  executorship. 

1 6th.  Word  is  brought  me  from  my 
brother's,  that  there  is  a  fellow  come  from  my 
father  out  of  the  country,  on  purpose  to  speak 
with  me,  and  he  made  a  story  how  he  had 
lost  his  letter,  but  he  was  sure  it  was  for  me 
to  come  into  the  country,  which  I  beheved, 
but  I  afterwards  found  that  it  was  a  rogue 
that  did  use  to  play  such  tricks  to  get  money 
of  people,  but  he  got  none  of  me.  Letters 
from  my  father  informing  me  of  the  court,^ 
and  that  I  must  come  down  and  meet  him 
at  Impington,  which  I  presently  resolved  to  do. 

17th.  Got  up,  telling  my  wife  of  my  jour- 
ney, and  she  got  me  to  hire  her  a  horse  to  go 
along  with  me.  So  I  went  to  my  Lady's,  and 
of  Mr.  Townsend  did  borrow  a  very  fine 
side-saddle  for  my  wife,  and  so,  after  all 
things  were  ready,  she  and  I  took  coach  to 
the  end  of  the  towne  towards  Kingsland,  and 
there  got  upon  my  horse,  and  she  upon  her 
pretty  mare  that  I  hired  for  her,  and  she  rides 
very  well.  By  the  mare  at  one  time  falling, 
she  got  a  fall,  but  no  harm ;  so  we  got  to 
V/are,  and  there  supped,  and  went  to  bed. 

i8th.  Up  early,  and  begun  our  march  :  the 
way  about  Puckridge  very  bad,  and  my  wife, 
in  the  very  last  dirty  place  of  all,  got  a  fall, 
but  no  hurt,  though  some  dirt.  At  last,  she 
begun,  poor  wretch,  to  be  tired,  and  I  to  be 
angry  at  it,  but  I  was  to  blame ;  for  she  is  a 
very  good  companion  as  long  as  she  is  well. 
In  the  afternoon,  we  got  to  Cambridge,  where 
I  left  my  wife  at  my  cozen  Angler's,  while  I 
went  to  Christ's  College,  and  there  found  my 
brother  in  his  chamber,  and  talked  with  him, 
and  so  to  the  barber's,  and  then  to  my  wife 
again,  and  remounted  for  Impington,  where 
.my  uncle  received  me  and  my  wife  very 
kindly. 


2 2d.  (Lord's  day.)  To  church,  where 
we  had  common  prayer,  and  a  dull  sermon  by 
one  Mr.  Case,  who  yet  I  heard  sing  very  well. 

23d.  We  took  horse,  and  got  early  to  Bald- 
wick,  where  there  was  a  fair,  and  we  put  in, 
and  eat  a  mouthful  of  porke,  which  they  made 
us  pay  i^d.  for,  which  vexed  me  much.     And 

^  the  manorial  court  under  which  Pepys  held 
some  of  his  copyhold  estates 


so  away  to  Stevenage,  and  staid  till  a  shower 
was  over,  and  so  rode  easily  to  Welling.  We 
supped  well,  and  had  two  beds  in  the  room, 
and  so  lay  single. 

24th.  We  rose,  and  set  forth,  but  found  a 
most  sad  alteration  in  the  roade,  by  reason  of 
last  night's  rains,  they  being  now  all  dirty 
and  washy,  though  not  deep.  So  we  rode 
easily  through,  and  only  drinking  at  Hollo- 
way,  at  the  sign  of  a  woman  with  cakes  in 
one  hand,  and  a  pot  of  ale  in  the  other, ^  which 
did  give  good  occasion  of  mirth,  resembling 
her  to  the  maid  that  served  us,  we  got  home 
very  timely  and  well,  and  finding  there  all 
well,  and  letters  from  sea,  that  speak  of  my 
Lord's  being  well ;  and  his  Action,  though  not 
considerable  of  any  side,  at  Algiers. 

25th.  Sir  W.  Pen  told  me  that  I  need  not 
fear  any  reflection  upon  my  Lord  for  their  ill 
success  at  Argier,  for  more  could  not  be  done. 
Meeting  Sir  R.  Slingsby  in  St.  Martin's  Lane, 
he  and  I  in  his  coach  through  the  Mewes, 
which  is  the  way  that  now  all  coaches  are 
forced  to  go,  because  of  a  stop  at  Charing 
Crosse,  by  reason  of  digging  of  a  drayne  there 
to  clear  the  streets.  To  my  Lord  Crewe's,  and 
dined  with  him,  where  I  was  used  with  all  im- 
aginable kindness  both  from  him  and  her. 
And  I  see  that  he  is  afraid  my  Lord's  reputa- 
con  will  a  little  suffer  in  common  talk  by  this 
late  successe ;  but  there  is  no  help  for  it  now. 
The  Queen  of  England,  as  she  is  now  owned 
and  called,  I  hear,  doth  keep  open  court,  and 
distinct  at  Lisbone.  To  the  Theatre,  and 
saw  "The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor"  ill  done. 

26th.  With  my  wife  by  coach  to  the  Thea- 
tre, to  show  her  "  King  and  no  King,"  ^  it  being 
very  well  done. 

27th.  At  noon,  met  my  wife  at  the  Ward- 
robe ;  and  there  dined,  where  we  found  Cap- 
tain Country,  my  little  Captain  that  I  loved, 
who  carried  me  to  the  Sound, ^  with  some  grapes 
and  millons  *  from  my  Lord  at  Lisbone,  the 
first  that  ever  I  saw ;  but  the  grapes  are  rare 
things.  In  the  afternoon  comes  Mr.  Edward 
Montagu,  by  appointment  this  morning,  to 
talk  with  my  Lady  and  me  about  the  provi- 
sions fit  to  be  bought  and  sent  to  my  Lord 

^  the  original  of  the  sign  called  Mother  Redcap 
^  a  play  by  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  ^  Pepys  had 
accompanied  Sir  Edward  Montagu  on  his  vo3'age 
to  the  Sound  (a  narrow  passage  between  Sweden 
and  the  Danish  island  of  Zealand)  in  1658. 
*  melons 


SAMUEL    BUTLER 


237 


along  with  him.  And  told  us,  that  we  need 
not  trouble  ourselves  how  to  buy  them,  for 
the  King  would  pay  for  all,  and  that  he  would 
take  care  to  get  them :  which  put  my  Lady 
and  me  into  a  great  deal  of  ease  of  mind. 
Here  we  stayed  and  supped  too ;  and,  after 
my  wife  had  put  up  some  of  the  grapes  in  a 
basket  for  to  be  sent  to  the  King,  we  took 
coach  and  home,  where  we  found  a  hamper  of 
millons  sent  to  me  also. 

28th.  Sir  W.  Pen  and  his  daughter,  and  I 
and  my  wife,  to  the  Theatre,  and  there  saw 
"Father's  own  Son,"  ^  a  very  good  play,  and 
the  first  time  I  ever  saw  it. 

29th.  (Lord's  day.)  What  at  dinner  and 
supper  I  drink,  I  know  not  how,  of  my  own 
accord,  so  much  wine,  that  I  was  even  almost 
foxed,  and  m.y  head  ached  all  night ;  so  home 
and  to  bed,  without  prayers,  which  I  never  did 
yet,  since  I  come  to  the  house,  of  a  Sunday 
night :  I  being  now  so  out  of  order  that  I  durst 
not  read  prayers,  for  fear  of  being  perceived 
by  my  servants  in  what  case  I  was. 


SAMUEL   BUTLER    (161 2-1 680) 

HUDIBRAS 
PART   I.     From   CANTO  I 

We  grant,  altho'  he  had  much  wit, 

H'  was  very  shy  of  using  it. 

As  being  loath  to  wear  it  out ; 

And  therefore  bore  it  not  about, 

Unless  on  holidays  or  so. 

As  men  their  best  apparel  do.  50 

Beside,  'tis  known  he  could  speak  Greek 

As  naturally  as  pigs  squeak ; 

That  Latin  was  no  more  difficile. 

Than  to  a  blackbird  'tis  to  whistle  : 

Being  rich  in  both,  he  never  scanted 

His  bounty  unto  such  as  wanted ; 

But  much  of  either  would  afford 

To  many  that  had  not  one  word. 

For  Hebrew  roots,  altho'  they're  found 

To  flourish  m.ost  in  barren  ground,  60 

He  had  such  plenty  as  sufficed 

To  make  some  think  him  circumcised : 

And  truly  so  perhaps  he  was, 

'Tis  many  a  pious  Christian's  case. 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic, 
Profoundly  skill'd  in  analytic : 

^  an  old  play,  by  an  unknown  author 


He  could  distinguish,  and  divide 

A  hair  'twixt  south  and  south-west  side ; 

On  either  which  he  would  dispute. 

Confute,  change  hands,  and  still  confute.      70 

He'd  undertake  to  prove,  by  force 

Of  argument,  a  man's  no  horse ; 

He'd  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl, 

And  that  a  lord  may  be  an  owl, 

A  calf  an  alderman,  a  goose  a  justice. 

And  rooks  committee-men  and  trustees. 

He'd  run  in  debt  by  disputation, 

And  pay  with  ratiocination. 

All  this  by  syllogism,  true 

In  mood  and  figure,  he  would  do.  80 

For  rhetoric,  he  could  not  ope 
His  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  a  trope ; 
And  when  he  happen'd  to  break  off 
I'  th'  middle  of  his  speech,  or  cough, 
H'  had  hard  words  ready  to  show  why, 
And  tell  what  rules  he  did  it  by ; 
Else,  when  with  greatest  art  he  spoke, 
You'd  think  he  talk'd  like  other  folk  : 
For  all  a  rhetorician's  rules 
Teach  nothing  but  to  name  his  tools.  90 

But,  when  he  pleased  to  show't,  his  speech 
In  loftiness  of  sound  was  rich ; 
A  Babylonish  dialect, 
Which  learned  pedants  much  affect ; 
It  was  a  party-colour'd  dress 
Of  patch'd  and  piebald  languages  r 
'Twas  English  cut  on  Greek  and  Latin, 
Like  fustian  heretofore  on  satin  ; 
It  had  an  odd  promiscuous  tone, 
As  if  h'  had  talk'd  three  parts  in  one  ;         100 
Which  made  some  think,  when  he  did  gabble, 
Th'  had  heard  three  labourers  of  Babel, 
Or  Cerberus  himself  pronounce 
A  leash  of  languages  at  once. 


Beside,  he  was  a  shrewd  philosopher, 
And  had  read  every  text  and  gloss  over ; 
Whate'er  the  crabbed'st  author  hath. 
He  understood  b'  implicit  faith  ;  130 

Whatever  sceptic  could  inquire  for. 
For  every  why  he  had  a  wherefore ; 
Knew  more  than  forty  of  them  do. 
As  far  as  words  and  terms  could  go ; 
All  which  he  understood  by  rote, 
And,  as  occasion  served,  would  quote  ; 
No  matter  whether  right  or  wTong, 
They  might  be  either  said  or  sung. 
His  notions  fitted  things  so  well, 
That  which  was  which  he  could  not  tell,     140 
But  oftentimes  mistook  the  one 


238 


OLDHAM    AND    LOCKE 


For  th'  other,  as  great  clerks  have  done. 
He  could  reduce  all  things  to  acts, 
And  knew  their  natures  by  abstracts ; 
Where  Entity  and  Quiddity, 
The  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies,  fly ; 
Where  truth  in  person  does  appear, 
Like  words  congeal'd  in  northern  air. 
He  knew  what's  what,  and  that's  as  high 
As  metaphysic  Avit  can  fly.  150 

JOHN   OLDHAM   (1653-1683) 

From   A    SATIRE    DISSUADING    FROM 
POETRY 

'Tis  so,  'twas  ever  so,  since  heretofore 
The  blind  old  bard,  with  dog  and  bell  before, 
Was  fain  to  sing  for  bread  from  door  to  door : 
The  needy  muses  all  turn'd  Gipsies  then,  159 
And,  of  the  begging-trade,  e'er  since  have 
been: 


My  own  hard  usage  here  I  need  not  press 
Where  you  have  ev'ry  day  before  your  face 
Plenty  of  fresh  resembling  instances  : 
Great  Cowley's  muse  the  same  ill  treatment 

had. 
Whose  verse  shall  live  forever  to  upbraid   171 
Th'  ungrateful  world,  that  left  such  worth 

unpaid. 
Waller  himself  may  thank  inheritance 
For  what  he  else  had  never  got  by  sense. 
On  Butler  who  can  think  without  just  rage, 
The  glory,  and  the  scandal  of  the  age  ? 
Fair  stood  his  hopes,  when  first  he  came  to 

town. 
Met,  ev'ry  where,  with  welcomes  of  renown, 
Courted,  caress'd  by  all,  with  wonder  read, 
And  promises  of  princely  favour  fed ;  180 

But  what  reward  for  all  had  he  at  last, 
After  a  life  in  dull  expectance  pass'd? 
The  wretch,  at  summing  up  his  misspent  days. 
Found  nothing  left,  but  poverty,  and  praise. 
Of  all  his  gains  by  verse  he  could  not  save 
Enough  to  purchase  flannel,  and  a  grave : 
Reduc'd  to  want,  he,  in  due  time,  fell  sick, 
Was  fain  to  die,  and  be  interr'd  on  tick ; 
And  well  might  bless  the  fever  that  was  sent. 
To  rid  him  hence,  and  his  worse  fate  prevent. 
You've  seen  what  fortune  other  poets  share  ; 
View  ne5!;t  the  factors  of  the  theatre :  192 

That  constant  mart,  which  all  the  year  does 

hold. 


Where   staple   wit   is  barter'd,  bought,  and 

sold. 
Here  trading  scriblers  for  their  maintenance, 
And  hvelihood,  trust  to  a  lott'ry-chance. 
But  who  his  parts  would  in  the  service  spend, 
Where  all  his  hopes  on  vulgar  breath  depend? 
Where  ev'ry  sot,  for  paying  half  a  crown ,^ 
Has  the  prerogative  to  cry  him  down.         200 
Sedley  indeed  may  be  content  with  fame. 
Nor    care,    should    an    iU-judging    audience 

damn ; 
But  Settle,  and  the  rest,  that  write  for  pence, 
Whose  whole  estate's  an  ounce  or  two  of 

brains. 
Should  a  thin  house  on  tlie  third  day  appear, 
Must  starve,  or  live  in  tatters  all  the  year. 
And  what  can  we  expect  that's  brave   and 

great. 
From  a  poor  needy  wretch,  that  writes  to  eat  ? 
Who  the  success  of  the  next  play  must  wait 
For  lodging,  food,  and  clothes,  and  whose 

chief  care  210 

Is  how  to  spunge  for  the  next  meal,   and 

where  ? 


JOHN   LOCKE    (163  2-1 704) 

From     OF     THE     CONDUCT     OF  THE 
UNDERSTANDING 

4.  Of  Practice  and  Habits.  —  We  are  born 
with  faculties  and  powers  capable  almost  of 
anj'thing,  such  at  least  as  Avould  carry  us 
further  than  can  easily  be_  imagined :  but  it 
is  only  the  exercise  of  those  powers  which 
gives  us  ability  and  skill  in  anything,  and  leads 
us  towards  perfection. 

A  middle-aged  ploughman  will  scarce  ever 
be  brought  to  the  carriage  and  language  of  a 
gentleman,  though  his  body  be  as  well-pro- 
portioned, and  his  joints  as  supple,  and  his 
natural  parts  not  any  way  inferior.  The  legs 
of  a  dancing-master  and  the  fingers  of  a 
musician  fall  as  it  were  naturally,  without 
thought  or  pains,  into  regular  and  admirable 
motions.  Bid  them  change  their  parts,  and 
they  will  in  vain  endeavour  to  produce  hke 
motions  in  the  members  not  used  to  them, 
and  it  will  require  length  of  time  and  long 
practice  to  attain  but  some  degrees  of  a  like 
abihty.     What  incredible  and  astonishing  ac- 


^  the  price  of  a  good  seat 


JOHN    BUNYAN 


239 


tions  do  we  find  rope-dancers  and  tumblers 
bring  their  bodies  to  !  Not  but  that  sundry  in 
almost  all  manual  arts  are  as  wonderful ;  but 
I  name'those  which  the  world  takes  notice  of 
for  such,  because  on  that  very  account  they 
give  money  to  see  them.  All  these  admired 
motions,  beyond  the  reach  and  almost  con- 
ception of  unpractised  spectators,  are  nothing 
but  the  mere  effects  of  use  and  industry  in 
men  whose  bodies  have  nothing  peculiar  in 
them  from  those  of  the  amazed  lookers-on. 

As  it  is  in  the  body,  so  it  is  in  the  mind : 
practice  makes  it  what  it  is ;  and  most  even 
of  those  excellencies  which  are  looked  on  as 
natural  endowments,  wiU  be  found,  when 
examined  into  more  narrowly,  to  be  the  prod- 
uct of  exercise,  and  to  be  raised  to  that  pitch 
only  by  repeated  actions.  Some  men  are  re- 
marked for  pleasantness  in  raillery  ;  others  for 
apologues  and  apposite  diverting  stories.  This 
is  apt  to  be  taken  for  the  effect  of  pure  nature, 
and  that  the  rather  because  it  is  not  got  by 
rules,  and  those  who  excel  in  either  of  them 
never  purposely  set  themselves  to  the  study  of 
it  as  an  art  to  be  learnt.  But  yet  it  is  true, 
that  at  first  some  lucky  hit,  which  took  with 
somebody  and  gained  him  cormnendation,  en- 
couraged him  to  try  again,  inclined  his 
thoughts  and  endeavours  that  way,  till  at  last 
he  insensibly  got  a  facility  in  it,  without  per- 
ceiving how  ;  and  that  is  attributed  wholly  to 
nature  which  was  much  more  the  effect  of  use 
and  practice.  I  do  not  deny  that  natural 
disposition  may  often  give  the  first  rise  to  it, 
but  that  never  carries  a  man  far  without  use 
and  exercise,  and  it  is  practice  alone  that 
brings  the  powers  of  the  mind,  as  well  as  those 
of  the  body,  to  their  perfection.  ^Many  a 
good  poetic  vein  is  buried  under  a  trade,  and 
never  produces  anything  for  want  of  improve- 
ment. We  see  the  ways  of  discourse  and 
reasoning  are  very  different,  even  concerning 
the  same  matter,  at  court  and  in  the  university. 
And  he  that  will  go  but  from  Westminster- 
haU^  to  the  Exchange  will  find  a  different 
genius  and  turn  in  their  ways  of  talking ;  and 
yet  one  cannot  think  that  all  whose  lot  fell 
in  the  city  were  bom  with  different  parts  ^ 
from  those  who  were  bred  at  the  university 
or  inns  of  court. 

To  what  purpose  all  this  but  to  show  that 
the  difference  so  observable  in  men's  under- 
standings and  parts  does  not  arise  so  much 

^  i.e.,  from  courtiers  to  tradesmen    ^  abilities 


from  their  natural  faculties  as  acquired  habits. 
He  would  be  laughed  at  that  should  go  about 
to  make  a  fine  dancer  out  of  a  country  hedger 
at  past  fifty.  And  he  will  not  have  much 
better  success  who  shall  endeavour  at  that 
age  to  make  a  man  reason  well,  or  speak 
handsomely,  who  has  never  been  used  to  it, 
though  you  should  lay  before  him  a  collection 
of  all  the  best  precepts  of  logic  or  oratory. 
Nobody  is  made  anything  by  hearing  of  rules 
or  laying  them  up  in  his  memory;  practice 
must  settle  the  habit  of  doing  without  reflect- 
ing on  the  rule  ;  and  you  may  as  well  hope  to 
make  a  good  painter  or  musician  extempore, 
by  a  lecture  and  instruction  in  the  arts  of 
music  and  painting,  as  a  coherent  thinker  or  a 
strict  reasoner  by  a  set  of  rules  showing  him 
wherein  right  reasoning  consists. 

This  being  so  that  defects  and  weakness  in 
men's  understanding,  as  well  as  other  facul- 
ties, come  from  want  of  a  right  use  of  their 
own  minds,  I  am  apt  to  think  the  fault  is 
generally  mislaid  upon  nature,  and  there  is 
often  a  complaint  of  want  of  parts  when  the 
fault  lies  in  want  of  a  due  improvement  of 
them.  We  see  men  frequently  dexterous  and 
sharp  enough  in  making  a  bargain  who,  if  you 
reason  with  them  about  matters  of  rehgion, 
appear  perfectly  stupid. 

JOHN   BUNYAN    (1628-1688) 

From  THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS 
THE   FIGHT  WITH  APOLLYON 

Then  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  these  good 
companions,  when  Christian  was  gone  to  the 
bottom  of  the  hill,  gave  him  a  loaf  of  bread, 
a  bottle  of  wine,  and  a  cluster  of  raisins ;  and 
then  he  went  on  his  way. 

But  nov^r,  in  this  Valley  of  Humiliation,  poor 
Christian  w'as  hard  put  to  it ;  for  he  had  gone 
but  a  little  way,  before  he  espied  a  foul  fiend 
coming  over  the  field  to  meet  him ;  his  name 
is  ApoUyon.  Then  did  Christian  begin  to  be 
afraid,  and  to  cast  in  his  mind  whether  to  go 
back  or  to  stand  his  groimd.  But  he  consid- 
ered again  that  he  had  no  armour  for  his  back ; 
and,  therefore,  thought  tliat  to  turn  the  back 
to  him  might  give  him  the  greater  advantage, 
with  ease  to  pierce  him  with  his  darts.  There- 
fore he  resolved  to  venture  and  stand  his 
ground ;    for,  thought  he,  had  I  no  more  in 


240 


JOHN    BUNYAN 


mine  eye  than  the  saving  of  my  life,  it  would 
be  the  best  way  to  stand. 

So  he  went  on,  and  ApoUyon  met  him. 
Now  the  monster  was  hideous  to  behold ;  he 
was  clothed  with  scales,  like  a  fish  (and  they 
are  his  pride),  he  had  wings  like  a  dragon, 
feet  like  a  bear,  and  out  of  his  belly  came  fire 
and  smoke,  and  his  mouth  was  as  the  mouth 
of  a  lion.  When  he  was  come  up  to  Christian, 
he  beheld  him  with  a  disdainful  countenance, 
and  thus  began  to  question  with  him. 

A  pol.  Whence  come  you  ?  and  whither  are 
you  bound? 

Chr.  I  am  come  from  the  City  of  Destruc- 
tion, which  is  the  place  of  all  evil,  and  am 
going  to  the  City  of  Zion. 

A  pol.  By  this  I  perceive  thou  art  one  of  my 
subjects,  for  all  that  country  is  mine,  and  I  am 
the  prince  and  god  of  it.  How  is  it,  then,  that 
thou  hast  run  away  from  thy  king  ?  Were  it 
not  that  I  hope  thou  mayest  do  me  more  ser- 
vice, I  would  strike  thee  now,  at  one  blow,  to 
the  ground. 

Chr.  I  was  born,  indeed,  in  your  dominions, 
but  your  service  was  hard,  and  your  wages 
such  as  a  man  could  not  live  on,  "  for  the  wages 
of  sin  is  death ;"  therefore,  when  I  was  come 
to  years,  I  did  as  other  considerate  persons  do, 
look  out,  if,  perhaps,  I  might  mend  myself. 

Apol.  There  is  no  prince  that  will  thus 
lightly  lose  his  subjects,  neither  will  I  as  yet 
lose  thee ;  but  since  thou  complainest  of  thy 
service  and  wages,  be  content  to  go  back ; 
what  our  country  will  afford,  I  do  here  promise 
to  give  thee. 

Chr.  But  I  have  let  myself  to  another,  even 
to  the  King  of  princes ;  and  how  can  I,  with 
fairness,  go  back  with  thee? 

Apol.  Thou  hast  done  in  this  according  to 
the  proverb,  'Changed  a  bad  for  a  worse;' 
but  it  is  ordinary  for  those  that  have  professed 
themselves  his  servants,  after  a  while  to  give 
him  the  slip,  and  return  again  to  me.  Do 
thou  so  too,  and  all  shall  be  well. 

Chr.  I  have  given  him  my  faith,  and  sworn 
my  allegiance  to  him;  how,  then,  can  I  go 
back  from  this,  and  not  be  hanged  as  a  traitor? 

Apol.  Thou  didst  the  same  to  me,  and  yet 
I  am  willing  to  pass  by  all,  if  now  thou  wilt 
yet  turn  again  and  go  back. 

Chr.  What  I  promised  thee  was  in  my 
nonage ;  and,  besides,  I  count  the  Prince 
under  whose  banner  now  I  stand  is  able  to 
absolve  me ;  yea,  and  to  pardon  also  what  I 
did  as  to  my  compliance  with  thee ;    and  be- 


sides, O  thou  destroying  ApoUyon  !  to  speak 
truth,  I  like  his  service,  his  w^ages,  his  servants, 
his  government,  his  company,  and  country, 
better  than  thine ;  and,  therefore,  leave  off 
to  persuade  me  further;  I  am  his  servant, 
and  I  will  follow  him. 

Apol.  Consider  again,  when  thou  art  in  cool 
blood,  what  thou  art  like  to  meet  with  in  the 
way  that  thou  goest.  Thou  knowest  that,  for 
the  most  part,  his  servants  come  to  an  ill  end, 
because  they  are  transgressors  against  me  and 
my  ways.  How  many  of  them  have  been  put 
to  shameful  deaths  !  and,  besides,  thou  count- 
est  his  service  better  than  mine,  whereas  he 
never  came  yet  from  the  place  where  he  is  to 
deliver  any  that  served  him  out  of  their  hands ; 
but  as  for  me,  how  many  times,  as  all  the 
world  very  well  knows,  have  I  delivered,  either 
by  power  or  fraud,  those  that  have  faithfully 
served  me,  from  him  and  his,  though  taken  by 
them ;  and  so  I  will  deliver  thee. 

Chr.  His  forbearing  at  present  to  deliver 
them  is  on  purpose  to  try  their  love,  whether 
they  will  cleave  to  him  to  the  end ;  and  as 
for  the  ill  end  thou  sayest  they  come  to,  that  is 
most  glorious  in  their  account ;  for,  for  present 
deliverance,  they  do  not  much  expect  it,  for 
they  stay  for  their  glory,  and  then  they  shall 
have  it,  when  their  Prince  comes  in  his  and 
the  glory  of  the  angels. 

Apol.  Thou  hast  already  been  unfaithful  in 
thy  service  to  him ;  and  how  dost  thou  think 
to  receive  wages  of  him  ? 

Chr.  Wherein,  O  ApoUyon  !  have  I  been 
unfaithful  to  him? 

Apol.  Thou  didst  faint  at  first  setting  out, 
when  thou  wast  almost  choked  in  the  Gulf  of 
Despond ;  thou  didst  attempt  wrong  ways  to 
be  rid  of  thy  burden,  whereas  thou  shouldest 
have  stayed  till  thy  Prince  had  taken  it  off ; 
thou  didst  sinfully  sleep,  and  lose  thy  choice 
thing ;  thou  wast,  also,  almost  persuaded  to 
go  back,  at  the  sight  of  the  lions ;  and  when 
thou  talkest  of  thy  journey,  and  of  what  thou 
hast  heard  and  seen,  thou  art  inwardly  desir- 
ous of  vain-glory  in  all  that  thou  sayest  or 
do  est. 

Chr.  All  this  is  true,  and  much  more  which 
thou  hast  left  out ;  but  the  Prince,  whom  I 
serve  and  honour,  is  merciful,  and  ready  to 
forgive ;  but,  besides,  these  infirmities  pos- 
sessed me  in  thy  country,  for  there  I  sucked 
them  in  ;  and  I  have  groaned  under  them, 
been  sorry  for  them,  and  have  obtained 
pardon  of  my  Prince. 


THE    PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS 


241 


Apol.  Then  Apollyon  broke  out  into  a 
grievous  rage,  saying,  I  am  an  enemy  to  this 
Prince  ;  I  hate  his  person,  his  laws,  and  people ; 
I  am  come  out  on  purpose  to  withstand  thee. 

Chr.  Apollyon,  beware  what  you  do  ;  fori 
am  in  the  king's  highway,  the  way  of  holiness, 
therefore  take  heed  to  yourself. 

Apol.  Then  Apollyon  straddled  quite  over 
the  whole  breadth  of  the  way,  and  said,  I  am 
void  of  fear  in  this  matter  :  prepare  thyself  to 
die  ;  for  I  swear  by  my  infernal  den ,  that  thou 
shalt  go  no  further  ;   here  will  I  spill  ^  thy  soul. 

And  with  that  he  threw  a  flaming  dart  at  his 
breast ;  but  Christian  had  a  shield  in  his  hand, 
with  which  he  caught  it,  and  so  prevented  the 
danger  of  that. 

Then  did  Christian  draw ;  for  he  saw  it  was 
time  to  bestir  him  :  and  Apollyon  as  fast  made 
at  him,  throwing  darts  as  thick  as  hail ;  by 
the  which,  notwithstanding  all  that  Christian 
could  do  to  avoid  it,  Apollyon  w^ounded  him 
in  his  head,  his  hand,  and  foot.  This  made 
Christian  give  a  little  back  ;  Apollyon,  there- 
fore, followed  his  work  amain,  and  Christian 
again  took  courage,  and  resisted  as  manfully 
as  he  could.  This  sore  combat  lasted  for 
above  half  a  day,  even  tiU  Christian  was  al- 
most quite  spent ;  for  you  must  know,  that 
Christian,  by  reason  of  his  wounds,  must 
needs  grow  W'caker  and  weaker. 

Then  Apollyon,  esp>'ing  his  opportunity, 
began  to  gather  up  close  to  Christian,  and 
wrestling  with  him,  gave  him  a  dreadfid  fall ; 
and  with  that.  Christian's  sword  flew  out  of 
his  hand.  Then  said  Apollyon,  I  am  sure  of 
thee  now.  And  with  that  he  had  almost 
pressed  him  to  death  ;  so  that  Christian  began 
to  despair. of  life:  but  as  God  would  have  it, 
while  Apollyon  was  fetching  of  his  last  blow, 
thereby  to  make  a  full  end  of  this  good  man. 
Christian  nimbly  stretched  out  his  hand  for 
his  sword,  and  caught  it,  saying,  "Rejoice 
not  against  me,  0  mine  enemy :  when  I  fall, 
I  shall  arise;"  and  with  that  gave  him  a 
deadly  thrust,  which  made  him  give  back,  as 
one  that  had  received  his  mortal  wound. 
Christian  perceiving  that,  made  at  him  again, 
saying  ;  "  Nay,  in  all  these  things  we  are  more 
than  conquerors,  through  him  that  loved  us." 
And  with  that  Apollyon  spread  forth  his 
dragon's  wangs,  and  sped  him  away,  that 
Christian  for  a  season  saw  him  no  more. 

In  this  combat  no  man  can  imagine,  unless 


he  had  seen  and  heard  as  I  did,  what  yelling 
and  hideous  roaring  Apollyon  made  aU  the 
time  of  the  fight  —  he  spake  like  a  dragon ; 
and,  on  the  other  side,  what  sighs  and  groans 
burst  from  Christian's  heart.  I  never  saw 
him  all  the  whUe  give  so  much  as  one  pleasant 
look,  till  he  perceived  he  had  wounded  Apol- 
lyon with  his  two-edged  sword  ;  then,  indeed, 
he  did  smile,  and  look  upward  ;  but  it  was  the 
dreadfulest  sight  that  ever  I  saw. 

VAXITY   FAIR 

Then  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  when  they 
were  got  out  of  the  wilderness,  tliey  presently 
saw  a  town  before  them,  and  the  name  of  that 
town  is  \'anity  ;  and  at  the  town  there  is  a  fair 
kept,  called  Vanity  Fair :  it  is  kept  all  the  year 
long  ;  it  beareth  the  name  of  \'anity  Fair,  be- 
cause the  town  where  it  is  kept  is  lighter  than 
vanity  ;  and  also  because  all  that  is  there  sold, 
or  that  Cometh  thither,  is  vanity.  As  is  the 
saying  of  the  w'ise,  "All  that  cometh  is  van- 

ity-". 

This  fair  is  no  new-erected  business,  but  a 
thing  of  ancient  standing  ;  I  w'ill  show  you  the 
original^  of  it. 

Almost  five  thousand  years  agone,  there 
were  pilgrims  w'alking  to  the  Celestial  City  as 
these  two  honest  persons  are :  and  Beelzebub, 
Apollyon,  and  Legion,  with  their  companions, 
perceiving  by  the  path  that  the  pilgrims  made, 
that  their  way  to  the  city  lay  through  this 
town  of  Vanity,  they  contrived  here  to  set 
up  a  fair;  a  fair  wherein  should  be  sold  aU 
sorts  of  vanity,  and  that  it  should  last  all  the 
year  long ;  therefore  at  this  fair  are  all  such 
merchandise  sold,  as  houses,  lands,  trades, 
places,  honours,  preferments,  titles,  countries, 
kingdoms,  lusts,  pleasures,  and  delights  of  all 
sorts,  as  whores,  bawds,  wives,  husbands, 
children,  masters,  servants,  lives,  blood, 
bodies,  souls,  silver,  gold,  pearls,  precious 
stones,  and  what  not. 

And,  moreover,  at  this  fair  there  is  at  all 
times  to  be  seen  juggling,  cheats,  games,  plays, 
fools,  apes,  knaves,  and  rogues,  and  that  of 
every  kind. 

Here  are  to  be  seen  too,  and  that  for  nothing, 
thefts,  murders,  adulteries,  false  swearers,  and 
that  of  a  blood-red  colour. 

And  as  in  other  fairs  of  less  moment,  there 
are  the  several  rows  and  streets,  under  their 


^  destroy 


ongin 


242 


JOHN    BUNYAN 


proper  names,  v/here  such  and  such  wares  are 
vended ;  so  here  Hkewise  you  have  the  proper 
places,  rows,  streets  (viz.  countries  and  king- 
doms), where  the  wares  of  this  fair  are  soonest 
to  be  found.  Here  is  the  Britain  Row,  the 
French  Row,  the  Itahan  Row,  the  Spanish 
Row,  the  German  Row,  where  several  sorts 
of  vanities  are  to  be  sold.  But,  as  in  other 
fairs,  some  one  commodity  is  as  the  chief  of  all 
the  fair,  so  the  ware  of  Rome  and  her  merchan- 
dise is  greatly  promoted  in  this  fair ;  only  our 
English  nation,  with  some  others,  have  taken 
a  dislike  thereat. 

Now,  as  I  said,  the  way  to  the  Celestial  City 
Hes  just  through  this  town  where  this  lusty 
fair  is  kept ;  and  he  that  will  go  to  the  City, 
and  yet  not  go  through  this  town,  must  needs 
"go  out  of  the  world."  The  Prince  of  princes 
himself,  when  here,  went  throvigh  this  town 
to  his  own  country,  and  that  upon  a  fair  day 
too ;  yea,  and  as  I  think,  it  was  Beelzebub, 
the  chief  lord  of  this  fair,  that  invited  him  to 
buy  of  his  vanities ;  yea,  would  have  made 
him  lord  of  the  fair,  would  he  but  have  done 
him  reverence  as  he  went  through  the  town. 
Yea,  because  he  was  such  a  person  of  honour, 
Beelzebub  had  him  from  street  to  street, 
and  showed  him  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world 
in  a  little  time,  that  he  might  if  possible,  allure 
the  Blessed  One  to  cheapen^  and  buy  some  of 
his  vanities ;  but  he  had  no  mind  to  the  mer- 
chandise, and  therefore  left  the  town,  without 
laying  out  so  much  as  one  farthing  upon  these 
vanities.  This  fair,  therefore,  is  an  ancient 
thing,  of  long  standing,  and  a  very  great  fair. 
Now  these  Pilgrims,  as  I  said,  must  needs  go 
through  this  fair.  Well,  so  they  did;  but, 
behold,  even  as  they  entered  into  the  fair, 
all  the  people  in  the  fair  were  moved,  and  the 
town  itself  as  it  were  in  a  hubbub  about  them  ; 
and  that  for  several  reasons ;    for  ■ — • 

First,  The  pilgrims  were  clothed  with  such 
kind  of  raiment  as  was  diverse  from  the  rai- 
ment of  any  that  traded  in  that  fair.  The 
people,  therefore,  of  the  fair,  made  a  great 
gazing  upon  them  :  some  said  they  were  fools, 
some  they  were  bedlams,^  and  some  they  are 
outlandish  men.'"' 

Secondly,  And  as  they  wondered  at  their 
apparel,  so  they  did  likewise  at  their  speech ; 
for  few  could  understand  what  they  said  ;  they 
naturally  spoke  the  language  of  Canaan,  but 
they  that  kept  the  fair  were  the  men  of  this 


world ;  so  that,  from  one  end  of  the  fair  to 
the  other,  they  seemed  barbarians  each  to  the 
other. 

Thirdly,  But  that  which  did  not  a  little 
amuse  the  merchandisers  was,  that  these 
pilgrims  set  very  light  by  all  their  wares; 
they  cared  not  so  much  as  to  look  upon  them ; 
and  if  they  called  upon  them  to  buy,  they 
would  put  their  fingers  in  their  ears,  and  cry, 
"Turn  away  mine  eyes  from  beholding  van- 
ity," and  look  upwards,  signifying  that  their 
trade  and  traffic  was  in  heaven. 

One  chanced  mockingly,  beholding  the  car- 
riage of  the  men,  to  say  unto  them,  "What  will 
ye  buy?"  But  they,  looking  gravely  upon 
him,  answered,  "We  buy  the  truth."  At 
that  there  was  an  occasion  taken  to  despise 
the  men  the  more :  some  mocking,  some 
taunting,  some  speaking  reproachfully,  and 
some  calling  upon  others  to  smite  them.  At 
last  things  came  to  a  hubbub,  and  great  stir 
in  the  fair,  insomuch  that  all  order  was  con- 
founded. Now  was  word  presently  brought 
to  the  great  one  of  the  fair,  who  quickly  came 
down,  and  deputed  some  of  his  most  trusty 
friends  to  take  these  men  into  examination, 
about  whom  the  fair  was  almost  overturned. 
So  the  men  were  brought  to  examination ;  and 
they  that  sat  upon  them,  asked  them  whence 
they  came,  whither  they  went,  and  what  they 
did  there  in  such  an  miusual  garb  ?  The  men 
told  them,  that  they  were  pilgrims  and 
strangers  in  the  world,  and  that  they  were 
going  to  their  own  country,  which  was  the 
heavenly  Jerusalem  ;  and  that  they  had  given 
no  occasion  to  the  men  of  the  town,  nor  yet 
to  the  merchandisers,  thvis  to  abuse  them,  and 
to  let  ^  them  in  their  journey,  except  it  was,  for 
that,  when  one  asked  them  what  they  would 
buy,  they  said  they  would  buy  the  truth. 
But  they  that  were  appointed  to  examine 
them  did  not  believe  them  to  be  any  other 
than  bedlams  and  mad,  or  else  such  as  came 
to  put  all  things  into  a  confusion  in  the  fair. 
Therefore  they  took  them  and  beat  them, 
and  besmeared  them  with  dirt,  and  then 
put  them  into  the  cage,  that  they  might  be 
made  a  spectacle  to  all  the  men  of  the  fair. 
There,  therefore,  they  lay  for  some  time,  and 
were  made  the  objects  of  any  man's  sport,  or 
malice,  or  revenge,  the  great  ones  of  the  fair 
laughing  still  at  all  that  befell  them.  But  the 
men  being  patient,  and  not  rendering  railing 


^  bargain  for     ^  lunatics      ^  foreigners 


hinder 


MINOR    LYRISTS 


243 


for  railing,  but  contrariwise,  blessing,  and  giv- 
ing good  words  for  bad,  and  kindness  for 
injuries  done,  some  men  in  the  fair  that  were 
more  observing,  and  less  prejudiced  than  the 
rest,  began  to  check  and  blame  the  baser  sort 
for  their  continual  abuses  done  by  them  to  the 
men ;  they,  therefore,  in  angry  manner,  let 
fly  at  them  again,  counting  them  as  bad  as  the 
men  in  the  cage,  and  telling  ttjem  that  they 
seemed  confederates,  and  should  be  made 
partakers  of  their  misfortunes.  The  other 
replied,  that  for  aught  they  could  see,  the 
men  were  quiet,  and  sober,  and  intended 
nobody  any  harm  ;  and  that  there  were  many 
that  traded  in  their  fair,  that  were  more 
worthy  to  be  put  into  the  cage,  yea,  and  pillory 
too,  than  were  the  men  that  they  had  abused. 
Thus,  after  divers  words  had  passed  on  both 
sides,  the  men  behaving  themselves  all  the 
while  very  wisely  and  soberly  before  them, 
they  fell  to  some  blows  among  themselves, 
and  did  harm  one  to  another.  Then  were 
these  two  poor  men  brought  before  their 
examiners  again,  and  there  charged  as  being 
guilty  of  the  late  hubbub  that  had  been  in 
the  fair.  So  they  beat  them  pitifully,  and 
hanged  irons  upon  them,  and  led  them  in 
chains  up  and  dowTi  the  fair,  for  an  example 
and  a  terror  to  others,  lest  any  should  speak 
in  their  behalf,  or  join  themselves  unto  them. 
But  Christian  and  Faithful  behaved  them- 
selves yet  more  wisely,  and  received  the 
ignominy  and  shame  that  was  cast  upon  them, 
with  so  much  meekness  and  patience,  that  it 
won  to  their  side,  though  but  few  in  compari- 
son of  the  rest,  several  of  the  men  in  the  fair. 
This  put  the  other  party  yet  into  greater  rage, 
insomuch  that  they  concluded  the  death  of 
these  two  men.  Wherefore  they  threatened, 
that  the  cage  nor  irons  should  serve  their 
turn,  but  that  they  should  die,  for  the  abuse 
they  had  done,  and  for  deluding  the  men  of 
the  fair. 


MINOR   LYRISTS 

SONG 

Love  still  has  something  of  the  sea, 
From  whence  his  Mother  rose  ; 

No  time  his  slaves  from  love  can  free, 
Nor  give  their  thoughts  repose. 


They  are  becalm 'd  in  clearest  days,  5 

And  in  rough  weather  tost ; 
They  wither  under  cold  delays, 

Or  are  in  tempests  lost. 

One  whUe  they  seem  to  touch  the  port, 
Then  straight  into  the  main  ^  10 

Some  angry  wind  in  cruel  sport 
Their  vessel  drives  again. 

At  first  disdain  and  pride  they  fear, 
Which,  if  they  chance  to  'scape. 

Rivals  and  falsehood  soon  appear  15 

In  a  more  dreadful  shape. 

By  such  degrees  to  joy  they  come, 

And  are  so  long  withstood, 
So  slowly  they  receive  the  sum, 

It  hardly  does  them  good.  20 

'Tis  cruel  to  prolong  a  pain ; 

And  to  defer  a  bliss. 
Believe  me,  gentle  Hermione, 

No  less  inhuman  is. 

An  hundred  thousand  oaths  your  fears     25 

Perhaps  would  not  remove. 
And  if  I  gazed  a  thousand  years, 

I  could  no  deeper  love. 
—  Sir  Charles  Sedley  (i639?-i7oi) 


TO  CELIA 

Not,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am, 

Or  better  than  the  rest ; 
For  I  would  change  each  hour  like  them 

Were  not  my  heart  at  rest. 

But  I  am  tied  to  very  thee  5 

By  every  thought  I  have; 
Thy  face  I  only  care  to  see, 

Thy  heart  I  only  crave. 

All  that  in  woman  is  adored 

In  thy  dear  self  I  find;  10 

For  the  whole  sex  can  but  afford 

The  handsome  and  the  kind. 

Why  then  should  I  seek  further  store 

And  still  make  love  anew  ? 
When  change  itself  can  give  no  more.        15 

'Tis  easy  to  be  true. 
—  Sir  Charles  Sedley  (1639?-!  701) 

^  open  sea 


244 


MINOR    LYRISTS 


LOVE  AND   LIFE 

AH  my  past  life  is  mine  no  more ; 

The  flying  liours  are  gone, 
Like  transitory  dreams  given  o'er 
Whose  images  are  kept  in  store 

By  memory  alone.  5 

The  time  that  is  to  come  is  not ; 

How  can  it  then  be  mine  ? 
The  present  moment's  all  my  lot ; 
And  that,  as  fast  as  it  is  got, 

PhiUis,  is  only  thine.  10 

Then  talk  not  of  inconstancy, 
False  hearts,  and  broken  vows ; 

If  I  by  miracle  can  be 

This  live-long  minute  true  to  thee, 
'Tis  all  that  Heaven  allows. 
— John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester 
(1647-1680) 

EPITAPH  ON  CHARLES  II 

Here  lies  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King, 

Whose  word  no  man  relies  on, 
Who  never  said  a  foolish  thing. 

Nor  ever  did  a  wise  one. 

— John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester 
(1647-1680) 

THE  ENCHANTMENT 

I  did  but  look  and  love  awhile, 

'Twas  but  for  one  half-hour ; 
Then  to  resist  I  had  no  will, 

And  now  I  have  no  power. 

To  sigh  and  wish  is  all  my  ease ; 

Sighs  which  do  heat  impart 
Enough  to  melt  the  coldest  ice. 

Yet  cannot  warm  your  heart. 

O  would  your  pity  give  my  heart 

One  corner  of  your  breast,  10 

'Twould  learn  of  yours  the  winning  art 
And  qvuckly  steal  the  rest. 

—  Thomas  Otway  (1652-1685) 


TO   HIS   MISTRESS 

Why  dost  thou  shade  thy  lovely  face? 

why 
Does  that  eclipsing  hand  of  thine  deny 
The  sunshine  of  the  Sun's  enlivening  eye? 


O 


Without  thy  light  what  light  remains  in  me? 
Thou  art  my  life  ;  my  way,  my  light's  in  thee ; 
I  live,  I  move,  and  by  thy  beams  I  see.  6 

Thou  art  my  life  —  if  thou  but  turn  away, 
My  life's  a  thousand  deaths.     Thou  art  my 

way  — 
Without  thee.  Love,  I  travel  not  but  stray.   9 

My  hght   thou   art  —  without   thy   glorious 

sight 
My  eyes  are  darken'd  with  eternal  night. 
M)f  Love,  thou  art  my  way,  my  life,  my  light. 

Thou  art  my  way;  I  wander  if  thou  fly.  13 
Thou  art  my  light ;  if  hid,  how  blind  am  I ! 
Thou  art  my  life ;   if  thou  withdraw'st,  I  die. 

My  eyes  are  dark  and  blind,  I  cannot  see  : 
To  whom  or  whither  should  my  darkness  flee. 
But  to  that  light?  —  and  who's  that  light 
but  thee?  18 

If  I  have  lost  my  path,  dear  lover,  say, 
ShaU  I  still  wander  in  a  doubtful  way?         20 
Love,  shall  a  lamb  of  Israel's  sheepfold  stray? 

My  path  is  lost,  my  wandering  steps  do  stray ; 
I  cannot  go,  nor  can  I  safely  stay ;  23 

Whom  should  I  seek  but  thee,  my  path,  my 
way? 

And  yet  thou  turn'st  thy  face  away  and  fly'st 

me! 
And  yet  I  sue  for  grace  and  thou  deny'st  me  ! 
Speak,  art  thou  angry.  Love,  or  only  try'st 

me?  27 

Thou  art  the  pilgrim's  path,  the  blindman's 

eye. 
The  dead  man's  life.     On  thee  my  hopes  rely : 
If  I  but  them  remove,  I  surely  die.  30 

Dissolve  thy  sunbeams,  close  thy  wings  and 

stay! 
See,  see  how  I  am  blind,  and  dead,  and  stray  1 
—  O  thou  art  my  life,  my  light,  my  way  !      S3 

Then  work  thy  will !     If  passion  bid  me  flee. 

My  reason  shall  obey,  my  wings  shall  be 

Stretch'd  out   no  farther  than  from  me   to 

thee!  36 

—  John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester 

(1647- I 680) 


THE    CLASSICAL   AGE 


DANIEL   DEFOE    (i66i?-i73i) 

From  AN  ESSAY  UPON   PROJECTS 
AN  ACADEMY  FOR   WOMEN 

I  have  often  thought  of  it  as  one  of  the 
most  barbarous  customs  in  the  world,  consid- 
ering us  as  a  civiHzed  and  a  Christian  country, 
that  we  deny  the  advantages  of  learning  to 
women.  We  reproach  the  sex  every  day  with 
folly  and  impertinence,  while  I  am  confident, 
had  they  the  advantages  of  education  equal 
to  us,  they  would  be  guUty  of  less  than 
ourselves. 

One  would  wonder,  indeed,  how  it  should 
happen  that  women  are  conversible  at  all, 
since  they  are  only  beholding  to  natural  parts 
for  all  their  knowledge.  Their  youth  is  spent 
to  teach  them  to  stitch  and  sew  or  make 
baubles.  They  are  taught  to  read,  indeed, 
and  perhaps  to  write  their  names  or  so,  and 
that  is  the  height  of  a  woman's  education. 
And  I  would  but  ask  any  who  slight  the  sex 
for  their  understanding,  what  is  a  man  (a 
gentleman,  I  mean)  good  for  that  is  taught 
no  more? 

I  need  not  give  instances,  or  examine  the 
character  of  a  gentleman  with  a  good  estate, 
and  of  a  good  family,  and  with  tolerable  parts, 
and  examine  what  figure  he  makes  for  want  of 
education. 

The  soul  is  placed  in  the  body  like  a  rough 
diamond,  and  must  be  polished,  or  the  lustre 
of  it  will  never  appear:  and  'tis  manifest 
that  as  the  rational  soul  distinguishes  us  from 
brutes,  so  education  carries  on  the  distinction 
and  makes  some  less  brutish  than  others. 
This  is  too  evident  to  need  any  demonstra- 
tion. But  why  then  should  women  be  denied 
the  benefit  of  instruction?  If  knowledge 
and  understanding  had  been  useless  additions 
to  the  sex,  God  Almighty  would  never  have 
given  them  capacities,  for  He  made  nothing 
needless.  Besides,  I  would  ask  such  what 
they  can  see  in  ignorance  that  they  should 
think  it  a  necessary  ornament  to  a  woman? 


or  how  much  worse  is  a  wise  woman  than  a 
fool?  or  what  has  the  woman  done  to  forfeit 
the  privilege  of  being  taught?  Does  she 
plague  us  with  her  pride  and  impertinence? 
Why  did  we  not  let  her  learn,  that  she  might 
have  had  more  wit  ?  Shall  we  upbraid  women 
with  folly,  when  'tis  only  the  error  of  this 
inhuman  custom  that  hindered  them  being 
made  wiser? 

The  capacities  of  women  are  supposed  to 
be  greater  and  their  senses  quicker  than  those 
of  the  men ;  and  what  they  might  be  capable 
of  being  bred  to  is  plain  from  some  instances 
of  female  wit,^  which  this  age  is  not  without ; 
which  upbraids  us  with  injustice,  and  looks 
as  if  we  denied  women  the  advantages  of 
education  for  fear  they  should  vie  with  the 
men  in  their  improvements. 

To  remove  this  objection,  and  that  women 
might  have  at  least  a  needful  opportunity  of 
education  in  all  sorts  of  useful  learning,  I 
propose  the  draught  of  an  Academy  for  that 
purpose. 

I  know  'tis  dangerous  to  make  pubhc  ap- 
pearances of  the  sex.  They  are  not  either 
to  be  confined  or  exposed ;  the  first  will  dis- 
agree with  their  inclinations,  and  the  last 
with  their  reputations,  and  therefore  it  is 
somewhat  difificidt ;  and  I  doubt  a  method 
proposed  by  an  ingenious  lady^  in  a  little 
book  called  Advice  to  the  Ladies,  would  be 
found  impracticable,  for,  saving  my  respect 
to  the  sex,  the  le\dty,  which  perhaps  is  a  little 
peculiar  to  them,  at  least  in  their  youth, 
will  not  bear  the  restraint ;  and  I  am  satisfied 
nothing  but  the  height  of  bigotry  can  keep 
up  a  nunnery.  Women  are  extravagantly 
desirous  of  going  to  heaven,  and  will  punish 
their  pretty  bodies  to  get  thither;  but  noth- 
ing else  ■udll  do  it,  and  even  in  that  case  some- 
times it  falls  out  that  nature  will  prevail. 

When  I  talk,  therefore,  of  an  academy  for 
women,  I  mean  both  the  model,  the  teaching, 
and  the  government  different  from  what  is 
proposed  by  that  ingenious  lady,  for  whose 

^  intelligence      ^  Mary  Astell 


245 


246 


DANIEL    DEFOE 


proposal  I  have  a  very  great  esteem,  and  also 
a  great  opinion  of  her  wit ;  different,  too, 
from  all  sorts  of  religious  confinement,  and, 
above  all,  from  vows  of  celibacy. 

Wherefore  the  academy  I  propose  should 
differ  but  little  from  public  schools,  wherein 
such  ladies  as  were  willing  to  study  should 
have  all  the  advantages  of  learning  suitable 
to  their  genius. 

But  since  some  severities  of  discipline  more 
than  ordinary  woidd  be  absolutely  necessary 
to  preserve  the  reputation  of  the  house,  that 
persons  of  quality  and  fortune  might  not  be 
afraid  to  venture  their  children  thither,  I 
shall  venture  to  make  a  small  scheme  by  way 
of  essay. 

The  house  I  would  have  built  in  a  form  by 
itself,  as  well  as  in  a  place  by  itself.  The 
building  should  be  of  three  plain  fronts, 
without  any  jettings  or  bearing-work,  that  the 
eye  might  at  a  glance  see  from  one  coin  ^  to 
the  other ;  the  gardens  walled  in  the  same 
triangular  figure,  vv^ith  a  large  moat,  and  but 
one  entrance. 

When  thus  every  part  of  the  situation  was 
contrived  as  well  as  might  be  for  discovery, 
and  to  render  intriguing  dangerous,  I  would 
have  no  guards,  no  eyes,  no  spies  set  over  the 
ladies,  but  shall  expect  them  to  be  tried  by 
the  principles  of  honor  and  strict  virtue. 


In  this  house,  the  persons  who  enter  should 
be  taught  all  sorts  of  breeding  suitable  to 
both  their  genius  and  their  qviality;  and  in 
particular  music  and  dancing,  which  it  would 
be  cruelty  to  bar  the  sex  of,  because  they  are 
their  darlings ;  but  besides  this,  they  should 
be  taught  languages,  as  particularly  French 
and  Italian ;  and  I  would  venture  the  injury 
of  giving  a  woman  more  tongues  than  one. 

They  should,  as  a  particular  study,  be 
taught  all  the  graces  of  speech  and  aU  the 
necessary  air  of  conversation,  which  our 
common  education  is  so  defective  in  that  I 
need  not  expose  it.  They  should  be  brought 
to  read  books,  and  especially  history,  and  so 
to  read  as  to  make  them  understand  the  world, 
and  be  able  to  know  and  judge  of  things  when 
they  hear  of  them. 

To  such  whose  genius  would  lead  them  to  it 
I  would  deny  no  sort  of  learning ;  but  the 
chief  thing  in  general  is  to  cultivate  the  under- 


standings of  the  sex,  that  they  may  be  capable 
of  all  sorts  of  conversation ;  that,  their  parts 
and  judgments  being  improved,  they  may  be 
as  profitable  in  their  conversation  as  they  are 
pleasant. 

Women,  in  my  observation,  have  little  or 
no  difference  in  them,  but  as  they  are  or  are 
not  distinguished  by  education.  Tempers 
indeed  may  in  some  degree  influence  them, 
but  the  main  distinguishing  part  is  their 
breeding. 

The  whole  sex  are  generally  quick  and 
sharp.  I  believe  I  may  be  allowed  to  say 
generally  so,  for  you  rarely  see  them  lumpish 
and  heavy  when  they  are  children,  as  boys 
will  often  be.  If  a  woman  be  well  bred,  and 
taught  the  proper  management  of  her  natural 
wit,  she  proves  generally  very  sensible  and 
retentive ;  and  without  partiality,  a  woman 
of  sense  and  manners  is  the  finest  and  most 
delicate  part  of  God's  creation,  the  glory  of 
her  Maker,  and  the  great  instance  of  His 
singular  regard  to  man,  His  darling  creature, 
to  whom  He  gave  the  best  gift  either  God 
could  bestow  or  man  receive.  And  'tis  the 
sordidest  piece  of  folly  and  ingratitude  in 
the  world  to  withhold  from  the  sex  the  due 
lustre  which  the  advantages  of  education 
give  to  tlie  natural  beauty  of  their  minds. 

A  woman  well  bred  and  well  taught,  fur- 
nished with  the  additional  accomplishments 
of  knowledge  and  behavior,  is  a  creature 
without  comparison ;  her  society  is  the  em- 
blem of  sublimer  enjoyments;  her  person  is 
angelic  and  her  conversation  heavenlj' ;  she 
is  all  softness  and  sweetness,  peace,  love,  wit, 
and  delight.  She  is  every  way  suitable  to 
the  subhmest  wish,  and  the  man  that  has 
such  a  one  to  his  portion  has  nothing  to  do 
but  to  rejoice  in  her  and  be  thankful. 

On  the  other  hand,  suppose  her  to  be  the 
very  same  woman,  and  rob  her  of  the  benefit 
of  education,  and  it  follows  thus :  — 

If  her  temper  be  good,  want  of  education 
makes  her  soft  and  easy.  Her  wit,  for  want 
of  teaching,  makes  her  impertinent  and  talk- 
ative. Her  knowledge,  for  want  of  judgment 
and  experience,  makes  her  fanciful  and  whim- 
sical. If  her  temper  be  bad,  want  of  breed- 
ing makes  her  worse,  and  she  grows  haughty, 
insolent,  and  loud.  If  she  be  passionate, 
want  of  manners  makes  her  termagant  and  a 
scold,  which  is  much  at  one  with  lunatic.  If 
she  be  proud,  want  of  discretion  (which  still 
is  breeding)  makes  her  conceited,  fantastic, 


AN    ESSAY    UPON    PROJECTS 


247 


and  ridiculous.  And  from  these  she  degen- 
erates to  be  turbulent,  clangorous,  noisy, 
nasty,  and  the  devil. 

Methinks  mankind  for  their  own  sakes  — 
since,  say  what  we  will  of  the  women,  we  all 
think  fit  at  one  time  or  other  to  be  concerned 
with  them  —  shoidd  take  some  care  to  breed  ^ 
them  up  to  be  suitable  and  serviceable,  if 
they  expected  no  such  thing  as  delight  from 
them.  Bless  us !  what  care  do  we  take  to 
breed  up  a  good  horse  and  to  break  him  well ! 
and  what  a  value  do  we  put  upon  him  when  it 
is  done,  and  all  because  he  should  be  fit  for 
our  use !  and  why  not  a  woman  ?  Since  all 
her  ornaments  and  beauty  without  suitable 
behavior  is  a  cheat  in  nature,  like  the  false 
tradesman,  who  puts  the  best  of  his  goods 
uppermost,  that  the  buyer  may  think  the 
rest  are  of  the  same  goodness. 

Beauty  of  the  body,  which  is  the  women's 
glory,  seems  to  be  now  unequally  bestowed, 
and  Nature,  or  rather  Pro\'idence,  to  he 
imder  some  scandal  about  it,  as  if  'twas  given 
a  woman  for  a  snare  to  men,  and  so  made  a 
kind  of  a  she-devil  of  her ;  because,  they  saj^, 
exquisite  beauty  is  rarely  given  with  wit, 
more  rarely  with,  goodness  of  temper,  and 
never  at  all  with  modesty.  And  some,  pre- 
tending to  justify  the  equity  of  such  a  dis- 
tribution, wtII  tell  us  'tis  the  effect  of  the 
justice  of  Providence  in  dividing  particular 
excellencies  among  all  His  creatures,  share 
and  share  alike,  as  it  were,  that  all  might  for 
something  or  other  be  acceptable  to  one  an- 
other, else  some  woidd  be  despised. 

I  think  both  these  notions  false,  and  yet 
the  last,  which  has  the  show  of  respect  to 
Providence,  is  the  worst,  for  it  supposes 
Providence  to  be  indigent  and  empt}',  as  if  it 
had  not  wherewith  to  furnish  all  the  creatures 
it  had  made,  but  was  fain  to  be  parsimonious 
in  its  gifts,  and  distribute  them  by  piecemeal 
for  fear  of  being  exhausted. 

If  I  might  venture  my  opinion  against  an 
almost  universal  notion,  I  wovdd  say  most 
men  mistake  the  proceedings  of  Pro\ddence 
in  this  case,  and  all  the  world  at  this  day  are 
mistaken  in  their  practice  about  it.  And 
because  the  assertion  is  very  bold,  I  desire 
to  explain  myself. 

That  Almighty  First  Cause  which  made  us 
all  is  certainly  the  fountain  of  excellence,  as 
it  is  of  being,  and  by  an  invisible  influence 

^  train,  educate 


could  have  diffused  equal  qualities  and  per- 
fections to  all  the  creatures  it  has  made,  as 
the  sun  does  its  light,  without  the  least  ebb  or 
diminution  to  Himself,  and  has  given  indeed 
to  every  individual  sufficient  to  the  figure  His 
providence  had  designed  him  in  the  world. 


But  to  come  closer  to  the  business,  the 
great  distinguishmg  difference  which  is  seen 
in  the  world  between  men  and  women  is  in 
their  education,  and  this  is  manifested  by 
comparing  it  with  the  difference  between  one 
man  or  woman  and  another. 

And  herein  it  is  that  I  take  upon  me  to 
make  such  a  bold  assertion  that  all  the  world 
are  mistaken  in  their  practice  about  women; 
for  I  cannot  think  that  God  Almighty  ever 
made  them  so  delicate,  so  glorious  creatures, 
and  furnished  them  with  such  charms,  so 
agreeable  and  so  delightful  to  mankind,  with 
souls  capable  of  the  same  accomplishments 
with  men,  and  all  to  be  only  stewards  of  our 
houses,  cooks,  and  slaves. 

Not  that  I  am  for  exalt mg  the  female 
government  in  the  least;  but,  in  short,  I 
would  have  men  take  women  for  compan- 
ions, and  educate  them  to  be  fit  for  it.  A 
woman  of  sense  and  breeding  \\'ill  scorn  as 
much  to  encroach  upon  the  prerogative  of 
the  man  as  a  man  of  sense  will  scorn  to  op- 
press the  wealoiess  of  the  woman.  But  if 
the  women's  souls  were  refined  and  improved 
by  teaching,  that  word  would  be  lost ;  to 
say,  the  weakness  of  the  sex  as  to  judgment, 
would  be  nonsense,  for  ignorance  and  folly 
would  be  no  more  found  among  women  than 
men.  I  remember  a  passage  which  I  heard 
from  a  very  fine  woman;  she  had  wdt  and 
capacity  enough,  an  extraordinary  shape  and 
face,  and  a  great  fortune,  but  had  been  clois- 
tered up  all  her  time,  and,  for  fear  of  being 
stolen,  had  not  had  the  Uberty  of  being  taught 
the  common  necessary'  knowledge  of  women's 
affairs ;  and  when  she  came  to  converse  in  the 
world,  her  natural  wit  made  her  so  sensible 
of  the  want  of  education,  that  she  gave  this 
short  reflection  on  herself:  —  "I  am  ashamed 
to  talk  with  my  very  maids,"  says  she,  "for  I 
don't  know  when  they  do  right  or  wrong.  I 
had  more  need  go  to  school  than  be  married." 

I  need  not  enlarge  on  the  loss  the  defect  of 
education  is  to  the  sex,  nor  argue  the  benefit 
of  the  contrary  practice ;  'tis  a  thing  wfll  be 
more   easily   granted   than   remedied.     This 


248 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


chapter  is  but  an  essay  at  the  thing,  and  I 
refer  the  practice  to  those  happy  days,  if 
ever  they  shall  be,  when  men  shall  be  wise 
enough  to  mend  it. 

JONATHAN   SWIFT    (i 667-1 745) 

From  A  TALE  OF  A  TUB 
SECTION   II 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  who  had 
three  sons  by  one  wife  and  all  at  a  birth, 
neither  could  the  midwife  tell  certainly  which 
was  the  eldest.  Their  father  died  while  they 
were  young,  and  upon  his  death-bed,  calling 
the  lads   to  him,  spoke  thus : 

"  Sons,  because  I  have  purchased^  no  estate, 
nor  was  born  to  any,  I  have  long  considered  of 
some  good  legacies  to  bequeath  you,  and  at 
last,  with  much  care  as  well  as  expense,  have 
provided  each  of  you  (here  they  are)  a  new 
coat.  Now,  you  are  to  understand  that 
these  coats  have  two  virtues  contained  in 
them ;  one  is,  that  with  good  wearing  they  will 
last  you  fresh  and  sound  as  long  as  you  live ; 
the  other  is,  that  they  will  grow  in  the  same 
proportion  with  your  bodies,  lengthening  and 
widening  of  themselves,  so  as  to  be  always 
fit.  Here,  let  me  see  them  on  you  before  I 
die.  So,  very  well !  Pray,  children,  wear 
them  clean  and  brush  them  often.  You  will 
find  in  my  will  ^  (here  it  is)  full  instructions  in 
every  particular  concerning  the  wearing  and 
management  of  your  coats,  wherein  you  must 
be  very  exact  to  avoid  the  penalties  I  have 
appointed  for  every  transgression  or  neglect, 
upon  which  your  future  fortunes  will  entirely 
depend.  I  have  also  commanded  in  my  will 
that  you  should  live  together  in  one  house  like 
brethren  and  friends,  for  then  you  will  be  sure 
to  thrive  and  not  otherwise." 

Here  the  story  says  this  good  father  died, 
and  the  three  sons  went  all  together  to  seek 
their  fortunes. 

I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  recounting  what 
adventures  they  met  for  the  first  seven  years, 
any  farther  than  by  taking  notice  that  they 
carefully  observed  their  father's  will  and  kept 
their  coats  in  very  good  order  ;  that  they  trav- 
elled through  several  countries,  encountered 
a  reasonable  quantity  of  giants,  and  slew  cer- 
tain dragons. 

^  procured         ^  the  New  Testament 


Being  now  arrived  at  the  proper  age  for 
producing  themselves,  they  came  up  to  town 
and  fell  in  love  with  the  ladies,  but  especially 
three,  who  about  that  time  were  in  chief  repu- 
tation, the  Duchess  d'Argent,^  Madame  de 
Grands-Titres,-  and  the  Countess  d'Orgueil.^ 
On  their  first  appearance,  our  three  adven- 
turers met  with  a  very  bad  reception,  and  soon 
with  great  sagacity  guessing  out  the  reason, 
they  quickly  began  to  improve  in  the  good 
qualities  of  the  town.  They  wrote,  and 
rallied,''  and  rhymed,  and  sung,  and  said,  and 
said  nothing;  they  drank,  and  fought,  and 
slept,  and  swore,  and  took  snufif ;  they  went 
to  new  plays  on  the  first  night,  haunted  the 
chocolate-houses,  beat  the  watch  ;  they  bilked 
hackney-coachmen,  ran  in  debt  with  shop- 
keepers, and  lay  with  their  wives ;  they  killed 
bailiffs,  kicked  fiddlers  downstairs,  ate  at 
Locket's,^  loitered  at  Will's;®  they  talked  of 
the  drawing-room'  and  never  came  there; 
dined  with  lords  they  never  saw ;  whispered 
a  duchess  and  spoke  never  a  word ;  exposed 
the  scrawls  of  their  laundress  for  billet-doux 
of  quality ;  came  ever  just  from  court  and 
were  never  seen  in  it ;  attended  the  levee*  sub 
dio  ;  ^  got  a  list  of  peers  by  heart  in  one  com- 
pany, and  with  great  familiarity  retailed  them 
in  another.  Above  all,  they  constantly  at- 
tended those  committees  of  Senators  ^°  who  are 
silent  in  the  House  and  loud  in  the  coffee- 
house, where  they  nightly  adjourn  to  chew  the 
cud  of  politics,  and  are  encompassed  with  a 
ring  of  disciples  who  lie  in  wait  to  catch  up 
their  droppings.  The  three  brothers  had 
acquired  forty  other  qualifications  of  the  like 
stamp  too  tedious  to  recount,  and  by  conse- 
quence were  justly  reckoned  the  most  accom- 
plished persons  in  town.  But  all  would  not 
suffice,  and  the  ladies  aforesaid  continued  still 
inflexible.  To  clear  up  which  difficulty,  I 
must,  with  the  reader's  good  leave  and  pa- 
tience, have  recourse  to  some  points  of  weight 
which  the  authors  of  that  age  have  not  suffi- 
ciently illustrated. 

For  about  this  time  it  happened  a  sect  arose 
whose  tenets  obtained  and  spread  very  far, 
especially   in  the  grand  inonde,^^  and  among 

^  Duchess  INIoney  ^  Madame  Great  Titles 
^  Countess  Pride  *  jested  ^  a  famous  tavern  ^  a 
fashionable  coffee-house  '  reception  at  court  *  an 
informal  reception  at  court  ^  in  the  open  air, 
i.e.,  they  stayed  away  ^"  members  of  the  House 
of  Commons  "  fashionable  world 


A   TALE   OF   A   TUB 


249 


everybody  of  good  fashion. .  They  worshipped 
a  sort  of  idol,^  who,  as  their  doctrine  delivered, 
did  daUy  create  men  by  a  kind  of  manufactory 
operation.  This  idol  they  placed  in  the 
highest  parts  of  the  house  on  an  altar  erected 
about  three  feet.  He  was  shown  in  the  pos- 
ture of  a  Persian  emperor  sitting  on  a  super- 
ficies with  his  legs  interwoven  under  him. 
This  god  had  a  goose  for  his  ensign,  whence 
it  is  that  some  learned  men  pretend  to  deduce 
his  original  from  Jupiter  Capitolinus.-  At  his 
left  hand,  beneath  the  altar,  Hell  seemed  to 
open  and  catch  at  the  animals  the  idol  was 
creating,  to  prevent  which,  certain  of  his 
priests  hourly  flung  in  pieces  of  the  unin- 
formed mass  or  substance,  and  sometimes 
whole  limbs  already  enlivened,  which  that 
horrid  gulf  insatiably  swallowed,  terrible  to 
behold.  The  goose  was  also  held  a  subaltern 
divinity,  or  Dens  minorum  gentium,^  before 
whose  shrine  was  sacrificed  that  creature^ 
whose  hourly  food  is  human  gore,  and  who  is 
in  so  great  reno'\\'n  abroad  for  being  the  de- 
light and  favourite  of  the  Egyptian  Cercopi- 
thecus.^  Millions  of  these  animals  were 
cruelly  slaughtered  every  day  to  appease  the 
hunger  of  that  consuming  deity.  The  chief 
idol  was  also  worshipped  as  the  inventor  of 
the  yard  and  the  needle,  whether  as  the  god  of 
seameh,  or  on  account  of  certain  other  mysti- 
cal attributes,  hath  not  been  sufficiently 
cleared. 

The  worshippers  of  this  deity  had  also  a 
system  of  their  belief  which  seemed  to  turn 
upon  the  following  fundamental.  They  held 
the  universe  to  be  a  large  suit  of  clothes  which 
invests  everything ;  that  the  earth  is  invested 
by  the  air ;  the  air  is  invested  by  the  stars ; 
and  the  stars  are  invested  by  the  Primum 
Mobile.^  Look  on  this  globe  of  earth,  you 
wiU  find  it  to  be  a  very  complete  and  fashion- 
able dress.  What  is  that  which  some  call 
land  but  a  fine  coat  faced  with  green,  or  the 
sea  but  a  waistcoat  of  water-tabby  ?  ^  Proceed 
to  the  particular  works  of  the  creation,  you 
will  find  how  curious  journeyman  Nature  hath 
been  to  trim  up  the  vegetable  beaux  ;  observe 
how  sparkish  a  periwig  adorns  the  head  of  a 

'  a  tailor  -  alluding  to  the  story  that  Rome  u'as 
saved  by  tlie  cackling  of  geese  ^  a  god  of  the  lesser 
peoples  *  lice  ^  the  monkey  ®  In  the  Ptolemaic 
system  of  astronomy,  the  hollow  sphere  inclosing 
the  universe  and  moving  all  things  with  itself. 
^  watered  silk 


beech,  and  what  a  fine  doublet  of  white  satin 
is  worn  by  the  birch.  To  conclude  from  all, 
what  is  man  himself  but  a  microcoat,^  or  rather 
a  complete  suit  of  clothes  with  all  its  trim- 
mings? As  to  his  body  there  can  be  no  dis- 
pute, but  examine  even  the  acquirements  of 
his  mind,  you  will  find  them  all  contribute  in 
their  order  towards  furnishing  out  an  exact 
dress.  To  instance  no  more,  is  not  reUgion  a 
cloak,  honesty  a  pair  of  shoes  worn  out  in  the 
dirt,  self-love  a  surtout,  vanity  a  shirt,  and 
conscience  a  pair  of  breeches. 


These  postulata^  being  admitted,  it  wiU 
follow  in  due  course  of  reasoning  that  those 
beings  which  the  world  calls  improperly  suits 
of  clothes  are  in  reality  the  most  refined  species 
of  animals,  or,  to  proceed  higher,  that  they  are 
rational  creatures  or  men.  For  is  it  not  mani- 
fest that  they  live,  and  move,  and  talk,  and 
perform  all  other  ofiices  of  human  life?  Are 
not  beauty,  and  wit,  and  mien,  and  breeding 
their  inseparable  proprieties?  In  short,  we 
see  nothing  but  them,  hear  nothing  but  them. 
Is  it  not  they  who  walk  the  streets,  fill  up 
Parliament-,  coffee-,  play-,  bawdy-houses? 
It  is  true,  indeed,  that  these  animals,  which 
are  vulgarly  called  suits  of  clothes  or  dresses, 
do  according  to  certain  compositions  receive 
different  appellations.  If  one  of  them  be 
trimmed  up  with  a  gold  chain,  and  a  red 
gown,  and  a  white  rod,  and  a  great  horse,  it  is 
called  a  Lord  Mayor ;  if  certain  ermines  and 
furs  be  placed  in  a  certain  position,  we  style 
them  a  Judge,  and  so  an  apt  conjunction  of 
lawTi  and  black  satin  we  entitle  a  Bishop. 

Others  of  these  professors,  though  agreeing 
in  the  main  system,  were  yet  more  refined 
upon  certain  branches  of  it ;  and  held  that 
man  was  an  animal  compounded  of  two 
dresses,  the  natural  and  the  celestial  suit, 
which  were  the  body  and  the  soul ;  that  the 
soul  was  the  outward,  and  the  body  the  in- 
ward clothing  ;  that  the  latter  was  ex  traduce,^ 
but  the  former  of  daily  creation  and  circum- 
fusion.  This  last  they  proved  by  Scripture,^ 
because  in  them  we  live,  and  move,  and  have 
our  being  :  as  likewise  by  philosophy,  because 
they  are  aU  in  all,  and  all  in  every  part.  Be- 
sides, said  they,  separate  these  two,  and  you 

^  a  play  on  the  term  '^microcosm"  {little  world), 
applied  to  man  by  philosophers  ^  assumptions 
^  from  the  original  stock   ■*  Acts  xvii  :  28 


250 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


will  find  the  body  to  be  only  a  senseless  un- 
savoury carcass.  By  all  which  it  is  manifest 
that  the  outward  dress  must  needs  be  the  soul. 

To  this  system  of  religion  were  tagged 
several  subaltern  doctrines,  which  were  enter- 
tained with  great  vogue ;  as  particularly  the 
faculties  of  the  mmd  were  deduced  by  the 
learned  among  them  in  this  manner :  em- 
broidery was  sheer  wit ,  gold  fringe  was  agree- 
able conversation,  gold  lace  was  repartee,  a 
huge  long  periwig  was  humour,  and  a  coat  full 
of  povv'der^  was  very  good  raillery.  All  which 
required  abundance  of  finesse  and  delicatesse 
to  manage  with  advantage,  as  well  as  a  strict 
observance  after  time  and  fashions. 

I  have  mth  much  pains  and  reading  col- 
lected out  of  ancient  authors  this  short  sum- 
mary of  a  body  of  philosophy  and  divinity 
which  seems  to  have  been  composed  by  a  vein 
and  race  of  thinking  very  different  from  any 
other  systems,  either  ancient  or  modern.  And 
it  was  not  merel)^  to  entertain  or  satisfy  the 
reader's  curiosity,  but  rather  to  give  him  light 
into  several  circumstances  of  the  following 
story,  that,  knowing  the  state  of  dispositions 
and  opinions  in  an  age  so  remote,  he  may 
better  comprehend  those  great  events  which 
were  the  issue  of  them.  I  advise,  therefore, 
the  courteous  reader  to  peruse  with  a  world  of 
application,  again  and  again,  whatever  I  have 
written  upon  this  matter.  And  so  leaving 
these  broken  ends,  I  carefully  gather  up  the 
chief  thread  of  my  story,  and  proceed. 

These  opinions,  therefore,  were  so  universal, 
as  well  as  the  practices  of  them,  among  the 
refined  part  of  court  and  town,  that  our  three 
brother  adventurers,  as  their  circumstances 
then  stood,  were  strangely  at  a  loss.  For,  on 
the  one  side,  the  three  ladies  they  addressed 
themselves  to  (whom  we  have  named  already) 
were  ever  at  the  very  top  of  the  fashion,  and 
abhorred  all  that  were  below  it  but  the  breadth 
of  a  hair.  On  the  other  side,  their  father's 
will  was  very  precise,  and  it  was  the  main 
precept  in  it,  with  the  greatest  penalties  an- 
nexed, not  to  add  to  or  diminish  from  their 
coats  one  thread  without  a  positive  command 
in  the  will.  Now  the  coats  their  father  had 
left  them  were,  it  is  true,  of  very  good  cloth, 
and  besides,  so  neatly  sewn  you  would  swear 
they  were  all  of  a  piece,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
very  plain,  with  little  or  no  ornament ;  and  it 
happened  that  before  they  were  a  month  in 

^  Men  of  fashion  powdered  Iheir  hair. 


town  great  shoulder-knots  ^  came  up.  Straight 
all  the  world  was  shoulder-knots ;  no  ap- 
proaching the  ladies'  r«c//e5-  without  the  quota 
of  shoulder-knots.  "That  fellow,"  cries  one. 
"has  no  soul:  where  is  his  shoulder-knot?" 
Our  three  brethren  soon  discovered  their 
want  by  sad  experience,  meeting  in  their 
walks  with  forty  mortifications  and  indignities. 
If  they  went  to  the  play-house,  the  door- 
keeper showed  them  into  the  twelve-penny 
gallery.^  If  they  called  a  boat,  says  a  water- 
man, "I  am  first  sculler."''  If  they  stepped 
into  the  "Rose"  to  take  a  bottle,^  the  drawer 
would  cry,  "Friend,  we  sell  no  ale."  If  they 
went  to  visit  a  lady,  a  footman  met  them  at 
the  door  with  "Pray,  send  up  your  message." 
In  this  unhappy  case  they  went  immediately 
to  consult  their  father's  will,  read  it  over  and 
over,  but  not  a  word  of  the  shoulder-knot. 
What  should  they  do?  What  temper  should 
they  find?  Obedience  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary, and  yet  shoulder-knots  appeared  ex- 
tremely requisite.  After  much  thought, 
one  of  the  brothers,  who  happened  to  be  more 
book-learned  than  the  other  two,  said  he  had 
found  an  expedient.  "It  is  true,"  said  he, 
"there  is  nothing  here  in  this  will,  totidem 
verbis,''  makmg  mention  of  shoulder-knots, 
but  I  dare  conjecture  we  may  find  them  in- 
clusive, or  totidem  syllabis."  ^  This  disthaction 
v/as  immediately  approved  by  all ;  and  so 
they  fell  again  to  examine  the  will.  But  their 
evil  star  had  so  directed  the  matter  that  the 
first  syllable  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  whole 
writing  ;  upon  which  disappointment,  he  who 
found  the  former  evasion  took  heart,  and  said, 
"Brothers,  there  is  yet  hopes;  for  though 
we  cannot  find  them  totidem  verbis  nor  totidem 
syllabis,  I  dare  engage  we  shall  make  them  out 
tertio  modo  *  or  totidem  Uteris."  ^  This  dis- 
covery was  also  highly  commended,  upon 
which  they  fell  once  more  to  the  scrutiny,  and 
soon  picked  out  S,  H,  O,  U,  L,  D,  E,  R,  when 
the  same  planet,  enemy  to  their  repose,  had 
wonderfully  contrived  that  a  K  was  not  to 
be  found.  Here  was  a  weighty  difficulty ! 
But  the  distinguishing  brother  (for  whom 
we  shall  hereafter  find  a  name),  now  his  hand 

^  knots  of  gold  or  silver  lace  ^  morning  recep- 
tions ^  Good  seats  cost  two  sldUings  and  a  Jialf. 
*  Scullers  were  unfasldonahle ;  fasliion  demanded  a 
"pair  of  oars."  ^  of  wine  ^  in  exactly  those  words 
''  in  those  very  syllables  *  in  a  third  way  ®  in  those 
very  letters 


A  TALE   OF  A   TUB 


251 


was  in,  proved  by  a  very  good  argument  that 
K  was  a  modern  illegitimate  letter,  unknown 
to  the  learned  ages,  nor  anywhere  to  be  found 
in  ancient  manuscripts.  "It  is  true,"  said 
he,  "the  word  Calcndae  had  in  Q.  V.  C.^  been 
sometimes  writ  with  a  K,  but  erroneously, 
for  in  the  best  copies  it  is  ever  spelled  with  a 
C  ;  and  by  consequence  it  was  a  gross  mistake 
in  our  language  to  spell  'knot  with  a  K," 
but  that  from  henceforward  he  would  take 
care  it  should  be  writ  with  a  C.  Upon 
this  all  further  difficulty  vanished ;  shoulder- 
knots  were  made  clearly  out  to  be  jure 
paterno,^  and  our  three  gentlemen  swaggered 
with  as  large  and  as  flaunting  ones  as  the 
best. 

But  as  human  happiness  is  of  a  ver}^  short 
duration,  so  in  those  days  were  human 
fashions,  upon  which  it  entirely  depends. 
Shoulder-knots  had  their  time,  and  we  must 
now  imagine  them  in  their  decline,  for  a  cer- 
tain lord  came  just  from  Paris  with  fifty  yards 
of  gold  lace  upon  his  coat,  exactly  trimmed 
after  the  court  fashion  of  that  month.  In  two 
days  all  mankind  appeared  closed  up  in  bars 
of  gold  lace.  Whoever  durst  peep  abroad 
without  his  complement  of  gold  lace  was'  as 

scandalous  as  a ,  and  as  ill  received  among 

the  women.  ^Vhat  should  our  three  knights 
do  in  this  momentous  affair?  They  had 
sufficiently  strained  a  point  already  in  the 
affair  of  shoulder-knots.  Upon  recourse  to  the 
will,  nothing  appeared  there  but  alHim  silen- 
tmm?  That  of  the  shoulder-knots  was  a 
loose,  fl>ang,  circumstantial  point,  but  this 
of  gold  lace  seem.ed  toe  considerable  an  al- 
teration ■\^•ithout  better  warrant.  It  did  ali- 
quo  modo  essentiae  adhacrere,'^  and  therefore 
required  a  positive  precept.  But  about  this 
time  it  fell  out  that  the  learned  brother  afore- 
said had  read  "Aristotelis  Dialectica,"^  and 
especially  that  wonderful  piece  de  Intcrpre- 
tatione,  which  has  the  faculty  of  teaching  its 
readers  to  find  out  a  meaning  in  everything 
but  itself,  like  commentators  on  the  Revela- 
tions, who  proceed®  prophets  without  under- 
standing a  syllable  of  the  text.  "Brothers," 
said  he,  "you  are  to  be  informed  that  of  wills, 
dico  sunt  genera,''  nuncupatory*  and  scriptory,' 

^  certain  old  IMss.  ^  by  paternal  authority 
^  absolute  silence  ^  it  belonged  in  a  manner  to  the 
essential  meaning  *  Aristotle's  treatise  on  reason- 
ing ^  set  up  as,  undertake  to  be  ^  there  are  two 
kinds    ^  oral    ^  written 


that  in  the  scriptory  will  here  before  us  there 
is  no  precept  or  mention  about  gold  lace, 
conccditur,^  but  si  idem  ajfirmctur  de  ntmcu- 
patorio  negatur.^  For,  brothers,  if  you  re- 
member, we  heard  a  fellow  say  when  we  were 
boys  that  he  heard  my  father's  man  say 
that  he  heard  my  father  say  that  he  would 
advase  his  sons  to  get  gold  lace  on  their  coats 
as  soon  as  ever  they  could  procure  money  to 
buy  it."  "  That  is  very  true,"  cries  the  other. 
"I  remember  it  perfectly  well,"  said  the  third. 
And  so,  without  more  ado,  the}^  got  the  largest 
gold  lace  in  the  parish,  and  walked  about  as 
fine  as  lords. 

A  while  after,  there  came  up  all  in  fashion  a 
pretty  sort  of  flame-coloured  satin  for  linings, 
and  the  mercer  brought  a  pattern  of  it  im- 
mediately to  our  three  gentlemen.  "And 
please  your  worships,"  said  he,  "my  Lord 
C—  and  Sir  J.  W.  had  linings  out  of  this 
very  piece  last  night;  it  takes  wonderfidly, 
and  I  shall  not  have  a  remnant  left  enough  to 
make  my  -wiie  a  pin-cushion  by  to-morrow 
morning  at  ten  o'clock."  Upon  this  they  fell 
again  to  rummage  the  will,  because  the 
present  case  also  required  a  positive  precept, 
the  fining  being  held  by  orthodox  writers  to 
be  of  the  essence  of  the  coat.  After  long 
search  they  could  fi.x  upon  nothing  to  the 
m.atter  in  hand,  except  a  short  advice  in  their 
father's  will  to  take  care  of  fire  and  put 
out  their  candles  before  they  went  to  sleep. 
This,  though  a  good  deal  for  the  purpose, 
and  helping  very  far  towards  self-conviction, 
yet  not  seeming  wholly  of  force  to  estabUsh 
a  command,  and  being  resolved  to  avoid 
further  scruple,  as  well  as  future  occasion  for 
scandal,  says  he  that  was  the  scholar,  "I 
remember  to  have  read  in  wills  of  a  codicil  an- 
nexed, which  is  indeed  a  part  of  the  will,  and 
what  it  contains  hath  equal  authority  with 
the  rest.  Now  I  have  been  considering  of 
this  same  will  here  before  us,  and  I 'cannot 
reckon  it  to  be  complete  for  want  of  such  a 
codicil.  I  will  therefore  fasten  one  in  its 
proper  place  very  dexterously.  I  have  had 
it  by  me  some  time ;  it  was  written  by  a  dog- 
keeper  of  my  grandfather's,  and  talks  a  great 
deal,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  of  this  very 
flame-coloured  satin."  The  project  was  im- 
mediately approved  by  the  other  tv/o ;  an 
old  parchment  scroU  was  tagged  on  according 

^  it  is  admitted  ^  but  if  the  same  is  affirmed  of 
a  nuncupatory  will,  we  deny  it. 


252 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


to  art,  in  the  form  of  a  codicil  annexed,  and 
the  satin  bought  and  worn. 

Next  winter  a  player,  hired  for  the  purpose 
by  the  Corporation  of  Fringemakers,  acted  his 
part  in  a  new  comedy,  all  covered  with  silver 
fringe,  and  according  to  the  laudable  custom 
gave  rise  to  that  fashion.  Upon  which  the 
brothers,  consulting  their  father's  will,  to  their 
great  astonishment  found  these  words  :  "Item, 
I  charge  and  command  my  said  three  sons  to 
wear  no  sort  of  silver  fringe  upon  or  about 
their  said  coats,"  etc.,  with  a  penalty  in  case 
of  disobedience  too  long  here  to  insert.  How- 
ever, after  some  pause,  the  brother  so  often 
mentioned  for  his  erudition,  who  was  well 
skilled  in  criticism,  had  found  in  a  certain 
author,  which  he  said  should  be  nameless, 
that  the  same  word  which  in  the  will  is  called 
fringe  does  also  signify  a  broom-stick,  and 
doubtless  ought  to  have  the  same  interpre- 
tation in  this  paragraph.  This  another  of 
the  brothers  disliked,  because  of  that  epithet 
silver,  which  could  not,  he  humbly  conceived, 
in  propriety  of  speech  be  reasonably  applied  to 
a  broom-stick ;  but  it  was  replied  upon  him 
that  this  epithet  was  understood  in  a  mytho- 
logical and  allegorical  sense.  However,  he 
objected  again  why  their  father  should  forbid 
them  to  wear  a  broom-stick  on  their  coats,  a 
caution  that  seemed  unnatural  and  imperti- 
nent ;  upon  which  he  was  taken  up  short,  as 
one  that  spoke  irreverently  of  a  mystery 
which  doubtless  was  very  useful  and  signifi- 
cant, but  ought  not  to  be  over-curiously  pried 
into  or  nicely  reasoned  upon.  And  in  short, 
their  father's  authority  being  now  consider- 
ably sunk,  this  expedient  was  allowed  to  serve 
as  a  lawful  dispensation  for  wearing  their  full 
proportion  of  silver  fringe. 

A  while  after  was  revived  an  old  fashion, 
long  antiquated,  of  embroidery  with  Indian 
figures  of  men,  women,  and  children.  Here 
they  had  no  occasion  to  examine  the  will. 
They  remembered  but  too  well  how  their 
father  had  always  abhorred  this  fashion  ;  that 
he  made  several  paragraphs  on  purpose,  im- 
porting his  utter  detestation  of  it  and  bestow- 
ing his  everlasting  curse  to  his  sons  whenever 
they  should  wear  it.  For  all  this,  in  a  few 
days  they  appeared  higher  in  the  fashion  than 
anybody  else  in  the  town.  But  they  solved 
the  matter  by  saying  that  these  figures  were 
not  at  all  the  same  with  those  that  were 
formerly  worn  and  were  meant  in  the  will ; 
besides,  they  did  not  wear  them  in  that  sense, 


as  forbidden  by  their  father,  but  as  they  were 
a  commendable  custom,  and  of  great  use  to 
the  public.  That  these  rigorous  clauses  in  the 
will  did  therefore  require  some  allowance  and 
a  favourable  interpretation,  and  ought  to  be 
understood  cum  grano  sails} 

But  fashions  perpetually  altering  in  that 
age,  the  scholastic  brother  grew  weary  of 
searching  further  evasions  and  solving  ever- 
lasting contradictions.  Resolved,  therefore, 
at  all  hazards  to  comply  with  the  modes  of  the 
world,  they  concerted  matters  together,  and 
agreed  unanimously  to  lock  up  their  father's 
will  in  a  strong-box,  brought  out  of  Greece  or 
Italy  (I  have  forgot  which),  and  trouble  them- 
selves no  farther  to  examine  it,  but  only  refer 
to  its  authority  whenever  they  thought  fit. 
In  consequence  whereof,  a  whQe  after  it  grew 
a  general  mode  to  wear  an  infinite  number  of 
points,^  most  of  them  tagged  with  silver ;  upon 
which  the  scholar  pronounced  ex  cathedra  ^ 
that  points  were  absolutely  jure  paterno,^  as 
they  might  very  well  remember.  It  is  true, 
indeed,  the  fashion  prescribed  somewhat  more 
than  were  directly  named  in  the  will ;  how- 
ever, that  they,  as  heirs-general  of  their  father, 
had  power  to  make  and  add  certain  clauses 
for  public  emolument,  though  not  deducible 
todidem  verbis  from  the  letter  of  the  will,  or 
else  multa  ahsurda  sequerentur.^  This  was 
understood  for  canonical,  and  therefore  on  the 
following  Sunday  they  came  to  church  all 
covered  with  points. 

The  learned  brother  so  often  mentioned 
was  reckoned  the  best  scholar  in  all  that  or 
the  next  street  to  it ;  insomuch,  as  having  run 
something  behindhand  with  the  world,  he 
obtained  the  favour  from  a  certain  lord  to 
receive  him  into  his  house  and  to  teach  his 
children.  A  while  after  the  lord  died,  and  he, 
by  long  practice  upon  his  father's  will,  found 
the  way  of  contriving  a  deed  of  conveyance  of 
that  house  to  himself  and  his  heirs ;  upon 
which  he  took  possession,  turned  the  young 
squires  out,  and  received  his  brothers  in  their 
stead.'^ 

^  with  a  grain  of  salt  ^  laces  used  instead  of 
buttons  to  fasten  clothing  ^  officially  *  in  accord- 
ance with  paternal  law  *  many  absurd  conse- 
quences would  follow  ^ For  the  symbolic  mean- 
ings of  the  objects  and  events  that  jigure  in 
this  satire,  see  the  Notes  at  the  end  of  this 
volume. 


A   MODEST    PROPOSAL 


253 


From  A  MODEST  PROPOSAL  FOR 
PREVENTING  THE  CHILDREN  OF 
POOR  PEOPLE  IN  IRELAND  FROM 
BEING  A  BURDEN  TO  THEIR  PAR- 
ENTS OR  COUNTRY,  AND  FOR  MAK- 
ING THEM  BENEFICIAL  TO  THE 
PUBLIC 

It  is  a  melancholy  object  to  those  who  walk 
through  this  great  town,^  or  travel  in  the  coun- 
try, when  they  see  the  streets,  the  roads,  and 
cabin-doors,  crowded  with  beggars  of  the 
female  sex,  followed  by  three,  four,  or  six 
children,  all  in  rags,  and  importuning  every 
passenger-  for  an  alms.  These  mothers,  in- 
stead of  being  able  to  work  for  their  honest 
livelihood,  are  forced  to  employ  all  their  time 
in  strolling  to  beg  sustenance  for  their  help- 
less infants  :  who,  as  they  grow  up,  either  turn 
thieves  for  want  of  work,  or  leave  their  dear 
native  country  to  fight  for  the  Pretender  in 
Spain,  or  sell  themselves  to  the  Barbadoes.^ 

I  think  it  is  agreed  by  all  parties,  that  this 
prodigious  number  of  children  in  the  arms, 
or  on  the  backs,  or  at  the  heels  of  their 
mothers,  and  frequently  of  their  fathers,  is, 
in  the  present  deplorable  state  of  the  kingdom, 
a  very  great  additional  grievance ;  and,  there- 
fore, whoever  could  find  out  a  fair,  cheap, 
and  easy  method  of  making  these  children 
sound,  useful  members  of  the  commonwealth, 
would  deserve  so  well  of  the  public,  as  to  have 
his  statue  set  up  for  a  preserver  of  the  nation. 

But  my  intention  is  very  far  from  being 
confined  to  provide  only  for  the  children  of 
professed  beggars;  it  is  of  a  much  greater 
extent,  and  shall  take  in  the  whole  number 
of  infants  at  a  certain  age,  who  are  born  of 
parents  in  effect  ^  as  little  able  to  support  them 
as  those  who  demand  our  charity  in  the  streets. 

As  to  my  own  part,  having  turned  my 
thoughts  for  many  years  upon  this  important 
subject,  and  maturely  weighed  the  several 
schemes  of  our  projectors,  I  have  always 
found  them  grossly  mistaken  in  their  compu- 
tation. It  is  true,  a  child,  just  born,  may  be 
supported  by  its  mother's  milk  for  a  solar 
year,  with  little  other  nourishment ;  at  most, 
not  above  the  value  of  two  shillings,  which 
the  mother  may  certainly  get,  or  the  value  in 

^  Dublin  -  passer-by  '^  Many  poor  persons  sold 
themselves  to  go  as  servants  to  the  Barbadocs  and 
other  English  colonics.  *  in  reality 


scraps,  by  her  lawful  occupation  of  begging ; 
and  it  is  exactly  at  one  year  old  that  I  pro- 
pose to  provide  for  them  in  such  a  manner,  as, 
instead  of  being  a  charge  upon  their  parents 
or  the  parish,  or  wanting  food  and  raiment  for 
the  rest  of  their  lives,  they  shall,  on  the  con- 
trary, contribute  to  the  feeding,  and  partly  to 
the  clothing,  of  many  thousands. 


The  number  of  souls  in  this  kingdom  being 
usually  reckoned  one  million  and  a  half,  of 
these  I  calculate  there  may  be  about  two  hun- 
dred thousand  couple  whose  wives  are  breed- 
ers; from  which  number  I  subtract  thirty 
thousand  couple,  who  are  able  to  maintain 
their  own  children,  (although  I  apprehend 
there  cannot  be  so  many,  under  the  present 
distresses  of  the  kingdom) ;  but  this  being 
granted,  there  will  remain  a  hundred  and 
seventy  thousand  breeders.  I  again  subtract 
fifty  thousand,  for  those  women  who  miscarry, 
or  whose  children  die  by  accident  or  disease 
within  the  year.  There  only  remain  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  thousand  children  of  poor 
parents  annually  born.  The  question  there- 
fore is,  How  this  number  shall  be  reared  and 
provided  for?  which,  as  I  have  already  said, 
under  the  present  situation  of  affairs,  is 
utterly  impossible  by  all  the  methods  hitherto 
proposed.  For  we  can  neither  employ  them 
in  handicraft  or  agriculture  ;  we  neither  build 
houses  (I  mean  in  the  country),  nor  cultivate 
land  :  they  can  very  seldom  pick  up  a  liveli- 
hood by  stealing,  till  they  arrive  at  six  years 
old,  except  where  they  are  of  towardly  parts  ;^ 
although  I  confess  they  learn  the  rudiments 
much  earlier;  during  which  time  they  can, 
however,  be  properly  looked  upon  only  as 
probationers ;  as  I  have  been  informed  by  a 
principal  gentleman  in  the  county  of  Cavan, 
who  protested  to  me,  that  he  never  knew 
above  one  or  two  instances  under  the  age  of 
six,  even  in  a  part  of  the  kingdom  so  renowned 
for  the  quickest  proficiency  in  that  art. 

I  am  assured  by  our  merchants,  that  a  boy 
or  a  girl  before  twelve  years  old  is  no  saleable 
commodity  ;  ^  and  even  when  they  come  to  this 
age  they  will  not  yield  above  three  pounds  or 
three  pounds  and  half-a-crown  at  most,  on 
the  exchange ;  which  cannot  turn  to  account 
either  to  the  parents  or  kingdom,  the  charge 

^  precocious  ability  -  Poor  parents  often  sold 
their  children  as  bondservants. 


254 


SIR    RICHARD    STEELE 


of  nutriment  and  rags  having  been  at  least 
four  times  that  value. 

I  shall  now,  therefore,  humbly  propose  my 
own  thoughts,  which  I  hope  will  not  be  liable 
to  the  least  objection. 

I  have  been  assured  by  a  very  knowing 
American  of  my  acquaintance  in  London,  that 
a  young  healthy  child,  well  nursed,  is,  at  a 
year  old,  a  most  delicious,  nourishing,  and 
wholesome  food,  whether  stewed,  roasted, 
baked,  or  boiled ;  and  I  make  no  doubt  that 
it  will  equally  serve  in  fricasee  or  a  ragout. 

I  do  therefore  humbly  offer  it  to  public  con- 
sideration, that  of  the  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  children  already  computed,  twenty 
thousand  may  be  reserved  for  breed.  .  .  . 
That  the  remaining  hundred  thousand  may, 
at  a  year  old,  be  offered  in  sale  to  the 
persons  of  quality  and  fortune  through  the 
kingdom ;  always  advising  the  mother  to  let 
them  suck  plentifully  in  the  last  month,  so  as 
to  render  them  plump  and  fat  for  a  good  table. 
A  child  will  make  two  dishes  at  an  entertain- 
ment for  friends ;  and  when  the  family  dines 
alone,  the  fore  or  hind  quarter  will  make  a 
reasonable  dish,  and,  seasoned  with  a  little 
pepper  or  salt,  will  be  very  good  boiled  on  the 
fourth  day,  especially  in  v/inter. 

I  have  reckoned,  upon  a  medium,  that  a 
child  just  born  will  weigh  twelve  pounds,  and 
in  a  solar  year,  if  tolerably  nursed,  will  in- 
crease to  twenty-eight  pounds. 

I  grant  this  food  will  be  somewhat  dear,  and 
therefore  very  proper  for  landlords,  who,  as 
they  have  already  devoured  most  of  the 
parents,  seem  to  have  the  best  title  to  the 
children. 


I  have  already  computed  the  charge  of 
nursing  a  beggar's  child  (in  which  list  I  reckon 
all  cottagers,  labourers,  and  four-fifths  of  the 
farmers)  to  be  about  two  shillings  per  annum, 
rags  included ;  and  I  believe  no  gentleman 
would  repine  to  give  ten  shillings  for  the  car- 
cass of  a  good  fat  child,  which,  as  I  have  said, 
will  make  four  dishes  of  excellent  nutritive 
meat,  when  he  has  only  some  particular  friend, 
or  his  own  family,  to  dine  with  him.  Thus 
the  squire  will  learn  to  be  a  good  landlord, 
and  grow  popular  among  his  tenants ;  the 
mother  will  have  eight  shillings  net  profit, 
and  be  fit  for  work  till  she  produces  another 
child. 

Those  who  are  more  thrifty  (as  I  must  con- 


fess the  times  require)  may  flay  the  carcass; 
the  skin  of  which,  artificially  ^  dressed,  will 
make  admirable  gloves  for  ladies,  and  summer- 
boots  for  fine  gentlemen. 

As  to  our  city  of  Dublin,  shambles  may  be 
appointed  for  this  purpose  in  the  most  con- 
venient parts  of  it,  and  butchers  we  may  be 
assured  will  not  be  wanting  ;  although  I  rather 
recommend  buying  the  children  alive,  then 
dressing  them  hot  from  the  knife,  as  we  do 
roasting  pigs. 


SIR  ■  RICHARD     STEELE 

(1672-1729) 

THE   TATLER 

NO.  95.     NOVEMBER  17,  1709 

Interea  diilces  pendent  circum  oscula  nati, 
Casta  pitdicitiam  scrvat  domus.^ 

■ —  ViRG.  Georg.  ii.  523. 

There  are  several  persons  who  have  many 
pleasures  and  entertainments  in  their  posses- 
sion, which  they  do  not  enjoy.  It  is,  there- 
fore, a  kind  and  good  office  to  acquaint  them 
with  their  own  happiness,  and  turn  their 
attention  to  such  instances  of  their  good  for- 
tune as  they  are  apt  to  overlook.  Persons  in 
the  married  state  often  want  such  a  monitor ; 
and  pine  away  their  days,  by  looking  upon  the 
same  condition  in  anguish  and  murmur, 
which  carries  with  it  in  the  opinion  of  others  a 
complication^  of  all  the  pleasures  of  life,  and 
a  retreat  from  its  inquietudes. 

I  am  led  into  this  thought  by  a  visit  I  made 
an  old  friend,  who  was  formerly  my  school- 
fellow. He  came  to  town  last  week  with  his 
family  for  the  winter,  and  yesterday  morning 
sent  me  word  his  wife  expected  me  to  dinner. 
I  am,  as  it  were,  at  home  at  that  house,  and 
every  member  of  it  knows  me  for  their  well- 
wisher.  I  cannot  indeed  express  the  pleasure 
it  is,  to  be  met  by  the  children  with  so  much 
joy  as  I  am  when  I  go  thither.  The  boys 
and  girls  strive  who  shall  come  first,  when 
they  think  it  is  I  that  am  knocking  at  the 
door ;   and  that  child  which  loses  the  race  to 

^  skilfully  ^  Meanwhile  his  sweet  children  hang 
upon  his  kisses  and  his  chaste  home  is  the  abode 
of  virtue.    ^  mixture 


THE    TATLER 


255 


me  runs  back  again  to  tell  the  father*it  is  Mr. 
Bickerstaff .  This  day  I  was  led  in  by  a  pretty 
girl,  that  we  ail  thought  must  have  forgot 
me  ;  for  the  family  has  been  out  of  town  these 
two  years.  Her  knowing  me  again  was  a 
mighty  subject  with  us,  and  took  up  our  dis- 
course at  the  first  entrance.  After  wliich, 
they  began  to  rally  ^  me  upon  a  thousand  little 
stories  they  heard  in  the  country,  about  my 
marriage  to  one  of  my  neighbour's  daughters. 
Upon  which  the  gentleman,  my  friend,  said, 
"Nay,  if  jSIr.  Bickerstaff  marries  a  child  of 
any  of  his  old  companions,  I  hope  mine  shall 
have  the  preference ;  there  is  IVIrs.  ISIary  is 
now  sixteen,  and  would  make  him  as  fine  a 
■\ndow  as  the  best  of  them.  But  I  know  him 
too  well ;  he  is  so  enamoured  with  the  very 
memory  of  those  who  flourished  in  our  youth, 
that  he  will  not  so  much  as  look  upon  the 
modern  beauties.  I  remember,  old  gentle- 
man, hovv'  often  you  went  home  in  a  day  to 
refresh  your  coimtenance  and  dress  when 
Teraminta  reigned  in  your  heart.  As  we 
came  up  in  the  coach,  I  repeated  to  my  wife 
some  of  your  verses  on  her."  With  such  re- 
flections, on  Httle  passages^  which  happened 
long  ago,  we  passed  our  time,  during  a  cheer- 
fid  and  elegant  meal.  After  dinner,  his  lady 
left  the  room,  as  did  also  the  children.  As 
soon  as  we  were  alone,  he  took  me  by  the 
hand;  "Well,  my  good  friend,"  says  he,  "I 
am  heartily  glad  to  see  thee  ;  I  was  afraid  you 
wovild  never  have  seen  all  the  company  that 
dined  v.ith  you  to-day  again.  Do  not  you 
think  the  good  woman  of  the  house  a  Uttle 
altered  since  you  followed  her  from  the  play- 
house, to  find  out  who  she  was,  for  me?" 
I  perceived  a  tear  fall  down  his  cheek,  as  he 
spoke,  which  moved  me  not  a  little.  But,  to 
turn  the  discourse,  I  said,  "She  is  not  indeed 
quite  that  creature  she  was,  when  she  returned 
me  the  letter  I  carried  from  you  ;  and  told  me, 
'she  hoped,  as  I  was  a  gentleman,  I  would  be 
employed  no  more  to  trouble  her,  who  had 
never  oft"ended  me ;  but  would  be  so  much  the 
gentleman's  friend,  as  to  dissuade  him  from 
a  pursuit,  which  he  could  never  succeed  in.' 
You  may  remember,  I  thought  her  in  earnest ; 
and  you  were  forced  to  employ  your  cousin 
Wfll,  who  made  his  sister  get  acquainted  with 
her,  for  you.  You  cannot  expect  her  to  be  for 
ever  fifteen."  "Fifteen!"  replied  my  good 
friend :   "Ah  !  you  Uttle  understand,  you  that 


have  lived  a  bachelor,  how  great,  how  exqui- 
site a  pleasure  there  is,  in  being  really  be- 
loved I  It  is  impossible,  that  the  most  beau- 
teous face  in  nature  should  raise  in  me  such 
pleasmg  ideas,  as  when  I  look  upon  that  excel- 
lent woman.  That  fading  in  her  countenance 
is  chieliy  caused  b}^  her  watching  with  me,  in 
m.y  fever.  This  was  followed  by  a  fit  of  sick- 
ness, which  had  like  to  have  carried  her  off 
last  winter.  I  tell  you  sincerely,  I  have  so 
many  obligations  to  her,  that  I  cannot,  with 
any  sort  of  moderation,  think  of  her  present 
state  of  health.  But  as  to  what  you  say  of 
fifteen,  she  gives  me  every  day  pleasures  be- 
yond what  I  ever  knew  in  the  possession  of  her 
beauty,  when  I  was  in  the  vigour  of  youth. 
Every  moment  of  her  life  brings  me  fresh  in- 
stances of  her  complacency  to  my  inclinations, 
and  her  prudence  in  regard  to  my  fortune. 
Her  face  is  to  me  much  more  beautiful  than 
when  I  first  saw  it ;  there  is  no  decay  in  any 
feature,  which  I  cannot  trace,  from  the  very 
instant  it  was  occasioned  by  some  anxious 
concern  for  my  v.'elfare  and  interests.  Thus, 
at  the  same  time,  methinks,  the  love  I  con- 
ceived towards  her  for  what  she  was,  is  height- 
ened by  my  gratitude  for  what  she  is.  The 
love  of  a  wife  is  as  much  above  the  idle  passion 
commonly  called  by  that  name,  as  the  loud 
laughter  of  buffoons  is  inferior  to  the  elegant 
mirth  of  gentlemen.  Oh  !  she  is  an  itiestima- 
ble  jewel.  In  her  examination  of  her  house- 
hold affairs,  she  shows  a  certain  fearfulness  to 
find  a  fault,  which  makes  her  servants  obey 
her  like  children ;  and  the  meanest  we  have 
has  an  ingenuous  shame  for  an  oft'ence,  not 
always  to  be  seen  in  children  in  other  families. 
I  speak  freely  to  you,  my  old  friend ;  ever 
since  her  sickness,  things  that  gave  me  the 
quickest  joy  before,  turn  now  to  a  certain 
anxiety.  As  the  children  play  in  the  next 
room,  I  know  the  poor  things  by  their  steps, 
and  am  considering  what  they  must  do,' 
should  they  lose  their  mother  in  their  tender 
years.  The  pleasure  I  used  to  take  in  telling 
my  boy  stories  of  battles,  and  asking  my  girl 
questions  about  the  disposal  of  her  baby.^  and 
the  gossiping  of  it,  is  turned  into  inward  re- 
flection and  melancholy." 

He  would  have  gone  on  in  this  tender  way, 
when  the  good  lady  entered,  and  with  an  in- 
expressible sweetness  in  her  countenance  told 
us,  "she  had  been  searching  her  closet  for 


^  joke 


-  events 


doU 


256 


SIR    RICHARD    STEELE 


something  very  good,  to  treat  such  an  old 
friend  as  I  was."  Her  husband's  eyes 
sparkled  with  pleasure  at  the  cheerfulness  of 
her  countenance ;  and  I  saw  all  his  fears  van- 
ish in  an  instant.  The  lady  observing  some- 
thing in  our  looks  which  showed  we  had  been 
more  serious  than  ordinar}^,  and  seeing  her 
husband  receive  her  with  great  concern  under 
a  forced  cheerfulness,  immediately  guessed  at 
what  we  had  been  talking  of;  and  applying 
herself  to  me,  said,  with  a  smile,  "Mr. 
Bickerstaff,  do  not  believe  a  word  of  what  he 
tells  you,  I  shall  still  live  to  have  you  for  my 
second,  as  I  have  often  promised  you,  unless 
he  takes  more  care  of  himself  than  he  has 
done  since  his  coming  to  town.  You  must 
know,  he  tells  me  that  he  finds  London  is  a 
much  more  healthy  place  than  the  country ; 
for  he  sees  several  of  his  old  acquaintance 
and  school-fellows  are  here  young  fellows 
with  fair  full-bottomed  periwigs.^  I  could 
scarce  keep  him  in  this  morning  from  going 
out  open-breasted."  ^  My  friend,  who  is 
always  extremely  delighted  with  her  agreeable 
humour,  made  her  sit  down  with  us.  She 
did  it  with  that  easiness  which  is  peculiar  to 
women  of  sense ;  and  to  keep  up  the  good 
humour  she  had  brought  in  with  her,  turned 
her  raillery  upon  me.  "Mr.  Bickerstaff,  you 
remember  you  followed  me  one  night  from  the 
play-house ;  suppose  you  should  carry  me 
thither  to-morrow  night,  and  lead  me  into  the 
front  box."  This  put  us  into  a  long  field  of 
discourse  about  the  beauties,  who  were 
mothers  to  the  present,  and  shined  in  the 
boxes  twenty  years  ago.  I  told  her,  "I  was 
glad  she  had  transferred  so  many  of  her 
charms,  and  I  did  not  question  but  her  eldest 
daughter  was  within  half-a-year  of  being  a 
toast." 

We  v/ere  pleasing  ourselves  with  this  fan- 
tastical preferment  of  the  young  lady,  when  on 
a  sudden  we  were  alarmed  with  the  noise  of  a 
drum,  and  immediately  entered  my  little  god- 
son to  give  me  a  point  of  war.^  His  mother, 
between  laughing  and  chiding,  would  have  put 
him  out  of  the  room ;  but  I  would  not  part 
with  him  so.  I  found,  upon  conversation 
with  him,  though  he  was  a  fit  tie  noisy  in  his 
mirth,  that  the  child  had  excellent  parts,^  and 
was  a  great  master  of  all  the  learning  on  the 

'  such  as  only  young  men  wore  ^  with  his 
coat  unbuttoned,  like  a  young  gallant  ^  a  signal 
on  a  drum  or  trumpet  ''  abilities 


other  side  eight  years  old.  I  perceived  him 
a  very  great  historian  in  /Esop's  Fables :  but 
he  frankly  declared  to  me  his  mind,  "that 
he  did  not  delight  in  that  learning,  because  he 
did  not  believe  they  were  true;"  for  which 
reason  I  found  he  had  very  much  turned  his 
studies,  for  about  a  twelvemonth  past,  into 
the  lives  and  adventures  of  Don  Belianis  of 
Greece,^  Guy  of  Warwick,-  the  Seven  Cham- 
pions,^ and  other  historians  of  that  age.  I 
could  not  but  observe  the  satisfaction  the 
father  took  in  the  forwardness  of  his  son  ;  and 
that  these  diversions  might  turn  to  some 
profit,  I  found  the  boy  had  made  remarks, 
which  might  be  of  service  to  him  during  the 
course  of  his  whole  life.  He  would  tell  you 
the  mismanagements  of  John  Hickerthrift,* 
find  fault  with  the  passionate  temper  in  Bevis 
of  Southampton,^  and  loved  St.  George  for 
being  the  champion  of  England  ;  ^  and  by  this 
means  had  his  thoughts  insensibly  moulded 
into  the  notions  of  discretion,  virtue,  and 
honour.  I  was  extolling  his  accomplishments, 
when  the  mother  told  me,  that  the  little  girl 
who  led  me  in  this  morning  was  in  her  way  a 
better  scholar  than  he.  "Betty,"  said  she, 
"deals  chiefly  in  fairies  and  sprights;  and 
sometimes  in  a  winter-night  will  terrify  the 
maids  with  her  accounts,  until  they  are 
afraid  to  go  up  to  bed." 

I  sat  with  them  until  it  was  very  late,  some- 
times in  merry,  sometimes  in  serious  discourse, 
with  this  particular  pleasure,  which  gives  the 
only  true  relish  to  all  conversation,  a  sense 
that  every  one  of  us  liked  each  other.  I  v/ent 
home,  considering  the  different  conditions  of  a 
married  life  and  that  of  a  bachelor;  and  I 
must  confess  it  struck  me  with  a  secret  con- 
cern, to  reflect,  that  v/henever  I  go  off  I  shall 
leave  no  traces  behind  me.  In  this  pensive 
mood  I  returned  to  my  family  ;  that  is  to  say, 
to  my  maid,  my  dog,  and  my  cat,  v;ho  only 
can  be  the  better  or  worse  for  what  happens 
to  me. 

^  hero  of  a  Spanish  romance  translated  into 
English  in  1598  ^a  legendary  English  hero,  who 
killed  a  giant  ^  St.  George  of  England,  St.  Andrew 
of  Scotland,  St.  Patrick  of  Ireland,  St.  David  of 
Wales,  etc.  "*  a  nursery-tale  hero,  like  Jack  the 
Giant  Killer  ^hero  of  a  very  popular  semi- 
religious  mediaeval  romance.  ®  These  heroes  of 
the  earlier  romances  had  become  in  the  eighteenth 
century  the  subjects  of  chap-books  for  children 
and  the  common  people. 


THE    TATLER 


257 


THE  TATLER 

NO.  167.     MAY  4,  1 710 

Segniiis  irritant  animos  demissa  per  aures, 

Quam  quae  sunt  oculis  submissa  Jidelibus?-  —  HoR. 

From  my  own  Apartment,  May  2. 

Having  received  notice,  that  the  famous 
actor,  Mr.  Betterton,  was  to  be  interred  this 
evening  in  the  cloisters  near  Westminster 
Abbey,  I  was  resolved  to  walk  thither,  and 
see  the  last  office  done  to  a  man  whom  I  had 
always  very  much  admired,  and  from  whose 
action  I  had  received  more  strong  impressions 
of  what  is  great  and  noble  in  human  nature, 
than  from  the  arguments  of  the  most  solid 
philosophers,  or  the  descriptions  of  the  most 
charming  poets  I  had  ever  read.  As  the  rude 
and  untaught  multitude  are  no  way  wrought 
upon  more  effectually  than  by  seeing  public 
punishments  and  executions ;  so  men  of 
letters  and  education  feel  their  humanity 
most  forcibly  exercised,  when  they  attend  the 
obsequies  of  men  who  had  arrived  at  any  per- 
fection in  liberal  accomplishments.  Theatri- 
cal action  is  to  be  esteemed  as  such,  except 
it  be  objected,  that  we  cannot  call  that  an 
art  which  cannot  be  attained  by  art.  Voice, 
stature,  motion,  and  other  gifts,  must  be  very 
bountifully  bestowed  by  nature,  or  labour 
and  industry  will  but  push  the  unhappy  en- 
deavourer  in  that  way,  the  farther  off  his 
wishes. 

Such  an  actor  as  Mr.  Betterton  ought  to  be 
recorded  with  the  same  respect  as  Roscius 
among  the  Romans.  The  greatest  orator  has 
thought  fit  to  quote  his  judgment,  and  cele- 
brate his  life.  Roscius  was  the  example  to  all 
that  would  form  themselves  into  proper  and 
winning  behaviour.  His  action  was  so  well 
adapted  to  the  sentiments  he  expressed,  that 
the  youth  of  Rome  thought  they  only  wanted 
to  be  virtuous  to  be  as  graceful  in  their  ap- 
pearance as  Roscius.  The  imagination  took 
a  lovely  impression  of  what  was  great  and 
good ;  and  they  who  never  thought  of  setting 
up  for  the  art  of  imitation,  became  themselves 
inimitable  characters. 

There  is  no  human  invention  so  aptly 
calculated  for  the  forming  a  free-born  people 
as  that  of  a  theatre.     Tully  reports,  that  the 

^  Things  told  move  us  less  than  those  seen  by 
our  own  faithful  eyes. 


celebrated  player  of  whom  I  am  speaking,  used 
frequently  to  say,  "The  perfection  of  an 
actor  is  only  to  become  what  he  is  doing." 
Young  men,  who  are  too  inattentive  to  re- 
ceive lectures,  are  irresistibly  taken  with  per- 
formances. Hence  it  is,  that  I  extremely 
lament  the  little  relish  the  gentry  of  this 
nation  have  at  present  for  the  just  and  noble 
representations  in  some  of  our  tragedies.  The 
operas,  which  are  of  late  introduced,  can 
leave  no  trace  behind  them  that  can  be  of 
service  beyond  the  present  moment.  To 
sing  and  to  dance,  are  accomplishments  very 
few  have  any  thoughts  of  practising ;  but  to 
speak  justly,  and  move  gracefully,  is  what 
every  man  thinks  he  does  perform,  or  wishes 
he  did. 

I  have  hardly  a  notion,  that  any  performer 
of  antiquity  could  surpass  the  action  of  Mr. 
Betterton  in  any  of  the  occasions  in  which  he 
has  appeared  on  our  stage.  The  wonderful 
agony  which  he  appeared  in,  when  he  exam- 
ined the  circumstance  of  the  handkerchief  in 
Othello ;  the  mixture  of  love  that  intruded 
upon  his  mind,  upon  the  innocent  ans\vers 
Desdemona  makes,  betrayed  in  his  gesture 
such  a  variety  and  vicissitude  of  passions,  as 
would  admonish  a  man  to  be  afraid  of  his  own 
heart,  and  perfectly  convince  him,  that  it  is 
to  stab  it,  to  admit  that  worst  of  daggers, 
jealousy.  Whoever  reads  in  his  closet^  this 
admirable  scene,  will  find  that  he  cannot, 
except  he  has  as  warm  an  imagination  as 
Shakespeare  himself,  find  any  but  dry,  inco- 
herent, and  broken  sentences:  but  a  reader 
that  has  seen  Betterton  act  it,  observes  there 
could  not  be  a  word  added ;  that  longer 
speeches  had  been  unnatural,  nay,  impossible, 
in  Othello's  circumstances.  The  charming 
passage  in  the  same  tragedy,  where  he  tells 
the  manner  of  vanning  the  affection  of  his 
mistress,  was  urged  with  so  moving  and  grace- 
ful an  energy,  that  while  I  walked  in  the  Clois- 
ters, I  thought  of  him  with  the  same  concern 
as  if  I  waited  for  the  remains  of  a  person  who 
had  in  real  life  done  all  that  I  had  seen  him 
represent.  The  gloom  of  the  place,  and  faint 
lights  before  the  ceremony  appeared,  contrib- 
uted to  the  melancholy  disposition  I  was  in  ; 
and  I  began  to  be  extremely  afflicted,  that 
Brutus  and  Cassius  had  any  difference ;  that 
Hotspur's  gallantry  was  so  unfortunate ;  and 
that  the  mirth  and  good  humour  of  Falstaff 

^  private  room 


258 


SIR    RICHARD    STEELE 


could  not  exempt  him  from  the  grave.  Nay, 
this  occasion  in  me,  who  look  upon  the  dis- 
tinctions amongst  men  to  be  merely  scenical, 
raised  reflections  upon  the  emptiness  of  all 
human  perfection  and  greatness  in  general ; 
and  I  could  not  but  regret,  that  the  sacred 
heads  which  lie  buried  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
this  little  portion  of  earth  in  which  my  poor 
old  friend  is  deposited,  are  returned  to  dust  as 
well  as  he,  and  that  there  is  no  difference  in 
the  grave  between  the  imaginary  and  the  real 
monarch.  This  made  me  say  of  human  life 
itself  with  Macbeth : 

To-morrow,  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  a  stealing  pace  from  day  to  day, 
To  the  last  moment  of  recorded  time  ! 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
To  the  eternal  night !     Out,  out,  short  candle  ! 
Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more. 

The  mention  I  have  here  made  of  Mr. 
Betterton,  for  whom  I  had,  as  long  as  I  have 
known  anything,  a  very  great  esteem  and 
gratitude  for  the  pleasure  he  gave  me,  can  do 
him  no  good ;  but  it  may  possibly  be  of  ser- 
vice to  the  unhappy  woman  he  has  left  behind 
him,  to  have  it  known,  that  this  great  trage- 
dian was  never  in  a  scene  half  so  moving,  as 
the  circumstances  of  his  ai?airs  created  at  his 
departure.  His  wife  after  the  cohabitation  of 
forty  years  In  the  strictest  amity,  has  long 
pined  away  with  a  sense  of  his  decay,  as  well 
in  his  person  as  his  little  fortune ;  and,  in 
proportion  to  that,  she  has  herself  decayed 
both  in  her  health  and  reason.  Her  husband's 
death,  added  to  her  age  and  infirmities,  would 
certainly  have  determined  ^  her  life,  but  that 
the  greatness  of  her  distress  has  been  her 
relief,  by  a  present  deprivation  of  her  senses. 
This  absence  of  reason  is  her  best  defence 
against  sorrow,  poverty,  and  sickness.  I 
dwell  upon  this  account  so  distinctly,  in  obedi- 
ence to  a  certain  great  spirit,  who  hides  her 
name,  and  has  by  letter  applied  to  me  to 
recommend  to  her  some  object  of  compassion, 
from  whom  she  may  be  concealed. 

This,  I  think,  is  a  proper  occasion  for  exert- 
ing such  heroic  generosity  ;  and  as  there  is  an 
ingenuous  shame  in  those  who  have  known 
better  fortune  to  be  reduced  to  receive  obliga- 
tions, as  well  as  a  becoming  pain  in  the  truly 

^  ended 


generous  to  receive  thanks ;  in  this  case  both 
these  delicacies  are  preserved  ;  for  the  person 
obliged  is  as  incapable  of  knowing  her  bene- 
factress, as  her  benefactress  is  unwilling  to  be 
known  by  her. 


THE  TATLER 

NO.  264.     DECEMBER  16,  1710 
Favele  Unguis.^  —  Hoe.  Od.  iii.  2.  2. 

Boccalini,^  in  his  "Parnassus,"  indicts  a  la- 
conic writer  for  speaking  that  in  three  words 
which  he  might  have  said  in  two,  and  sen- 
tences him  for  his  punishment  to  read  over  all 
the  words  of  Guicciardini.^  This  Guicciardini 
is  so  very  prolix  and  circumstantial  in  his 
writings,  that  I  remember  our  countryman. 
Doctor  Donne,  speaking  of  that  majestic  and 
concise  manner  in  which  ISIoses  has  described 
the  creation  of  the  world,  adds,  "that  if  such 
an  author  as  Guicciardini  were  to  have  written 
on  such  a  subject,  the  world  itself  would  not 
have  been  able  to  have  contained  the  books 
that  gave  the  history  of  its  creation." 

I  look  upon  a  tedious  talker,  or  what  is 
generally  known  by  the  name  of  a  story-teller, 
to  be  much  more  insufferable  than  even  a 
prolix  writer.  An  author  may  be  tossed  out 
of  your  hand,  and  thrown  aside  when  he  grows 
dull  and  tiresome ;  but  such  liberties  are  so 
far  from  being  allowed  towards  your  orators 
in  common  conversation,  that  I  have  known 
a  challenge  sent  a  person  for  going  out  of  the 
room  abruptly,  and  leaving  a  man  of  honour 
in  the  midst  of  a  dissertation.  This  evil  is  at 
present  so  verj^  common  and  epidemical,  that 
there  is  scarce  a  coffee-house  *  in  town  that  has 
not  some  speakers  belonging  to  it,  who  utter 
their  political  essays,  and  draw  parallels  out 
of  Baker's  "  Chronicle"  ^  to  almost  every  part 
of  her  majesty's  reign.  It  was  said  of  two 
ancient  authors,  who  had  very  different 
beauties  in  their  style,  "that  if  you  took  a 
word  from  one  of  them,  you  only  spoiled  his 
eloquence ;  but  if  you  took  a  word  from  the 
other,  you  spoiled  his  sense."  I  have  often 
applied  the  first  part  of  this  criticism  to  sev- 
eral of  these  coffee-house  speakers  whom  I 

^  Spare  speech  ^  an  Italian  critic,  who  wrote 
in  161 2  ^  an  Italian  historian  of  the  sixteenth 
century  *  See  Macaulay's  account,  p.  516.  ^an 
old-fashioned  history  of  England,  pub.  1641 


THE    TATLER 


259 


have  at  present  in  my  thoughts,  though  the 
character  that  is  given  to  the  last  of  those 
authors,  is  what  I  would  recommend  to  the 
imitation  of  my  loving  countrymen.  But  it 
is  not  only  pubhc  places  of  resort,  but  private 
clubs  and  conversations  over  a  bottle,  that  are 
infested  with  this  loquacious  kind  of  animal, 
especially  with  that  species  which  I  compre- 
hend under  the  name  of  a  story-teUer.  I 
would  earnestly  desire  these  gentlemen  to 
consider,  that  no  point  of  wit  or  mirth  at  the 
end  of  a  story  can  atone  for  the  half  hour  that 
has  been  lost  before  they  come  at  it.  I  would 
likewise  lay  it  home  to  their  serious  consider- 
ation, whether  they  think  that  every  man  in 
the  company  has  not  a  right  to  speak  as  well  as 
themselves?  and  whether  they  do  not  think 
they  are  invading  another  man's  property, 
when  they  engross  the  time  vrhich  should  be 
divided  equally  among  the  company  to  their 
own  private  use? 

What  makes  this  evU  the  much  greater  in 
conversation  is,  that  these  humdrum  com- 
panions seldom  endeavour  to  wand  up  their 
narrations  into  a  point  of  mirth  or  instruction, 
which  might  make  some  amends  for  the 
tediousness  of  them ;  but  think  they  have  a 
right  to  tell  anything  that  has  happened  with- 
in their  memory.  They  look  upon  matter  of 
fact  to  be  a  sufficient  foundation  for  a  story, 
and  give  us  a  long  account  of  things,  not  be- 
cause they  are  entertaining  or  surprising,  but 
because  they  are  true. 

My  ingenious  kinsman,  Mr.  Humphry 
Wagstaff,  used  to  say,  "the  life  of  man  is  too 
short  for  a  story-teller." 

]\Iethusalem  might  be  half  an  hour  in  tell- 
ing what  o'clock  it  was :  but  as  for  us  post- 
diluvians,  we  ought  to  do  everj'thing  in  haste ; 
and  in  our  speeches,  as  well  as  actions,  remem- 
ber that  our  time  is  short.  A  man  that  talks 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  together  in  company, 
if  I  meet  him  frequently,  takes  up  a  great  part 
of  my  span.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  may  be 
reckoned  the  eight-and-fortieth  part  of  a  day, 
a  day  the  three  hundred  and  sixtieth  part  of  a 
year,  and  a  year  the  threescore  and  tenth  part 
of  Ufe.  By  this  moral  arithmetic,  supposing  a 
man  to  be  in  the  talking  world  one  third  part 
of  the  day,  whoever  gives  another  a  quarter  of 
an  hour's  hearing,  makes  him  a  sacrifice  of 
more  than  the  four  hundred  thousandth  part 
of  his  conversable  life. 

1  would  establish  but  one  great  general  rule 
to  be  observed  in  aU  conversation,  which  is 


this,  "that  men  should  not  talk  to  please 
themselves,  but  those  that  hear  them."  This 
would  make  them  consider,  whether  what 
they  speak  be  worth  hearing ;  whether  there 
be  either  wit  or  sense  in  what  they  are  about 
to  say ;  and,  whether  it  be  adapted  to  the 
time  when,  the  place  where,  and  the  person  to 
whom,  it  is  spoken. 

For  the  utter  extirpation  of  these  orators 
and  story-tellers,  which  I  look  upon  as  very 
great  pests  of  society,  I  have  invented  a  watch 
which  divides  the  minute  into  twelve  parts, 
after  the  same  manner  that  the  ordinary 
watches  are  divided  into  hours :  and  will  en- 
deavour to  get  a  patent,^  which  shall  oblige 
every  club  or  company  to  provide  themselves 
with  one  of  these  watches,  that  shall  he  upon 
the  table  as  an  hour-glass  is  often  placed  near 
the  pulpit,  to  measure  out  the  length  of  a 
discourse. 

I  shall  be  wilUng  to  allow  a  man  one  round 
of  my  watch,  that  is,  a  whole  minute,  to  speak 
in ;  but  if  he  exceeds  that  time,  it  shall  be 
lawful  for  any  of  the  company  to  look  upon 
the  watch,  or  to  call  him  down  to  order. 

Provided,  however,  that  if  any  one  can 
make  it  appear  he  is  turned  of  threescore,  he 
may  take  two,  or,  if  he  pleases,  three  rounds 
of  the  watch  without  giving  offence.  Pro- 
vided, also,  that  this  rule  be  not  construed  to 
extend  to  the  fair  sex,  who  shall  still  be  at 
hberty  to  talk  by  the  ordinary  watch  that  is 
now  in  uSe.  I  would  likewise  earnestly  recom- 
mend this  little  automaton,  which  may  be 
easUy  carried  in  the  pocket  without  any  in- 
cumbrance, to  all  such  as.  are  troubled  with 
this  infirmity  of  speech,  that  upon  pulling  out 
their  watches,  they  may  have  frequent  occa- 
sion to  consider  what  they  are  doing,  and  by 
that  means  cut  the  thread  of  the  story  short, 
and  hurry  to  a  conclusion.  I  shall  only  add, 
that  this  watch,  with  a  paper  of  directions 
how  to  use  it,  is  sold  at  Charles  Lillie's. 

I  am  afraid  a  Tatler  will  be  thought  a  very 
improper  paper  to  censure  this  humour  of 
being  talkative  ;  but  I  would  have  my  readers 
know  that  there  is  a  great  difference  between 
tattle  and  loquacity,  as  I  shall  show  at  large  in  a 
following  lucubration ;  it  being  my  design  to 
throw  away  a  candle  -  upon  that  subject,  in 
order  to  explain  the  whole  art  of  tattling  in 
all  its  branches  and  subdivisions. 

^  a  royal  order  ^  i.e.  burn  it  in  composing  an 
essay 


26o 


SIR    RICHARD    STEELE 


THE   SPECTATOR 

NO.    II.     MARCH    13,    1711 

Dat  veniam  corvis,  vcxat  censiira  columhas} 
—  Juv.  Sat.  ii.  63. 

Arietta  is  visited  by  all  persons  of  both 
sexes,  who  have  any  pretence  to  wit  and 
gallantry.  She  is  in  that  time  of  life  which  is 
neither  affected  with  the  follies  of  youth,  nor 
infirmities  of  age ;  and  her  conversation  is  so 
mixed  with  gaiety  and  prudence,  that  she  is 
agreeable  both  to  the  young  and  the  old. 
Her  behaviour  is  very  frank,  without  being  in 
the  least  blameable :  and  as  she  is  out  of  the 
track  of  any  amorous  or  ambitious  pursuits 
of  her  own,  her  visitants  entertain  her  with 
accovmts  of  themselves  very  freely,  whether 
they  concern  their  passions  or  their  interests. 
I  made  her  a  visit  this  afternoon,  having  been 
formerly  introduced  to  the  honour  of  her 
acquaintance  by  my  friend  Will  Honeycomb, 
who  has  prevailed  upon  her  to  admit  me 
sometimes  into  her  assembly,  as  a  civil  in- 
offensive man.  I  found  her  accompanied  with 
one  person  only,  a  common-place  talker,  who, 
upon  my  entrance,  arose,  and  after  a  very 
slight  civility  sat  down  again  ;  then,  turning  to 
Arietta,  pursued  his  discourse,  which  I  found 
was  upon  the  old  topic  of  constancy  in  love. 
He  went  on  with  great  facility  in  repeating 
what  he  talks  every  day  of  his  life ;  and  with 
the  ornaments  of  insignificant  laughs  and 
gestures,  enforced  his  arguments  by  quota- 
tions out  of  plays  and  songs,  which  allude  to 
the  perjuries  of  the  fair,  and  the  general  levity 
of  women.  Methought  he  strove  to  shine 
more  than  ordinarily  in  his  talkative  way, 
that  he  might  insult  my  silence,  and  distin- 
guish himself  before  a  woman  of  Arietta's 
taste,  and  understanding.  She  had  often  an 
inclination  to  interrupt  him,  but  could  find  no 
opportunity,  till  the  larum  ceased  of  itself, 
which  it  did  not  till  he  had  repeated  and  mur- 
dered the  celebrated  story  of  the  Ephcsian 
Matron. 2 

Arietta  seemed  to  regard  this  piece  of 
raillery  as  an  outrage  done  to  her  sex ;  as  in- 
deed I  have  always  observed  that  women, 
whether  out  of  a  nicer  regard  to  their  honour, 
or  what  other  reason  I  cannot  tell,  are  more 

^  Censure  spares  the  crows  and  attacks  the 
doves.  2  A  story  of  an  easily  consoled  widow,  told 
by  Petronius,  a  Latin  writer  of  the  first  century. 


sensibly  touched  with  those  general  aspersions 
which  are  cast  upon  their  sex,  than  men  are 
by  what  is  said  of  theirs. 

When  she  had  a  little  recovered  herself  from 
the  serious  anger  she  was  in,  she  replied  in  the 
following  manner : 

"Sir,  when  I  consider  how  perfectly  new  all 
you  have  said  on  this  subject  is,  and  that  the 
story  you  have  given  us  is  not  quite  two  thou- 
sand years  old,  I  cannot  but  think  it  a  piece 
of  presumption  to  dispute  it  with  you ;  but 
3^our  quotations  put  me  in  mind  of  the  fable 
of  the  lion  and  the  man.  The  man  walking 
with  that  noble  animal,  showed  him,  in  the 
ostentation  of  human  superiority,  a  sign  of  a 
man  killing  a  lion.  Upon  which,  the  lion  said 
very  justly,  'We  lions  are  none  of  us  painters, 
else  we  could  show  a  hundred  men  killed  by 
lions  for  one  lion  killed  by  a  man.'  You  men 
are  writers,  and  can  represent  us  women  as 
unbecoming  as  you  please  in  your  works, 
while  we  are  unable  to  return  the  injury. 
You  have  twice  or  thrice  observed  in  your  dis- 
course, that  hypocrisy  is  the  very  foundation 
of  our  education ;  and  that  an  ability  to  dis- 
semble our  affections  is  a  professed  part  of 
our  breeding.  These  and  such  other  reflec- 
tions are  sprinkled  up  and  do-\vn  the  writings 
of  all  ages,  by  authors,  who  leave  behind  them 
memorials  of  their  resentment  against  the 
scorn  of  particular  women,  in  invectives 
against  the  whole  sex.  Such  a  writer,  I 
doubt  not,  was  the  celebrated  Petronius,  who 
invented  the  pleasant  aggravations  of  the 
frailty  of  the  Ephesian  lady;  but  when  we 
consider  this  question  between  the  sexes, 
which  has  been  either  a  point  of  dispute  or 
raillery  ever  since  there  were  men  and  women, 
let  us  take  facts  from  plain  people,  and  from 
such  as  have  not  either  ambition  or  capacity 
to  embellish  their  narrations  with  any 
beauties  of  imagination.  I  was  the  other  day 
amusing  myself  with  Ligon's  Account  of 
Bai-badoes ; '  and,  in  answer  to  your  well- 
wrought  tale,  I  will  give  you,  (as  it  dwells 
upon  my  memory)  out  of  that  honest  traveller, 
in  his  fifty-fifth  page,  the  history  of  Inkle  and 
Yarico. 

"'Mr.  Thomas  Inkle,  of  London,  aged 
twenty  years,  embarked  in  the  Downs, ^  on  the 
good  ship  called  the  Achilles,  bound  for  the 
West  Indies,  on  the  i6th  of  June,   1647,  in 

'  pub.  1657  '  a  roadstead  for  ships  off  the  east 
coast  of  Kent 


THE    SPECTATOR 


261 


order  to  improve  his  fortune  by  trade  and 
merchandise.  Our  adventurer  was  the  third 
son  of  an  eminent  citizen,  who  had  taken 
particular  care  to  instU  into  his  mind  an  early 
love  of  gain,  by  making  him  a  perfect  master 
of  numbers,^  and  consequently  giving  him  a 
quick  view  of  loss  and  advantage,  and  pre- 
venting the  natural  impulses  of  his  passions, 
by  prepossession  towards  his  interests.  With 
a  mind  thus  turned,  young  Inkle  had  a  per- 
son every  way  agreeable,  a  ruddy  vigour  in  his 
countenance,  strength  in  his  hmbs,  with  ring- 
lets of  fair  hair  loosely  flowing  on  his  shoulders. 
It  happened,  in  the  course  of  the  voyage,  that 
the  Achilles,  in  some  distress,  put  into  a 
creek  on  the  main  -  of  America,  in  search  of 
provisions.  The  youth,  who  is  the  hero  of  my 
story,  among  others  went  on  shore  on  this 
occasion.  From  their  first  landing  they  were 
observed  by  a  part)^  of  Indians,  who  hid  them- 
selves in  the  woods  for  that  purpose.  The 
EngUsh  unadvisedly  marched  a  great  distance 
from  the  shore  into  the  countr>%  and  were  in- 
tercepted by  the  natives,  who  slew  the  greatest 
number  of  them.  Our  adventurer  escaped 
among  others,  by  fl>'ing  into  a  forest.  Upon 
his  coming  into  a  remote  and  pathless  part  of 
the  wood,  he  threw  himself,  tired  and  breath- 
less, on  a  Uttle  hillock,  when  an  Indian  maid 
rushed  from  a  thicket  behind  him.  After  the 
first  surprise  they  appeared  mutually  agree- 
able to  each  other.  If  the  European  was 
highly  charmed  with  the  limbs,  features,  and 
wild  graces  of  the  naked  American;  the 
American  was  no  less  taken  with  the  dress, 
complexion,  and  shape  of  an  European,  cov- 
ered from  head  to  foot.  The  Indian  grew 
immediately  enamoured  of  him,  and  conse- 
quently solicitous  for  his  preservation.  She 
therefore  conveyed  him  to  a  cave,  where  she 
gave  him  a  delicious  repast  of  fruits,  and  led 
him  to  a  stream  to  slake  his  thirst.  In  the 
midst  of  these  good  ofl&ces,  she  would  some- 
times play  with  his  hair,  and  delight  in  the 
opposition  of  its  colour  to  that  of  her  fingers ; 
then  open  his  bosom,  then  laugh  at  him  for 
covering  it.  She  was,  it  seems,  a  person  of 
distinction,  for  she  every  day  came  to  him  in 
a  different  dress,  of  the  most  beautiful  shells, 
bugles,^  and  bredes.'*  She  Ukewise  brought 
him  a  great  many  spoils,  which  her  other  lovers 
had  presented  to  her,  so  that  his  cave  was 
richly  adorned  with  all  the  spotted  skins  of 

^  arithmetic  -  mainland  ^  beads  *  braided  work 

AE 


beasts,  and  most  parti-coloured  feathers  of 
fowls,  which  that  world  aiJorcfed.  To  make 
his  confinement  more  tolerable,  she  would 
carr>'  him  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  or  by  the 
favour  of  moonlight,  to  unfrequented  groves 
and  solitudes,  and  show  him  where  to  lie  down 
in  safety,  and  sleep  amidst  the  falls  of  waters 
and  melody  of  nightingales.  Her  part  was  to 
watch  and  hold  him  awake  in  her  arms,  for 
fear  of  her  countr>'men,  and  wake  him  on 
occasions  to  consult  his  safety.  In  this  man- 
ner did  the  lovers  pass  away  their  time,  till 
they  had  learned  a  language  of  their  own,  in 
which  the  voyager  commimicated  to  his  mis- 
tress how  happy  he  should  be  to  have  her  in 
his  country,  where  she  should  be  clothed  in 
such  silks  as  his  waistcoat  was  made  of,  and 
be  carried  in  houses  drawn  by  horses,  without 
being  exposed  to  wind  or  weather.  All  this 
he  promised  her  the  enjo>Tnent  of,  without 
such  fears  and  alarms  as  they  were  there  tor- 
mented with.  In  this  tender  correspondence 
these  lovers  lived  for  several  months,  when 
Yarico,  instructed  by  her  lover,  discovered  a 
vessel  on  the  coast,  to  v.-hich  she  made  signals ; 
and  in  the  night,  with  the  utmost  jo}^  and 
satisfaction,  accompanied  him  to  a  ship's 
crew  of  his  count  r\Tnen  bound  to  Barbadoes. 
WTien  a  vessel  from  the  main  arrives  in  that 
island,  it  seems  the  planters  come  dowTi  to  the 
shore,  where  there  is  an  immediate  market  of 
the  Indians  and  other  slaves,  as  with  us  of 
horses  and  oxen. 

'"To  be  short,  INIr.  Thomas  Inkle,  now 
coming  into  English  territories,  began  se- 
riously to  reflect  upon  his  loss  of  time,  and  to 
weigh  with  himself  how  many  days'  interest  of 
his  money  he  had  lost  during  his  stay  with 
Yarico.  This  thought  made  the  young  man 
very  pensive,  and  careful  what  account  he 
should  be  able  to  give  his  friends  of  his  voyage. 
Upon  which  consideration,  the  prudent  and 
frugal  young  man  sold  Yarico  to  a  Barbadian 
merchant ;  notwithstanding  that  the  poor 
girl,  to  incline  him  to  commiserate  her  condi- 
tion, told  him  that  she  was  with  child  by  him : 
but  he  only  made  use  of  that  information,  to 
rise  in  his  demands  upon  the   purchaser.'" 

I  was  so  touched  with  this  story  (which  I 
think  should  be  always  a  counterpart  to  the 
Ephesian  IMatron)  that  I  left  the  room  wdth 
tears  in  my  eyes,  which  a  woman  of  Arietta's 
good  sense  did,  I  am  sure,  take  for  greater 
applause  than  any  compliments  I  could  make 
her. 


262 


JOSEPH    ADDISON 


JOSEPH  ADDISON   (1672-1719) 

From    THE    CAMPAIGN,    A    POEM    TO 

HIS    GRACE   THE   DUKE   OF 

MARLBOROUGH 

But,  O  my  muse,  what  numbers  wilt  thou 
find 
To  sing  the  furious  troops  in  battle  joined! 
Methinks    I    hear    the    drum's    tumultuous 

sound 
The  victor's  shouts  and  dying  groans  confound, 
The  dreadful  burst  of  cannon  rend  the  skies. 
And  all  the  thunder  of  the  battle  rise! 
'Twas  then  great  Marlborough's  mighty  soul 

was  proved. 
That,  in  the  shock  of  charging  hosts  unmoved. 
Amidst  confusion,  horror,  and  despair,        281 
Examined  all  the  dreadful  scenes  of  war ; 
In  peaceful  thought  the  field  of  death  sur- 
veyed, 
To  fainting  squadrons  sent  the  timely  aid, 
Inspired  repulsed  battalions  to  engage. 
And  taught  the  doubtful  battle  where  to  rage. 
So  when  an  angel  by  divine  command 
With  rising  tempests  shakes  a  guilty  land, 
Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  past,^ 
Calm  and  serene  he  drives  the  furious  blast ; 
And,  pleased  the  Almighty's  orders  to  per- 
form, 291 
Rides  in  the  whirlwind,  and  directs  the  storm. 
But  see  the  haughty  household-troops^  ad- 
vance ! 
The  dread  of  Europe,  and  the  pride  of  France. 
The    war's    whole   art    each   private    soldier 

knows, 
And  with  a  general's  love  of  conquest  glows ; 
Proudly  he  marches  on,  and,  void  of  fear. 
Laughs  at  the  shaking  of  the  British  spear: 
Vain  insolence  !  with  native  freedom  brave, 
The  meanest  Briton  scorns  the  highest  slave. 

HYMN 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

Th'  unwearied  Sun  from  day  to  day  5 

Docs  his  Creator's  power,  display  ; 

^  in    November,    1703    ^  the    royal   guard   of 
France 


And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail. 

The  Moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale ;        10 

And  nightly  to  the  listening  Earth 

Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth : 

Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 

And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 

Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll,  15 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though  in  solemn  silence  ail 
]\Iove  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball ; 
What  though  no  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found?  20 

In  Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice. 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice ; 
Forever  singing  as  they  shine, 
"The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 


THE   SPECTATOR 

NO.  10.     MONDAY,   MARCH  12,   1711 

Non  alilcr  quam  qui  advcrso  vix  flwnine  lembum 

Remigiis  subigit:   si  hrachia  forte  remisit, 

Atque  ilium  in  praeccps  prono  rapit  alveus  amni} 

—  ViRG. 

It  is  v/ith  much  satisfaction  that  I  hear  this 
great  city  inquirmg  day  by  day  after  these  my 
papers,  and  receiving  my  mornmg  lectures 
with  a  becoming  seriousness  and  attention. 
My  publisher  tells  me,  that  there  are  already 
three  thousand  of  them  distributed  every  day : 
So  that  if  I  allow  twenty  readers  to  every 
paper,  which  I  look  upon  as  a  modest  compu- 
tation, I  may  reckon  abovit  threescore  thou- 
sand disciples  in  London  and  Westminster, 
who  I  hope  will  take  care  to  distinguish  them- 
selves from  the  thoughtless  herd  of  their 
ignorant  and  unattentive  brethren.  Since  I 
have  raised  to  myself  so  great  an  audience,  I 
shall  spare  no  pains  to  make  their  instruction 
agreeable,  and  their  diversion  useful.  For 
which  reasons  I  shall  endeavour  to  enliven 
morality  with  wit,  and  to  temper  wit  with 
morality,  that  ray  readers  may,  if  possible, 

'  So  the  boat's  brawny  crew  the  current  stem, 
And,  slow  advancing,  struggle  with  the  stream; 
But  if  they  slack  their  hands  or  cease  to  strive, 
Then  down  the  flood  with  headlong  haste  they 
drive.  —  Dryden. 


THE    SPECTATOR 


263 


botia  ways  find  their  account  in  the  specula- 
tion of  the  day.  And  to  the  end  that  their 
virtue  and  discretion  may  not  be  short,  tran- 
sient, intermitting  starts  of  thoughts,  I  have 
resolved  to  refresh  their  memories  from  day 
to  day,  till  I  have  recovered  them  out  of  that 
desperate  state  of  vice  and  folly  into  which 
the  age  is  fallen.  The  mind  that  hes  fallow 
but  a  single  day,  sprouts  up  in  foUies  that  are 
only  to  be  killed  by  a  constant  and  assiduous 
culture.  It  was  said  of  Socrates,  that  he 
brought  philosophy  down  from  heaven,  to 
inhabit  among  men  ;  and  I  shah  be  ambitious 
to  have  it  said  of  me,  that  I  have  brought 
philosophy  out  of  closets  and  libraries,  schools 
and  colleges,  to  dwell  in  clubs  and  assemblies, 
at  tea-tables  and  in  coffee-houses. 

I  would  therefore  in  a  ver>'  particular 
manner  recommend  these  my  speculations  to 
all  well-regulated  families,  that  set  apart  an 
hour  in  every  morning  for  tea  and  bread  and 
butter ;  and  would  earnestly  advise  them  for 
their  good  to  order  this  paper  to  be  punctually 
served  up,  and  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  part  of 
the  tea  equipage. 

Sir  Francis  Bacon  observes,  that  a  well- 
written  book,  compared  with  its  rivals  and 
antagonists,  is  like  jMoses's  serpent,  that  im- 
mediately, swallowed  up  and  devoured  those 
of  the  Eg>'ptians.  I  shall  not  be  so  vain  as  to 
think,  that  where  the  Spectator  appears,  the 
other  pubhc  prints  will  vanish ;  But  shall 
leave  it  to  my  reader's  consideration,  whether. 
Is  it  not  much  better  to  be  let  into  the  knowl- 
edge of  one's  self,  than  to  hear  what  passes 
in  Muscovy  or  Poland;  and  to  amuse  our- 
selves with  such  writings  as  tend  to  the  wear- 
ing out  of  ignorance,  passion,  and  prejudice, 
than  such  as  naturally  conduce  to  inflame 
hatreds,  and  make  enmities  irreconcilable? 

In  the  next  place,  I  would  recormnend  this 
paper  to  the  daily  perusal  of  those  gentlemen 
whom  I  cannot  but  consider  as  my  good 
brothers  and  allies,  I  mean  the  fraternity  of 
Spectators,  who  hve  in  the  world  without 
having  anything  to  do  in  it ;  and  either  by  the 
affluence  of  their  fortunes,  or  laziness  of  their 
dispositions,  have  no  other  business  with  the 
rest  of  mankind,  but  to  look  upon  them.  Un- 
der this  class  of  men  are  comprehended  all 
contemplative  tradesmen ,1  titular  physicians, ^ 
Fellows  of  the  Royal-society,^  Templars  *  that 

^  retired  merchants  ^  physicians  who  do  not 
practice     ^  dilettante  scientists     *  lawyers 


are  not  given  to  be  contentious,  and  statesmen 
that  are  out  of  business ;  in  short,  every  one 
that  considers  the  world  as  a  theatre,  and  de- 
sires to  form  a  right  judgment  of  those  who 
are  the  actors  on  it. 

There  is  another  set  of  men  that  I  must  like- 
wise lay  a  claim  to,  whom  I  have  lately  called 
the  blanks  of  society,  as  being  altogether  vm- 
furnished  with  ideas,  till  the  business  and  con- 
versation of  the  day  has  supplied  them.  I 
have  often  considered  these  poor  souls  with  an 
eye  of  great  commiseration,  when  I  have 
heard  them  asking  the  first  man  they  have 
met  with,  whether  there  was  any  news  stirring? 
and  by  that  means  gathering  together  mate- 
rials for  thinking.  These  needy  persons  do 
not  know  what  to  talk  of,  till  about  twelve 
a  clock  in  the  morning ;  for  by  that  time  they 
are  pretty  good  judges  of  the  weather,  know 
which  way  the  wind  sits,  and  whether  the 
Dutch  mail  be  come  in.  As  they  lie  at  the 
mercy  of  the  first  man  they  meet,  and  are 
grave  or  impertinent  all  the  day  long,  accord- 
ing to  the  notions  which  they  have  imbibed 
in  the  morning,  I  would  earnestly  entreat 
them  not  to  stir  out  of  their  chambers  till 
they  have  read  this  paper,  and  do  promise 
them  that  I  will  daily  instil  into  them  such 
sound  and  wholesome  sentiments,  as  shall 
have  a  good  effect  on  their  conversation  for 
the  ensuing  twelve  hours. 

But  there  are  none  to  whom  this  paper  wiU 
be  more  useful,  than  to  the  female  world.  I 
have  often  thought  there  has  not  been  suffi- 
cient pains  taken  in  finding  out  proper  em- 
ployments and  diversions  for  the  fair  ones. 
Their  amusements  seem  contrived  for  them, 
rather  as  they  are  women,  than  as  they  are 
reasonable  creatures ;  and  are  more  adapted 
to  the  sex  than  to  the  species.  The  toilet  is 
their  great  scene  of  business,  and  the  right 
adjusting  of  their  hair  the  principal  employ- 
ment of  their  lives.  The  sorting  of  a  suit  of 
ribbons  is  reckoned  a  very  good  morning's 
work;  and  if  they  make  an  excursion  to  a 
mercer's  or  a  toy-shop,  so  great  a  fatigue 
makes  them  unfit  for  any  thing  else  all  the 
day  after.  Their  more  serious  occupations 
are  sewing  and  embroidery,  and  their  greatest 
drudgery  the  preparation  of  jellies  and  sweet- 
meats. This,  I  say,  is  the  state  of  ordinary 
women  ;  though  I  know  there  are  multitudes 
of  those  of  a  more  elevated  life  and  conversa- 
tion, that  move  in  an  exalted  sphere  of  knowl- 
edge and  virtue,  that  join  all  the  beauties  of 


264 


JOSEPH   ADDISON 


the  mind  to  the  ornaments  of  dress,  and  inspire 
a  kind  of  awe  and  respect,  as  well  as  love, 
into  their  male  beholders.  I  hope  to  encrease 
the  number  of  these  by  publishing  this  daily 
paper,  which  I  shall  always  endeavour  to 
make  an  innocent  if  not  an  improving  enter- 
tainment, and  by  that  means  at  least  divert 
the  minds  of  my  female  readers  from  greater 
trifles.  At  the  same  time,  as  I  would  fain 
give  some  finishing  touches  to  those  which 
are  already  the  most  beautiful  pieces  in  human 
nature,  I  shall  endeavour  to  point  out  all  these 
imperfections  that  are  the  blemishes,  as  well 
as  those  virtues  which  are  the  embellishments 
of  the  sex.  In  the  meanwhile  I  hope  these  my 
gentle  readers,  who  have  so  much  time  on 
their  hands,  will  not  grudge  throwing  away  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  in  a  day  on  this  paper,  since 
they  may  do  it  without  any  hindrance  to  busi- 
ness. 

I  know  several  of  my  friends  and  well- 
wishers  are  in  great  pain  for  me,  lest  I  should 
not  be  able  to  keep  up  the  spirit  of  a  paper 
which  I  oblige  myself  to  furnish  every  day : 
But  to  make  them  easy  in  this  particular,  I 
will  promise  them  faithfully  to  give  it  over  as 
soon  as  I  grow  dull.  This  I  know  will  be 
matter  of  great  raillery  to  the  small  Wits  ;  who 
will  frequently  put  me  in  mind  of  my  prom- 
ise, desire  me  to  keep  my  word,  assure  me 
that  it  is  high  time  to  give  over,  with  many 
other  little  pleasantries  of  the  like  nature, 
which  men  of  a  little  smart  genius  cannot 
forbear  throwing  out  against  their  best  friends, 
when  they  have  such  a  handle  given  them  of 
being  witty.  But  let  them  remember  that  I 
do  hereby  enter  my  caveat  against  this  piece 
of  raillery. 

THOUGHTS  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 
NO.  26.     FRIDAY,   MARCH  30,  171 1 

Pallida  mors  aequo  pulsat  pcde  pauperum  tahernas 

Rcgumqicc  turres,  0  hcate  Sexti. 
Vilae  sunima  brevis  spem  nos  vctal  inchoare  longam, 

Jam  te  premet  nox,  fabulaeque  manes, 
El  domus  exilis  Plutonia} 

—  HoK.  i.  Od.  iv.  13. 

1  With  equal  foot,  rich  friend,  impartial  fate 
Knocks  at  the  cottage,  and  the  palace  gate : 
Life's  span  forbids  thee  to  extend  thy  cares, 
And  stretch  thy  hopes  beyond  thy  years  : 
Night  soon  will  seize,  and  you  must  quickly  go 
To  story'd  ghosts,  and  Pluto's  house  below. 


When  I  am  in  a  serious  humour,  I  very  often 
walk  by  myself  in  Westminster  Abbey  ;  where 
the  gloominess  of  the  place,  and  the  use  to 
which  it  is  applied,  with  the  solemnity  of  the 
building,  and  the  condition  of  the  people  who 
lie  in  it,  are  apt  to  fill  the  mind  with  a  kind  of 
melancholy,  or  rather  thoughtfulness,  that  is 
not  disagreeable.  I  yesterday  passed  a  whole 
afternoon  in  the  churchyard,  the  cloisters,  and 
the  church,  amusing  myself  with  the  tomb- 
stones and  inscriptions  that  I  met  with  in 
those  several  regions  of  the  dead.  Most  of 
them  recorded  nothing  else  of  the  buried 
person,  but  that  he  was  born  upon  one  day, 
and  died  upon  another:  the  whole  history  of 
his  life  being  com.prehended  in  those  two 
circumstances  that  are  common  to  all  man- 
kind. I  could  not  but  look  upon  these  regis- 
ters of  existence,  whether  of  brass  or  marble, 
as  a  kind  of  satire  upon  the  departed  persons ; 
who  left  no  other  memorial  of  them,  but  that 
they  were  born,  and  that  they  died.  They 
put  me  in  mind  of  several  persons  mentioned 
in  the  battles  of  heroic  poems,  who  have 
sounding  names  given  them,  for  no  other 
reason  but  that  they  may  be  killed,  and  are 
celebrated  for  nothing  but  being  knocked  on 
the  head. 

"  TXavKbv  T€  Me56i'Ta  re  QepffiKox^''  Te. "  ^ 

—  HOM. 

"  Glaucumque,  Medontaque,  Thersilochumque." 

—  ViRG. 

The  life  of  these  men  is  finely  described  in 
Holy  Writ  by  "  the  path  of  an  arrow,"  which  is 
immediately  closed  up  and  lost. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  church,  I  enter- 
tained myself  with  the  digging  of  a  grave; 
and  saw  in  every  shovel-full  of  it  that  was 
thrown  up,  the  fragment  of  a  bone  or  skull 
intermixed  with  a  kind  of  fresh  mouldering 
earth,  that  some  time  or  other  had  a  place  in 
the  composition  of  an  human  body.  Upon 
this  I  began  to  consider  with  myself,  what  in- 
numerable multitudes  of  people  lay  confused 
together  under  the  pavement  of  that  ancient 
cathedral ;  how  men  and  women,  friends  and 
enemies,  priests  and  soldiers,  monks  and 
prebendaries,  were  crumbled  amongst  one 
another,  and  blended  together  in  the  same 
common  mass ;  how  beauty,  strength,  and 
youth,  with  old  age,  weakness,  and  deformity, 

^  "  Glaucus,  and  Medon,  and  Thersilochus." 


THE    SPECTATOR 


265 


lay  undistinguished  in  the  same  promiscuous 
heap  of  matter. 

After  having  thus  surveyed  this  great  maga- 
zine of  mortaUty,  as  it  were  in  the  lump,  I  ex- 
amined it  more  particularly  by  the  accounts 
which  I  found  on  several  of  the  monuments 
which  are  raised  in  ever}-  quarter  of  that 
ancient  fabric.  Some  of  them  were  covered 
with  such  extravagant  epitaphs,  that  if  it 
were  possible  for  the  dead  person  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  them,  he  would  blush  at  the 
praises  which  his  friends  have  bestowed  on 
him.  There  are  others  so  excessively  modest, 
that  they  deliver  the  character  of  the  person 
departed  in  Greek  or  Hebrew,  and  by  that 
means  are  not  understood  once  in  a  twelve- 
month. In  the  poetical  quarter,  I  found  there 
were  poets  who  had  no  monuments,  and  mon- 
uments which  had  no  poets.  I  observed,  in- 
deed, that  the  present  war  had  filled  the 
church  with  many  of  these  uninhabited  monu- 
ments, which  had  been  erected  to  the  memory 
of  persons  whose  bodies  were,  perhaps,  buried 
in  the  plains  of  Blenheim,  or  in  the  bosom  of 
the  ocean. 

I  could  not  but  be  very  much  delighted  with 
several  modern  epitaphs,  which  are  written 
with  great  elegance  of  expression  and  justness 
of  thought,  and  therefore  do  honour  to  the 
living  as  well  as  to  the  dead.  As  a  foreigner 
is  very  apt  to  conceive  an  idea  of  the  igno- 
rance or  politeness  of  a  nation  from  the  turn 
of  their  public  monuments  and  inscriptions, 
they  should  be  submitted  to  the  perusal  of 
men  of  learning  and  genius  before  they  are 
put  in  execution.  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel's^ 
monument  has  very  often  given  me  great 
offence.  Instead  of  the  brave,  rough,  English 
admiral,  Vv^hich  was  the  distinguishing  char- 
acter of  that  plain,  gallant  man,  he  is  repre- 
sented on  his  tomb  by  the  figure  of  a  beau, 
dressed  in  a  long  periwig,  and  reposing  him- 
self upon  velvet  cushions  under  a  canopy  of 
state.  The  inscription  is  answerable  to.  the 
monument ;  for,  instead  of  celebrating  the 
many  remarkable  actions  he  had  performed 
in  the  service  of  his  coimtrj^  it  acquaints  us 
only  with  the  manner  of  his  death,  in  which  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  reap  any  honour. 
The  Dutch,  whom  we  are  apt  to  despise  for 
want  of  genius,  show  an  infinitely  greater  taste 
of  antiquity  and  politeness  in  their  buildings 
and  works  of  this  nature,  than  what  we  meet 

^  Drowned  at  sea,  1707 


with  in  those  of  ovir  own  coimtry.  The  monu- 
ments of  their  admirals,  which  have  been 
erected  at  the  pubUc  expense,  represent  them 
Uke  themselves,  and  are  adorned  with  rostral  ^ 
crowns  and  naval  ornaments,  with  beautiful 
festoons  of  sea-weed,  shells,  and  coral. 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  I  have  left 
the  repository  of  our  English  kings  for  the 
contemplation  of  another  day,  when  I  shall 
fijid  my  mind  disposed  for  so  serious  an  amuse- 
ment. I  know  that  entertainments  of  this 
nature  are  apt  to  raise  dark  and  dismal 
thoughts  in  timorous  minds  and  gloomy 
imaginations ;  but  for  my  own  part,  though  I 
am  always  serious,  I  do  not  kiaow  what  it  is 
to  be  melancholy ;  and  can  therefore  take  a 
view  of  nature  in  her  deep  and  solemn  scenes, 
v>ith  the  same  pleasure  as  in  her  most  gay  and 
delightful  ones.  By  this  means  I  can  improve 
myself  with  those  objects,  which  others  con- 
sider with  terror.  When  I  look  upon  the 
tombs  of  the  great,  every  emotion  of  envy 
dies  in  me ;  when  I  read  the  epitaphs  of  the 
beautiful,  ever^'  inordinate  desire  goes  out ; 
when  I  meet  with  the  grief  of  parents  upon 
a  tomb-stone,  my  heart  melts  with  compas- 
sion :  when  I  see  the  tomb  of  the  parents 
themselves,  I  consider  the  vanity  of  grieving 
for  those  whom  we  must  quickly  follow. 
When  I  see  kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed 
them,  when  I  consider  rival  wits  placed  side 
by  side,  or  the  holy  men  that  divided  the 
world  with  their  contests  and  disputes,  I 
reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonishment  on  the 
little  competitions,  factions,  and  debates  of 
mankind.  When  I  read  the  several  dates  of 
the  tombs,  of  some  that  died  yesterday,  and 
some  six  hundred  years  ago,  I  consider  that 
great  day  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be  contem- 
poraries, and  make  our  appearance  together. 


THE   HEAD-DRESS 

NO.  98.     FRIDAY,   JUNE  22,  1711 

Tanta  est  quacrendl  ciira  decoris.^ 

—  Juv.  Sat.  vi.  500. 

There  is  not  so  variable  a  thing  in  nature  as 
a  lady's  head-dress.  Within  my  own  memory 
I  have  known  it  rise  and  fall  above  thirty 

^  a  crown  adorned  with  figures  of  prows  of  ships 
2  So  studiously  their  persons  they  adorn. 


266 


JOSEPH    ADDISON 


degrees.  About  ten  years  ago  it  shot  up  to  a 
very  great  height,  insomuch  that  the  female 
part  of  our  species  were  much  taller  than  the 
men.  The  women  were  of  such  an  enonnous 
stature,  that  "we  appeared  as  grasshoppers 
before  them  ; "  ^  at  present  the  whole  sex  is  in  a 
manner  dwarfed,  and  shrunk  into  a  race  of 
beauties  that  seems  almost  another  species. 
I  remember  several  ladies,  who  were  once  very 
near  seven  foot  high,  that  at  present  want 
some  inches  of  five.  How  they  came  to  be 
thus  curtailed  I  cannot  learn.  Whether  the 
whole  sex  be  at  present  under  any  penance 
which  we  know  nothing  of ;  or  whether  they 
have  cast  their  head-dresses  in  order  to  sur- 
prise us  with  something  in  that  kind  which 
shall  be  entirely  new ;  or  whether  some  of  the 
tallest  of  the  sex,  being  too  cunning  for  the 
rest,  have  contrived  this  method  to  make 
themselves  appear  sizeable,  is  still  a  secret ; 
though  I  find  most  are  of  opinion,  they  are  at 
present  like  trees  new  lopped  and  pruned, 
that  will  certainly  sprout  up  and  flourish  with 
greater  heads  than  before.  For  my  own 
part,  as  I  do  not  love  to  be  insulted  by 
women  who  are  taller  than  myself,  I  admire 
the  sex  much  more  in  their  present  humilia- 
tion, which  has  reduced  them  to  their  natural 
dimensions,  than  when  they  had  extended 
their  persons  and  lengthened  themselves  out 
into  formidable  and  gigantic  figures.  I  am 
not  for  adding  to  the  beautiful  edifices  of 
nature,  nor  for  raising  any  whimsical  super- 
structure upon  her  plans :  I  must  therefore 
repeat  it,  that  I  am  highly  pleased  with  the 
coiffure  now  in  fashion,  and  think  it  shows  the 
good  sense  which  at  present  very  much  reigns 
among  the  valuable  part  of  the  sex.  One 
may  observe  that  women  in  all  ages  h^ve 
taken  more  pains  than  men  to  adorn  the  out- 
side of  their  heads;  and  indeed  I  very 
much  admire,^  that  those  female  architects 
who  raise  such  wonderful  structures  out  of 
ribands,  lace,  and  v/ire,  have  not  been  recorded 
for  their  respective  inventions.  It  is  certain 
there  have  been  as  many  orders  in  these  kinds 
of  building,  as  in  those  which  have  been  made 
of  marble.  Sometimes  they  rise  in  the  shape 
of  a  pyramid,  sometimes  like  a  tower,  and 
sometimes  like  a  steeple.  In  Juvenal's  time 
the  building  grew  by  several  orders  and 
stories,  as  he  has  very  humorously  described 
it: 

^  Cf.  Numbers  xiii :  33  ^  wonder 


"Tot   premit   ordinibus,    tot   adhuc   compagibus 
altum 
Aedificat  caput :  Andromachen  a  f rente  videbis ; 
Post  minor  est :   aliam  credas."  ^ 

—  Juv.  Sal.  vi.  501. 

But  I  do  not  remember  in  any  part  of  my 
reading,  that  the  head-dress  aspired  to  as  great 
an  extravagance  as  in  the  fourteenth  century ; 
when  it  was  built  up  in  a  couple  of  cones  or 
spires,  which  stood  so  excessively  high  on  each 
side  of  the  head,  that  a  woman,  who  was  but 
a  Pigmy  without  her  head-dress,  appeared  like 
a  Colossus  upon  putting  it  on.  Monsieur 
Paradin  ^  says,  "That  these  old-fashioned  fon- 
tanges  ^  rose  an  ell  above  the  head  ;  that  they 
were  pointed  like  steeples  ;  and  had  long  loose 
pieces  of  crape  fastened  to  the  tops  of  them, 
which  were  curiously  fringed,  and  hung  down 
their  backs  hke  streamers." 

The  vromen  might  possibly  have  carried  this 
Gothic  building  much  higher,  had  not  a 
famous  monk,  Thomas  Conecte  ■*  by  name,  at- 
tacked it  with  great  zeal  and  resolution.  This 
holy  man  travelled  from  place  to  place  to 
preach  down  this  monstrous  commode ;  and 
succeeded  so  well  in  it,  that,  as  the  magicians 
sacrificed  their  books  to  the  flames  upon  the 
preaching  of  an  apostle,  many  of  the  women 
threw  down  their  head-dresses  in  the  middle 
of  his  sermon,  and  made  a  bonfire  of  them 
within  sight  of  the  pulpit.  He  was  so  re- 
nowned, as  well  for  the  sanctity  of  his  life  as 
liis  manner  of  preaching,  that'he  had  often  a 
congregation  of  twenty  thousand  people  ;  the 
men  placing  themselves  on  the  one  side  of  his 
pulpit,  and  the  women  on  the  other,  that  ap- 
peared (to  use  the  similitude  of  an  ingenious 
writer)  like  a  forest  of  cedars  with  their  heads 
reaching  to  the  clouds.  He  so  warmed  and 
animated  the  people  against  this  monstrous 
ornament,  that  it  lay  under  a  kind  of  perse- 
cution ;  and,  whenever  it  appeared  in  public, 
was  pelted  down  by  the  rabble,  who  flung 
stones  at  the  persons  that  wore  it.  But 
notwithstanding  this  prodigy  vanished  while 
the  preacher  was  among  them,  it  began  to  ap- 

1 "  With  curls  on  curls  they  build  her  head  before, 
And  mount  it  with  a  formidable  tower : 
A  giantess  she  seems ;   but  look  behind, 
And  then  she  dwindles  to  the  pigmy  kind." 

^a  French  historian  of  England  (1510-1500) 
'  a  kind  of  headdress  *  a  Carmelite  friar,  burned 
in  1434 


THE    SPECTATOR 


?67 


pear  again  some  months  after  his  departure, 
or,  to  tell  it  in  JNlonsieur  Paradin's  own  words, 
"the  women,  that  like  snails  in  a  fright  had 
drav.'n  in  their  horns,  shot  them  out  again  as 
soon  as  the  danger  was  over."  This  extrava- 
gance of  the  women's  head-dresses  in  that  age 
is  taken  notice  of  by  Monsieur  d'Argentre  ^  in 
his  History  of  Bretagne,  and  by  other  his- 
torians, as  well  as  the  person  I  have  here 
quoted. 

It  is  usually  observed,  that  a  good  reign  is 
the  only  proper  time  for  the  making  of  laws 
against  the  exorbitance  of  power ;  in  the  same 
manner  an  escessive  head-dress  may  be  at- 
tacked the  most  effectually  when  the  fashion 
is  against  it.  I  do  therefore  recommend  this 
paper  to  my  female  readers  by  way  of  preven- 
tion. 

I  would  desire  the  fair  sex  to  consider  how 
impossible  it  is  for  them  to  add  anything  that 
can  be  ornamental  to  what  is  already  the 
masterpiece  of  nature.  The  head  has  the 
most  beautiful  appearance,  as  well  as  the  high- 
est station,  in  a  human  figure.  Nature  has 
laid  out  all  her  art  in  beautifying  the  face ;  she 
has  touched  it  with  vermillion,  planted  in  it  a 
double  row  of  ivory,  made  it  the  seat  of  smiles 
and  blushes,  lighted  it  up  and  enlivened  it  with 
the  brightness  of  the  eyes,  hung  it  on  each  side 
with  the  curious  organs  of  sense,  giving  it  airs 
and  graces  that  cannot  be  described,  and  sur- 
rounded it  with  such  a  flowing  shade  of  hair 
as  sets  all  its  beauties  in  the  most  agreeable 
light.  In  short,  she  seems  to  have  designed 
the  head  as  the  cupola  to  the  most  glorious  of 
her  works ;  and  when  we  load  it  with  such  a 
pile  of  supernumerary  ornaments,  we  destroy 
the  symmetry  of  the  human  figure,  and  fool- 
ishly contrive  to  call  off  the  eye  from  great  and 
real  beauties,  to  childish  gewgaws,  ribands, 
and  bone-lace. 

THE  VISION  OF   MIRZA 

NO.  159.     SATURDAY,  SEPTEMBER  i,  1711 

Omnem,  quae  nunc  obdticta  tuenti 

Morlales  hcbetat  visits  tihi,  el  huniida  circiim 

Call  gat,  nubcm  eripiani  "... 

—  ViRG.  Aen.  ii.  604. 

^  a  French  writer  of  the  sixteenth  century 

2  The  cloud,  which,  intercepting  the  clear  light, 

Hangs  o'er  thy  eyes,  and  blunts  thy  mortal  sight, 

I  will  remove  .  .  . 


WTien  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo,  I  picked  up 
several  Oriental  manuscripts,  which  I  have 
still  by  me.  Among  others  I  met  with  one 
entitled  "The  Visions  of  Mirza,"  which  I  have 
read  over  with  great  pleasure.  I  intend  to 
give  it  to  the  public  when  I  have  no  other  en- 
tertainment for  them ;  and  shall  begin  with 
the  first  vision,  which  I  have  translated  word 
for  word  as  follows  : 

"On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which  ac- 
cording to  the  custom  of  my  forefathers  I 
always  keep  holy,  after  ha\ang  washed  myself, 
and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I  as- 
cended the  high  hills  of  Bagdad,  m  order  to 
pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  mediiation  and 
prayer.  As  I  was  here  airing  myself  on  the 
tops  of  the  momitains,  I  fell  into  a  profound 
contemplation  on  the  vanity  of  human  life ; 
and  passing  from  one  thought  to  another, 
' surely,'  said  I,  'man  is  but  a  shadow,  and  life 
a  dream.'  Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast 
my  eyes  towards  the  summit  of  a  rock  that 
was  not  far  from  me,  where  I  discovered  one 
in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  with  a  musical 
instrument  in  his  hand.  As  I  looked  upon 
him  he  applied  it  to  his  lips,  and  began  to 
play  upon  it.  The  sound  of  it  was  exceed- 
ingly sweet,  and  wrought  into  a  variety  of 
tunes  that  were  inexpressibly  melodious,  and 
altogether  different  from  anything  I  had  ever 
heard.  They  put  me  in  mind  of  those  heavenly 
airs  that  are  played  to  the  departed  soids  of 
good  men  upon  their  first  arrival  in  Paradise, 
to  wear  out  the  impressions  of  their  last  ago- 
nies, and  qualify  them  for  the  pleasures  of 
that  happy  place.  ]\Iy  heart  melted  away 
in  secret  raptures. 

"I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock  before 
me  was  the  haunt  of  a  Genius ;  and  that  sev- 
eral had  been  entertained  with  music  v/ho  had 
passed  by  it,  but  never  heard  that  the  musi- 
cian had  before  made  himself  visible.  When 
he  had  raised  my  thoughts  by  those  trans- 
porting airs  which  he  played  to  taste  the  pleas- 
ures of  his  conversation,  as  I  looked  upon  him 
like  one  astonished,  he  beckoned  to  me,  and 
by  the  waving  of  his  hand  directed  me  to 
approach  the  place  where  he  sat.  I  drew 
near  with  that  reverence  which  is  due  to  a 
superior  nature  ;  and  as  m}'^  heart  was  entirely 
subdued  by  the  captivatmg  strains  I  had 
heard,  I  fell  down  at  his  feet  and  wept.  The 
Genius  smiled  upon,  me  Mith  a  look  of  com- 
passion and  affability  that  familiarized  him 
to  my  imagination,  and  at  once  dispelled  all 


268 


JOSEPH    ADDISON 


the  fears  and  apprehensions  with  which  I  ap- 
proached him.  He  lifted  me  from  the  ground, 
and  taking  me  by  the  hand,  'Mirza,'  said  he, 
'I  have  heard  thee  in  thy  soliloquies;  follow 
me.' 

"He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of 
the  rock,  and  placing  me  on  the  top  of  it, '  Cast 
thy  eyes  eastward,'  said  he,  'and  tell  me  what 
thou  seest.'  '  I  see,'  said  I, '  a  huge  valley,  and 
a  prodigious  tide  of  water  rolling  through  it.' 
'The  valley  that  thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is  the 
Vale  of  Misery,  and  the  tide  of  water  that 
thou  seest  is  part  of  the  great  Tide  of  Eter- 
nity.' 'What  is  the  reason,'  said  I,  'that  the 
tide  I  see  fises  out  of  a  thick  mist  at  one  end, 
and  again  loses  itself  in  a  thick  mist  at  the 
other?'  'What  thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is  that 
portion  of  eternity  which  is  called  time, 
measured  out  by  the  sun,  and  reaching  from 
the  beginning  of  the  world  to  its  consumma- 
tion. Examine  now,'  said  he,  'this  sea  that 
is  bounded  with  darkness  at  both  ends,  and 
tell  me  what  thou  disco verest  in  it.'  'I  see  a 
bridge/  said  I,  'standing  in  the  midst  of  the 
tide.'  'The  bridge  thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is 
Human  Life  :  consider  it  attentively.'  Upon 
a  more  leisurely  survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it 
consisted  of  three  score  and  ten  entire  arches, 
with  several  broken  arches,  which  added  to 
those  that  were  entire,  made  up  the  number 
about  an  hundred.  As  I  was  counting  the 
arches,  the  Genius  told  me  that  this  bridge 
consisted  at  first  of  a  thousand  arches;  but 
that  a  great  flood  swept  away  the  rest,  and 
left  the  bridge  in  the  ruinous  condition  I  now 
beheld  it.  'But  teU  me  farther,'  said  he, 
'what  thou  discoverest  on  it.'  'I  see  multi- 
tudes of  people  passing  over  it,'  said  I,  'and 
a  black  cloud  hanging  on  each  end  of  it.'  As 
I  looked  more  attentively,  I  saw  several  of 
the  passengers  dropping  through  the  bridge 
into  the  great  tide  that  flowed  underneath  it ; 
and  upon  farther  examination,  perceived  there 
were  innumerable  I  rap-doors  that  lay  con- 
cealed in  the  bridge,  which  the  passengers 
no  sooner  trod  upon,  but  they  fell  through 
them  into  the  tide,  and  immediately  disap- 
peared. These  hidden  pit-falls  were  set  very 
thick  at  the  entrance  of  Ihe  bridge,  so  that 
throngs  of  people  no  sooner  broke  through  the 
cloud,  but  many  of  them  fell  into  them. 
They  grew  thinner  towards  the  middle,  but 
multiplied  and  lay  closer  together  towards 
the  end  of  the  arches  that  were  entire. 

"There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their 


number  was  very  small,  that  continued  a  kind 
of  hobbling  march  on  the  broken  arches,  but 
fell  through  one  after  another,  being  quite 
tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

"I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of 
this  wonderfid  structure,  and  the  great  variety 
of  objects  which  it  presented.  My  heart  was 
filled  with  a  deep  melancholy  to  see  several 
dropping  unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  mirth 
and  jollity,  and  catching  at  everything  that 
stood  by  them  to  save  themselves.  Some 
were  looking  up  towards  the  heavens,  in  a 
thoughtful  posture,  and  in  the  midst  of  a 
speculation  stumbled  and  fell, out  of  sight. 
Multitudes  were  very  busy  in  the  pursuit  of 
bubbles  that  glittered  in  their  eyes  and 
danced  before  them ;  but  often  when  they 
thought  themselves  within  the  reach  of  them, 
their  footing  failed  and  down  they  sunk.  In 
this  confusion  of  objects,  I  observed  some  with 
scimitars  in  their  hands,  who  ran  to  and  fro 
upon  the  bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on 
trap-doors  which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their 
way,  and  which  they  might  have  escaped 
had  they  not  been  thus  forced  upon  them. 

"The  Genius  seeing  me  indulge  myself  on 
this  melancholy  prospect,  told  me  I  had  dwelt 
long  enough  upon  it.  'Take  thine  eyes  off 
the  bridge,'  said  he,  'and  tell  me  if  thou  yet 
seest  anything  thou  dost  not  comprehend.' 
Upon  looking  up,  'What  mean,'  said  I,  'those 
great  flights  of  birds  that  are  perpetually 
hovering  about  the  bridge,  and  settling  upon 
it  from  time  to  time?  I  see  vultures,  harpies, 
ravens,  cormorants,  and  among  many  other 
feathered  creatures  several  little  winged  boys, 
that  perch  in  great  numbers  upon  the  middle 
arches.'  'These,'  said  the  Genius,  'are  Envy, 
Avarice,  Superstition,  Despair,  Love,  with 
the  like  cares  and  passions  that  infest  human 
life.' 

"I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  'Alas,'  said  I, 
'  Man  was  made  in  vain !  how  is  he  given  awa)' 
to  misery  and  mortality!  tortured  in  life,  and 
swallowed  up  in  death!'  The  Genius  being 
moved  with  compassion  towards  me,  bid  me 
quit  so  uncomfortable  a  prospect.  'Look  no 
more,'  said  he,  'on  man  in  the  first  stage  of  his 
existence,  in  his  setting  out  for  eternity ;  but 
cast  thine  eye  on  that  thick  mist  into  which 
the  tide  bears  the  several  generations  of 
mortals  that  fall  into  it.'  I  directed  my  sight 
as  I  was  ordered,  and  (whether  or  no  the  good 
Genius  strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural 
force,  or  dissipated  part  of  the  mist  that  was 


THE    SPECTATOR 


269 


before  too  thick  for  the  eye  to  penetrate)  I 
saw  the  valley  opening  at  the  farther  end,  and 
spreading  forth  into  an  immense  ocean,  that 
had  a  huge  rock  of  adamant  running  through 
the  midst  of  it,  and  dividing  it  into  two  equal 
parts.  The  clouds  still  rested  on  one  half  of  it, 
insomuch  that  I  could  discover  nothing  in  it ; 
but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean 
planted  with  innumerable  islands,  that  were 
covered  with  fruits  and  flowers,  and  inter- 
woven with  a  thousand  little  shining  seas  that 
ran  among  them.  I  coidd  see  persons  dressed 
in  glorious  habits  with  garlands  upon  their 
heads,  passing  among  the  trees,  lying  down 
by  the  sides  of  fountains,  or  resting  on  beds  of 
flowers ;  and  could  hear  a  confused  harmony 
of  singing  birds,  falling  waters,  human  voices, 
and  musical  instruments.  Gladness  grew 
in  me  upon  the  discovery  of  so  delightful  a 
scene.  I  wished  for  the  wings  of  an  eagle, 
that  I  might  fly  away  to  those  happy  seats ; 
but  the  Genius  told  me  there  was  no  passage 
to  them  except  through  the  gates  of  death  that 
I  saw  opening  every  moment  upon  the  bridge. 
'The  islands,'  said  he,  'that  lie  so  fresh  and 
green  before  thee,  and  with  which  the  whole 
face  of  the  ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as 
thou  canst  see,  are  more  in  number  than  the 
sands  on  the  sea-shore :  there  are  myriads  of 
islands  behind  those  which  thou  here  dis- 
coverest,  reaching  farther  than  thine  eye,  or 
even  thine  imagination  can  extend  itself. 
These  are  the  mansions  of  good  men  after 
death,  who,  according  to  the  degree  and  kinds 
of  virtue  in  which  they  excelled,  are  distrib- 
uted among  these  several  islands,  which 
abound  with  pleasures  of  different  kinds  and 
degrees,  suitable  to  the  relishes  and  perfec- 
tions of  those  who  are  settled  in  them :  every 
island  is  a  paradise  accommodated  to  its  re- 
spective inhabitants.  Are  not  these,  O  Mirza, 
habitations  worth  contending  for?  Does 
life  appear  miserable  that  gives  thee  oppor- 
tunities of  earning  such  a  reward?  Is  death 
to  be  feared  that  wiU  convey  thee  to  so  happy 
an  existence?  Think  not  man  was  made  in 
vain,  who  has  such  an  eternity  reserved  for 
him.'  I  gazed  with  inexpressible  pleasure  on 
these  happy  islands.  At  length,  said  I, '  Show 
me  now,  I  beseech  thee,  the  secrets  that  lie 
hid  under  those  dark  clouds  which  cover  the 
ocean  on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  of  ada- 
mant.' The  Genius  making  me  no  answer,  I 
turned  me  about  to  address  myself  to  him  a 
second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had  left  me ; 


I  then  turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I  had 
been  so  long  contemplating ;  but  instead  of 
the  rolling  tide,  the  arched  bridge,  and  the 
happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  long 
hollow  valley  of  Bagdad,  with  oxen,  sheep, 
and  camels  grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it." 


HILPA  AND   SHALUM 

NO.  584.     MONDAY,  AUGUST  23,  1714 

Hie  gclidi  fontes,  Mc  mollia  prata,  Lycori, 
Hie  nemus,  hie  toto  teeum  eonsiunerer  aevo} 

—  ViRG.  Eel.  X.  42. 

Hilpa  was  one  of  the  hundred  and  fifty 
daughters  of  Zilpah,  of  the  race  of  Cohu,  by 
whom  some  of  the  learned  think  is  meant  Cain. 
She  was  exceedingly  beautiful ;  and,  when  she 
was  but  a  girl  of  three  score  and  ten  years  of 
age,  received  the  addresses  of  several  who 
made  love  to  her.  Among  these  were  two 
brothers,  Harpath  and  Shalum.  Harpath, 
being  the  first-born,  was  master  of  that  fruit- 
ful region  which  hes  at  the  foot  of  Mount 
Tirzah,  in  the  southern  parts  of  China.  Sha- 
lum (which  is  to  say  the  planter  in  the  Chinese 
language)  possessed  all  the  neighboring  hills, 
and  that  great  ra'nge  of  mountains  which  goes 
under  the  name  of  Tirzah.  Harpath  was  of  a 
haughty  contemptuous  spirit ;  Shalum  was  of 
a  gentle  disposition,  beloved  both  by  God 
and  man. 

It  is  said,  that  among  the  antediluvian  wo- 
men, the  daughters  of  Cohu  had  their  minds 
wholly  set  upon  riches ;  for  which  reason  the 
beautiful  Hilpa  preferred  Harpath  to  Shalum, 
because  of  his  numerous  flocks  and  herds  that 
covered  all  the  low  country  which  runs  along 
the  foot  of  Mount  Tirzah,  and  is  watered  by 
several  foimtains  and  streams  breaking  out  of 
the  sides  of  that  mountain. 

Harpath  made  so  quick  a  despatch  of  his 
courtship,  that  he  married  Hilpa  in  the  hun- 
dredth year  of  her  age ;  and,  being  of  an  in- 
solent temper,  laughed  to  scorn  his  brother 
Shalimi  for  having  pretended  to  the  beautiful 
Hilpa,  when  he  was  master  of  nothing  but  a 

1  Come    see    what    pleasures    in    our    plains 

abound; 
The  woods,    the   fountains,  and    the   flow'ry 

groimd, 
Here  I  could  live,  and  love,  and  die,  with  only 

you. 


270 


JOSEPH    ADDISON 


long  chain  of  rocks  and  mountains.  This  so 
much  provoked  Shalum,  that  he  is  said  to 
have  cursed  his  brother  in  the  bitterness  of 
his  heart,  and  to  have  prayed  that  one  of  his 
mountains  might  fall  upon  his  head  if  ever  he 
came  within  the  shadow  of  it. 

From  this  time  forward  Harpath  would 
never  venture  out  of  the  valleys,  but  came  to 
an  untimely  end  in  the  two  hundred  and 
fiftieth  year  of  his  age,  being  drowned  in  a 
river  as  he  attempted  to  cross  it.  This  river 
is  called  to  this  day,  from  his  name  who  per- 
ished in  it,  the  river  Harpath:  and,  what  is 
very  remarkable,  issues  out  of  one  of  those 
mountains  which  Shalum  wished  might  fall 
upon  his  brother,  wiien  he  cursed  him  in  the 
bitterness  of  his  heart. 

Hilpa  was  in  the  hundred  and  sixtieth  year 
of  her  age  at  the  death  of  her  husband,  having 
brought  him  but  fifty  children  before  he  was 
snatched  away,  as  has  been  already  related. 
Many  of  the  antediluvians  made  love  to  the 
young  w'idow;  though  no  one  was  thought 
so  likely  to  succeed  in  her  affections  as  her 
fijrst  lover  Shalum,  who  renewed  his  court 
to  "her  about  ten  years  after  the  death  of 
Harpath ;  for  it  was  not  thought  decent  in 
those  days  that  a  widow  should  be  seen  by  a 
man  within  ten  years  after  the  decease  of  her 
husband. 

Shalum  falling  into  a  deep  melancholy,  and 
resolving  to  take  away  that  objection  which 
had  been  raised  against  him  when  he  made 
his  first  addresses  to  Hilpa,  began,  imme- 
diately after  her  marriage  with  Harpath,  to 
plant  all  that  mountainous  region  which  fell 
to  his  lot  in  the  division  of  this  country.  He 
knew  how  to  adapt  every  plant  to  its  proper 
soil,  and  is  thought  to  have  inherited  many 
traditional  secrets  of  that  art  from  the  first 
man.  This  employment  turned  at  length  to 
his  profit  as  "well  as  to  his  amusement ;  his 
mountains  were  in  a  few  years  shaded  with 
young  trees,  that  gradually  shot  up  into 
groves,  w'oods,  and  forests,  intermixed  with 
walks,  and  lawns,  and  gardens ;  insomuch  that 
the  whole  region,  from  a  naked  and  desolate 
prospect,  began  now  to  look  like  a  second 
Paradise.  The  pleasantness  of  the  place,  and 
the  agreeable  disposition  of  Shalum,  who  was 
reckoned  one  of  the  mildest  and  wisest  of  all 
who  lived  before  the  flood,  drew  into  it  mul- 
titudes of  people,  who  were  perpetually  em- 
ployed in  the  sinking  of  wells,  the  digging  of 
trenches,  and  the  hollowing  of  trees,  for  the 


better  distribution  of  water  through  every 
part  of  this  spacious  plantation. 

The  habitations  of  Shalum  looked  every 
year  more  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  Hilpa,  who, 
after  the  space  of  seventy  autumns,  was 
wonderfully  pleased  with  the  distant  prospect 
of  Shalmii's  hills,  which  were  then  covered 
with  innumerable  tufts  of  trees  and  gloomy 
scenes,  that  gave  a  magnificence  to  the  place, 
and  converted  it  into  one  of  the  finest  land- 
scapes the  eye  of  man  could  behold. 

The  Chinese  record  a  letter  which  Shalum 
is  said  to  have  written  to  Hilpa  in  the  eleventh 
year  of  her  ^vidowhood.  I  shall  here  trans- 
late it,  without  departing  from  that  noble 
simplicity  of  sentiment  and  plainness  of 
manners  which  appears  in  the  original. 

Shalum  w'as  at  the  time  one  hundred  and 
eighty  years  old,  and  Kilpa  one  hundred  and 
seventy. 

"Shalum,  IVLvster  of  Mount  Tirzah,  to 
Hilpa,  Mistress  of  the  Valleys 

"  In  the  y88th  year  of  the  creation. 

"What  have  I  not  suffered,  O  thou  daughter 
of  Zilpah,  since  thou  gavest  thyself  away  in 
marriage  to  my  rival  1  I  grew  weary  of  the 
light  of  the  sun,  and  have  been  ever  since 
covering  myself  with  woods  and  forests. 
These  threescore  and  ten  years  have  I  be- 
wailed the  loss  of  thee  on  the  top  of  Mount 
Tirzah,  and  soothed  my  melancholy  among  a 
thousand  gloomy  shades  of  my  own  raising. 
My  dwellings  are  at  present  as  the  garden  of 
God ;  every  part  of  them  is  filled  with  fruits, 
and  flowers,  and  fomitains.  The  whole 
mountain  is  perfumed  for  thy  reception. 
Come  up  into  it,  O  m^y  beloved,  and  let  us 
people  this  spot  of  the  new  w^orld  with  a 
beautiful  race  of  mortals;  let  us  multiply 
exceedingly  among  these  delightful  shades, 
and  fill  every  quarter  of  them  with  sons  and 
daughters.  Remember,  O  thou  daughter  of 
Zilpah,  that  the  age  of  man  is  but  a  thousand 
years ;  that  beauty  is  the  admiration  but  of  a 
few^  centuries.  It  flourishes  as  a  mountain 
oak,  or  as  a  cedar  on  the  top  of  Tirzah,  which 
in  three  or  four  hundred  years  will  fade  away, 
and  never  be  thought  of  by  posterity,  unless 
a  young  wood  springs  from  its  roots.  Think 
well  on  this,  and  remember  thy  neighbour  in 
the  mountains." 

Having  here  inserted  tljis  letter,  which  I 
look  upon  as  the  only  antediluvian  billet-doux 


THE    SPECTATOR 


271 


now  extant,  I  shall  in  my  next  paper  give  the 
answer  to  it,  and  the  sequel  of  this  story. 

NO.  585-     WEDNESDAY,  AUGUST  25,  1714 

Ipsi  laetitia  voces  ad  sidera  jaciant 
iHtonsi  montes :  ipsae  jam  carmUta  rupes, 
Ipsa  sonant  arhusta?- 

—  ViRG.  Ed.  V.  62. 

The  Sequel  of  the  Story  of  Shalui^i  and 

HlLPA 

The  letter  inserted  in  my  last  had  so  good  an 
effect  upon  Hilpa,  that  she  answered  in  less 
than    a    twelvemonth,    after    the    following 


"HiLPA,     IMlSTRESS     OF     THE     VaLLEYS,     TO 
ShALUM,    jMaSTER   OF   JSlOUXT   TiRZAH 

"  In  the  ySgth  year  of  the  creation. 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  thee,  O  Shalum? 
Thou  praisest  Hilpa's  beauty,  but  art  thou  not 
secretly  enamoiured  with  the  verdure  of  her 
meadows?  Art  thou  not  more  affected  with 
the  prospect  of  her  green  valleys,  than  thou 
wouldest  be  with  the  sight  of  her  person? 
The  lowings  of  my  herds  and  the  bleatings  of 
my  flocks  make  a  pleasant  echo  in  thy  moun- 
tains, and  sound  sweetly  in  thy  ears.  What 
though  I  am  delighted  with  the  wavings  of  thy 
forests,  and  those  breezes  of  perfvunes  which 
flow  from  the  top  of  Tirzah,  are  these  like 
the  riches  of  the  valley? 

"I  know  thee,  O  Shalum;  thou  art  more 
wise  and  happy  than  any  of  the  sons  of  men. 
Thy  dwellings  are  among  the  cedars ;  thou 
searchest  out  the  diversity  of  soils,  thou  under- 
standest  the  influences  of  the  stars,  and  mark- 
est  the  change  of  seasons.  Can  a  woman 
appear  lovely  in  the  eyes  of  such  a  one? 
Disquiet  me  not,  O  Shalum ;  let  me  alone, 
that  I  may  enjoy  those  goodly  possessions 
which  are  fallen  to  my  lot.  Win  me  not  by 
thy  enticing  words.  IMay  thy  trees  increase 
and  multiply  !  mayest  thou  add  wood  to 
wood,  and  shade  to  shade  !  but  tem.pt  not 
Hilpa  to  destroy  thy  sohtude,  and  make  thy 
retirement  populous." 

The  Chinese  say  that  a  little  time  after- 
wards she  accepted  of  a  treat  in  one  of  the 
neighbouring  hills  to  which  Shalum  had  in- 

1  The  mountain  tops  unshorn,  the  rocks  rejoice ; 
The  lowl}-  shrubs  partake  of  human  voice. 


vited  her.  This  treat  lasted  for  two  years, 
and  is  said  to  have  cost  Shalum  five  hundred 
antelopes,  two  thousand  ostriches,  and  a 
thousand  tun  of  milk ;  but  what  most  of  all 
recommended  it,  was  that  variety  of  deUcious 
fruits  and  potherbs,  in  which  no  person  then 
living  could  any  way  equal  Shalum. 

He  treated  her  in  the  bower  which  he  had 
planted  amidst  the  wood  of  nightingales. 
The  wood  was  made  up  of  such  fruit-trees 
and  plants  as  are  most  agreeable  to  the  several 
kinds  of  singing-birds ;  so  that  it  had  drawn 
into  it  ail  the  music  of  the  country,  and  was 
filled  from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other 
with  the  most  agreeable  concert  in  season. 

He  showed  her  every  day  some  beautiful 
and  surprising  scene  in  this  new  region  of 
woodlands ;  and,  as  by  this  means  he  had  all 
the  opportunities  he  could  wish  for,  of  open- 
ing his  mind  to  her,  he  succeeded  so  well,  that 
upon  her  departure  she  made  him  a  kind  of 
promise,  and  gave  him  her  word  to  return  him 
a  positive  answer  in  less  than  fifty  years. 

She  had  not  been  long  among  her  own 
people  in  the  valleys,  when  she  received  new 
overtures,  and  at  the  same  time  a  most 
splendid  visit  from  IMishpach,  who  was  a 
mighty  man  of  old,  and  had  built  a  great  city, 
which  he  called  after  his  own  name.  Every 
house  was  made  for  at  least  a  thousand  3^ears, 
nay,  there  were  some  that  were  leased  out  for 
three  lives ;  so  that  the  quantity  of  stone  and 
timber  consumed  in  this  building  is  scarce  to 
be  imxagined  by  those  who  live  in  the  present 
age  of  the  world.  This  great  man  entertained 
her  with  the  voice  of  musical  instruments 
which  had  been  lately  invented,^  and  danced 
before  her  to  the  sound  of  the  timbrel.  He 
also  presented  her  with  seVeral  domestic 
utensils  wrought  in  brass  and  iron,  which  had 
been  newly  found  out  -  for  the  conveniency  of 
life.  In  the  meantime  Shalum  grew  very 
uneasy  with  himself,  and  was  sorely  displeased 
at  Hilpa  for  the  reception  which  she  had 
given  to  Mishpach,  insomuch  that  he  never 
wrote  to  her  or  spoke  of  her  during  a  whole 
revolution  of  Saturn ;  ^  but,  finding  that  this 
intercourse  went  no  farther  than  a  visit,  he 
again  renewed  his  addresses  to  her ;  who, 
during  his  long  silence,  is  said  ven,^  often  to 
have  cast  a  wishing  eye  upon  Mount  Tirzah. 

Her  mind  continued  wavering  about  twenty 


^  Cf.  Genesis  iv: 
thirty  years 


21    ^  Genesis  iv:   22     ^  nearly 


272 


MATl'HEW    PRIOR 


years  longer  between  Shalum  and  Mishpach ; 
for  though  her  inclinations  favoured  the 
former,  her  interest  pleaded  very  powerfidly 
for  the  other.  While  her  heart  was  in  this 
unsettled  condition,  the  following  accident 
happened,  which  determined  her  choice.  A 
high  tower  of  wood  that  stood  in  the  city  of 
Mishpach  having  caught  fire  by  a  flash  of 
lightning,  in  a  few  days  reduced  the  whole 
town  to  ashes.  Mishpach  resolved  to  rebuild 
the  place,  whatever  it  should  cost  him :  and, 
having  already  destroyed  all  the  timber  of 
the  country,  he  was  forced  to  have  recourse  to 
Shalum,  whose  forests  were  now  two  hundred 
years  old.  He  purchased  these  woods  with  so 
many  herds  of  cattle  and  flocks  of  sheep,  and 
with  such  a  vast  extent  of  fields -and  pastures, 
that  Shalum  was  now  grown  more  wealthy 
than  Mishpach ;  and  therefore  appeared  so 
charming  in  the  eyes  of  Zilpah's  daughter, 
that  she  no  longer  refused  him  in  marriage. 
On  the  day  in  which  he  brought  her  up  into 
the  mountains  he  raised  a  most  prodigious  pile 
of  cedar,  and  of  every  sweet  smelling  wood, 
which  reached  above  three  hundred  cubits 
in  height ;  he  also  cast  into  the  pile  bundles 
of  myrrh  and  sheaves  of  spikenard,  enriching 
it  with  every  spicy  shrub,  and,  making  it  fat 
with  the  gums  of  his  plantations.  This  was 
the  burnt-offering  which  Shalum  offered  in 
the  day  of  his  espousals :  the  smoke  of  it 
ascended  up  to  heaven,  and  filled  the  whole 
country  with  incense  and  perfume. 


MATTHEW   PRIOR    (1664-1721) 

TO     A     CHILD     OF     QUALITY     FIVE 
YEARS   OLD 

Lords,  knights,  and   'squires,   the  numerous 
band, 

That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters, 
Were  summoned  by  her  high  command, 

To  show  their  passions  by  their  letters.      4 

My  pen  among  the  rest  I  took, 

Lest  those  bright  eyes  that  cannot  read 

Should  dart  their  kindling  fires,  and  look 
The  power  they  have  to  be  obeyed.  8 

Nor  quality,  nor  reputation, 
Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell, 


Dear  Five-years-old  befriends  my  passion. 
And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell.  12 

For,  while  she  makes  her  silk-worms  beds 
With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear ; 

Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads, 

In  papers  round  her  baby's  hair;  16 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame. 

For,    though    the   strictest   prudes   should 
know  it. 

She'll  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame, 

And  I  for  an  unhappy  poet.  20 

Then  too,  alas  !  when  she  shall  tear 
The  lines  some  younger  rival  sends ; 

She'll  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear. 

And  we  shall  still  continue  friends.  24 

For,  as  our  different  ages  move, 

'Tis  so  ordained,  (would  Fate  but  mend  it  !) 
That  I  shall  be  past  making  love. 

When  she  begins  to  comprehend  it.  28 


THE     REMEDY    WORSE     THAN    THE 
DISEASE 

I  sent  for  Ratcliffe ;   was  so  ill. 
That  other  doctors  gave  me  over : 

He  felt  my  pulse,  prescribed  his  pill, 

And  I  was  likely  to  recover.  4 

But  when  the  wit  began  to  wheeze, 
And  wine  had  warm'd  the  politician, 

Cured  yesterday  of  my  disease, 
I  died  last  night  of  my  physician.  8 


TO   HIS   SOUL 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  LATIN  OF 
HADRIAN 

Poor  little,  pretty,  fluttering  thing, 
Must  we  no  longer  live  together? 

And  dost  thou  prune  thy  trembling  wing,      3 
To  take  thy  flight  thou  know'st  not  whither  ? 

Thy  humorous  vein,  thy  pleasing  folly 

Lie  all  neglected,  all  forgot : 
And  pensive,  wavering,  melancholy, 

Thou  dread'st  and  hop'st  thou  know'st  not 
what.  8 


ALEXANDER    POPE 


273 


ALEXANDER     POPE     (1688-1744) 

AN  ESSAY  ON   CRITICISM 

From  PART   I 

'Tis  hard  to  say,  if  greater  want  of  skill 
Appear  in  writing  or  in  judging  ill ; 
But,  of  the  two,  less  dangerous  is  th'  offence 
To  tire  our  patience,  than  mislead  our  sense. 
Some  few  in  that,  but  numbers  err  in  this,    5 
Ten  censure  wrong  for  one  who  writes  amiss  ; 
A  fool  might  once  himself  alone  expose, 
Now  one  in  verse  makes  many  more  in  prose. 
'Tis  with  our  judgments  as  our  watches, 
none 
Go  just  alike,  yet  each  believes  his  own.       10 
In  poets  as  true  genius  is  but  rare. 
True  taste  as  seldom  is  the  critic's  share ; 
Both  must  alike  from  Heaven  derive  their 

light, 
These  born  to  judge,  as  well  as  those  to  write. 
Let  such  teach  others  who  themselves  excel. 
And  censure  freely  who  have  written  well.   16 
Authors  are  partial  to  their  wit,^  'tis  true, 
But  are  not  critics  to  their  judgment  too? 


First   follow  Nature,   and  your  judgment 
frame 
By  her  just  standard,  which  is  still  the  same  : 
Unerring  Nature,  still  divinely  bright,  70 

One  clear,  unchanged,  and  universal  light, 
Life,  force,  and  beauty,  must  to  all  impart. 
At  once  the  source,  and  end,  and  test  of  Art. 
Art  from  that  fund  each  just  supply  provides, 
Works  without  show,  and  without  pomp  pre- 
sides :  75 
In  some  fair  body  thus  th'  informing  soul 
With  spirits  feeds,  with  vigour  fills  the  whole. 
Each  motion  guides,   and  every  nerve  sus- 
tains ; 
Itself  unseen,  but  in  th'  effects,  remains. 
Some,  to  whom  Heaven  in  wit  has  been  pro- 
fuse,                                                           80 
Want  as  much  more,  to  turn  it  to  its  use ; 
For  wit  and  judgment  often  are  at  strife, 
Though  meant  each  other's  aid,  like  man  and 

wife. 
'Tis    more    to    guide    than  spur  the  Muse's 

steed ; 
Restrain  his  fury,  than  provoke  his  speed ;  85 


The  winged  courser,  like  a  generous  horse. 
Shows  most  true  mettle  when  you  check  his 
course. 
Those  rules  of  old  discovered,  not  devised, 
Are  Nature  still,  but  Nature  methodized ; 
Nature,  like  liberty,  is  but  restrained  go 

By  the  same  laws  which  first  herself  ordained. 


You,  then,  whose  judgment  the  right  course 
would  steer. 
Know  well  each  ancient's  proper  character; 
His  fable,  subject,  scope  in  every  page;      120 
Religion,  country,  genius  of  his  age : 
Without  all  these  at  once  before  your  eyes, 
Cavil  you  may,  but  never  criticise. 
Be  Homer's  works  your  study  and  delight, 
Read  them  by  day,  and  meditate  by  night ; 
Thence   form   your   judgment,    thence   your 
maxims  bring,  126 

And  trace  the  Muses  upward  to  their  spring. 
Still  with  itself  compared,  his  text  peruse ; 
And  let  your  comment  be  the  Mantuan  Muse.^ 
"  When  first  young  Maro  ^  in  his  boundless 
mind  130 

A  work  t'  outlast  immortal  Rome  designed, 
Perhaps  he  seemed  above  the  critic's  law. 
And  but  from  nature's  fountains  scorned  to 

draw : 
But  when  t'  examine  every  part  he  came. 
Nature  and  Homer  v/ere,  he  found,  the  same. 
Convinced,  amazed,  he  checks  the  bold  de- 
sign ;  136 
And  rules  as  strict  his  laboured  work  confine. 
As  if  the  Stagirite  ^  o'erlooked  each  line. 
Learn  hence  for  ancient  rules  a  just  esteem ; 
To  copy  nature  is  to  copy  them.                   140 
Some  beauties  yet  no  precepts  can  declare. 
For  there's  a  happiness   as  well  as  care. 
Music  resembles  poetry,  in  each 
Are  nameless  graces  which  no  methods  teach. 
And  which  a  master-hand  alone  can  reach. 
If,  where  the  rules  not  far  enough  extend, 
(Since  rules  were  made  but  to  promote  their 
end)                                                           147 
Some  lucky  license  answer  to  the  full 
Th'  intent  proposed,  that  license  is  a  rule. 
Thus  Pegasus,  a  nearer  way  to  take,            150 
May  boldly  deviate  from  the  common  track ; 
From  vulgar  bounds  with  brave  disorder  part, 
And  snatch  a  grace  beyond  the  reach  of  art, 
Which   without    passing    through    the   judg- 
ment, gains 


^  creative  power 


^  Vergil  ^  Aristotle 


274 


ALEXANDER    POPE 


The  heart,  and  all  its  end  at  once  attains.  155 
In  prospects  thus,  some  objects  please  our 

eyes, 
Which  out  of  nature's  common  order  rise, 
The  shapeless  rock,  or  hanging  precipice. 
Great  wits  sometimes  may  gloriously  offend, 
And  rise  to  faults  true  critics  dare  not  mend. 
But  tho'  the  ancients  thus  their  rules  invade, 
(As  kings  dispense  with  laws  themselves  have 
made)  162 

Moderns,  beware  !  or  if  you  must  offend 
Against  the  precept,  ne'er  transgress  its  end; 
Let  it  be  seldom  and  compelled  by  need ;   165 
And  have,  at  least,  their  precedent  to  plead. 
The  critic  else  proceeds  without  remorse, 
Seizes  your  fame,  and  puts  his  laws  in  force. 
I  know  there  are,  to  whose  presumptuous 
thoughts  169 

Those  freer  beauties,  e'en  in  them,  seem  faults. 
Some  figures  monstrous  and  misshaped  ap- 
pear, 
Considered  singly,  or  beheld  too  near. 
Which,   but   proportioned   to   their   light   or 

place, 
Due  distance  reconciles  to  form  and  grace. 
A  prudent  chief  not  always  must  display    175 
His  powers  in  equal  ranks,  and  fair  array, 
But  with  th'  occasion  and  the  place  comply. 
Conceal  his  force,  nay,  seem   sometimes   to 

fly. 
Those  oft  are  stratagems  which  errors  seem, 
Nor  is  it  Homer  nods,  but  we  that  dream.  180 

From  PART  II 

Others  for  language  all  their  care  express. 
And  value  books,  as  women,  men,  for  dress : 
Their  praise  is  still, ^  —  the  style  is  excellent ; 
The  sense,  they  humbly  take  upon  content. 
Words  are  like  leaves ;   and  where  they  most 

abound, 
Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found. 
False  eloquence,  like  the  prismatic  glass,    311 
Its  gaudy  colours  spreads  on  every  place ; 
The  face  of  nature  we  no  more  survey. 
All  glares  alike,  without  distinction  gay : 
But  true  expression,  like  th'  unchanging  sun, 
Clears  and  improves  whatc'cr  it  shines  upon. 
It  gilds  all  objects,  but  it  alters  none.  317 

Expression  is  the  dress  of  thought,  and  still 
Appears  more  decent,  as  more  suitable  ; 
A  vile  conceit  in  pompous  words  expressed, 
Is  like  a  clown  in  regal  purple  dressed :       321 

*  always 


For  different  styles  with  different  subjects  sort, 
As   several  garbs   with   country,   town,   and 

court. 
Some  by  old  words  to  fame  have  made  pre- 
tence, 
Ancients  in  phrase,  mere  moderns  in   their 

sense ;  325 

Such  laboured  nothings,  in  so  strange  a  style, 
Amaze  th'  unlearn'd,  and  make  the  learned 

smile. 
Unlucky,  as  Fungoso  ^  in  the  play, 
These  sparks  with  awkward  vanity  display 
What  the  fine  gentleman  wore  yesterday ;  330 
And  but  so  mimic  ancient  wits  at  best, 
As    apes   our   grandsires,    in    their    doublets 

dressed. 
In  words,  as  fashions,  the  same  ride  wUl  hold ; 
Alike  fantastic,  if  too  new,  or  old  : 
Be  not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are  tried, 
Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside.  336 

But  most  by  numbers  ^  judge  a  poet's  song ; 
And  smooth  or  rough,  with  them,  is  right  or 

wrong : 
In  the  bright  Muse  though  thousand  charms 

conspire,  _       339 

Her  voice  is  all  these  tuneful  fools  admire ; 
Who  haunt  Parnassus  but  to  please  their  ear. 
Not  mend  their  minds;    as  some  to  church 

repair. 
Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  there. 
These  equal  syllables  alone  require. 
The'  oft  the  ear  the  open  vowels  tire ;         34s 
While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join. 
And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line : 
While  they  ring  round   the   same  imvaried 

chimes, 
With  sure  returns  of  still  expected  rhymes ; 
Where'er    you    find     "the     cooling  western 

breeze,"  35° 

In  the  next  line,   it  "whispers  through  the 

trees;" 
If  crystal  streams  "with  pleasing  murmurs 

creep," 
The  reader's  threatened   (not  in  vain)  with 

"sleep:" 
Then,  at  the  last  and  only  couplet  fraught 
With    some    unmcandng    thing    they    call    a 

thought,  355 

A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song, 
That,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow 

length  along. 

^  In  Jonson's  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour 
he  unsuccessfully  attempts  to  ape  the  fashionable. 
^  metre 


THE    RAPE    OF    THE    LOCK 


275 


Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dull  rhymes,  and 

know 
What's  roundly  smooth  or  languishingly  slow  ; 
And  praise  the  easy  vigour  of  a  line,  360 

Where    Denham's    strength,     and    Waller's 

sweetness  join. 
True  ease   in   writing   comes  from   art,   not 

chance. 
As  those  move  easiest  Vvho  have  learned  to 

dance. 
'Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence, 
The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense. 
Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows. 
And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers 

flows ;  367 

But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 
The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  tor- 
rent roar. 
When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to 

throw,  370 

The  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  move 

slow; 
Not  so,  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 
Flies  o'er  th'  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along 

the  main. 
Hear  how  Timotheus'  varied  lays  surprise, 
And  bid  alternate  passions  fall  and  rise  !     375 
While,  at  each  change,  the  son  of  Libyan  Jove 
Now  burns  with  glor>%  and  then  melts  with 

love ; 
Now  his  fierce  eyes  with  sparkling  fury  glow, 
Now  sighs  steal  out,  and  tears  begin  to  flow : 
Persians   and    Greeks   like    turns   of   nature 

found,  3S0 

And   the   world's   victor   stood   subdued   by 

soimd  ! 
The  power  of  music  all  our  hearts  allow. 
And  what  Timotheus  was,  is  Dryden  now. 

THE  RAPE   OF  THE  LOCK 
AN   HEROI-COMICAL   POEM 

Canto  I 

WTiat    dire    offence    from    amorous    causes 

springs, 
What  mighty  contests  rise  from  trivial  things, 
I  sing.  —  This  verse  to  Caryl,  IMuse  !  is  due  ; 
This,  e'en  Belinda  may  vouchsafe  to  view. 
Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise,    5 
If  she  inspire,  and  he  approve  my  lays. 

Say  what  strange  motive.  Goddess  !  could 

compel 
A  well-bred  lord  t'  assault  a  gentle  belle  ? 


Oh,  say  what  stranger  cause,  yet  unexplored, 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord  ?       10 
In  tasks  so  bold,  can  little  men  engage, 
And  in  soft  bosoms  dwells  such  mighty  rage? 
Sol  through  white  curtains  shot  a  timorous 

ray. 
And  oped  those  eyes  that  must  eclipse  the  day. 
Now  lap-dogs   give   themselves   the   rousing 

shake,  1 5 

And  sleepless  lovers,  just  at  twelve,  awake. 
Thrice  rung  the  bell,  the  slipper  knocked  the 

ground,^ 
And  the  pressed  watch  ^  returned  a   sUver 

sound. 
^[Belinda  stiU  her  downy  piUow  pressed. 
Her   guardian    sylph    prolonged    the    balmy 

rest ;  20 

'Tv/as  he  had  svunmoned  to  her  silent  bed 
The  morning  dream   that  hovered  o'er  her 

head ; 
A  youth  more  glittering  than  a  birth-night 

beau, 
(That  e'en  in  slumber  caused  her  cheek  to 

glow) 
Seemed  to  her  ear  his  winning  lips  to  lay,    25 
And  thus  in  whispers  said,  or  seemed  to  say : 
"Fairest  of  mortals, thou  distinguished  care 
Of  thousand  bright  inhabitants  of  air  ! 
If  e'er  one  \asion  touched  thy  infant  thought. 
Of  aU  the  nurse  and  all  the  priest  have  taught. 
Of  airy  elves  by  moonlight  shadows  seen,     31 
The  silver  token, ^  and  the  circled  green, ^ 
Or  virgins  visited  by  angel  powers, 
With  golden  crowns  and  wreaths  of  heavenly 

flowers  f  34 

Hear  and  believe  !  thy  own  importance  know. 
Nor  bound  thy  narrow  views  to  things  below. 
Some  secret  truths,  from  learned  pride  con- 
cealed. 
To  maids  alone  and  children  arc  revealed. 
What  though  no  credit  doubting  wits  may 

give? 
The  fair  and  innocent  shall  still  believe.       40 
Know,  then,  unnumbered  spirits  roimd  thee  fly, 
The  light  militia  of  the  lower  sky. 
These,  though  unseen,  are  ever  on  the  wing, 
Hang  o'er  the  box,  and  hover  round  the  Ring.^' 
Think  what  an  equipage  thou  hast  in  air,     45 
And  view  with  scorn  two  pages  and  a  chair.* 

^  to  summon  a  servant  -  a  repeater  '  TJie 
lines  hetween  brackets  "were  not  in  the  first  version- 
of  the  poem.  *  a  fairy  gift  ^  where  fairies  danced 
^  as  St.  Cecilia  was  "^  a  fashionable  drive  in 
Hyde  Park  *  a  sedan  chair 


276 


ALEXANDER    POPE 


As  now  your  own,  our  beings  were  of  old, 
And    once    enclosed    in    woman's    beauteous 

mould ; 
Thence,  by  a  soft  transition,  we  repair 
From  earthly  vehicles  to  these  of  air.  50 

Think  not,  when  woman's  transient  breath  is 

fled. 
That  all  her  vanities  at  once  are  dead ; 
Succeeding  vanities  she  still  regards, 
And  though  she  plays  no  more,  o'erlooks  the 

cards. 
Her  joy  in  gilded  chariots,  when  alive,  55 

And  love  of  ombre, ^  after  death  survive. 
For  when  the  fair  in  all  their  pride  expire, 
To  their  first  elements  their  souls  retire  : 
The  sprites  of  fiery  termagants  in  flame 
Mount  up,  and  take  a  salamander's  name.  60 
Soft  yielding  minds  to  water  glide  away, 
And  sip,  Avith  nymphs,  their  elemental  tea. 
The  graver  prude  sinks  downward  to  a  gnome. 
In  search  of  mischief  still  on  earth  to  roam. 
The  light  coquettes  in  sylphs  aloft  repair,     65 
And  sport  and  flutter  in  the  fields  of  air. 

"  Know  further  yet :  whoever  fair  and  chaste 
Rejects  mankind,  is  by  some  sylph  embraced  ; 
For  spirits,  freed  from  mortal  laws,  with  ease 
Assume  what   sexes   and   what   shapes  they 

please.  70 

What  guards  the  purity  of  melting  maids. 
In  courtly  balls,  and  midnight  masquerades. 
Safe  from  the  treacherous  friend,  the  daring 

spark,  2 
The  glance  by  day,  the  whisper  in  the  dark, 
When  kind  occasion  prompts  their  warm  de- 
sires, _  75 
When  music  softens,  and  when  dancing  fires? 
'Tis  but  their  sylph,  the  wise  celestials  know. 
Though  honour  is  the  word  with  men  below. 
Some  nymphs  there  arc,  too  conscious  of  their 

face,'^ 
For  life  predestined  to  the  gnomes'  embrace. 
These  swell  their  prospects  and  exalt  their 

pride,  81 

When  offers  are  disdained,  and  love  denied : 
Then  gay  ideas  crowd  the  vacant  brain, 
While  peers,  and  dukes,  and  all  their  sweeping 

train. 
And  garters,  stars,  and  coronets  ■*  appear,    85 
And  in  soft  sounds  '  Your  Grace '  salutes  their 

ear. 
'Tis  these  that  early  taint  the  female  soul. 
Instruct  the  eyes  of  young  coquettes  to  roll. 


^  a  game  of  cards    ^  beau    '  beauty 
of  rank 


'  symbols 


Teach  infant  cheeks  a  bidden  blush  to  know, 

And  little  hearts  to  flutter  at  a  beau.  90 

"Oft  when  the  world  imagine  women  stray. 

The  sylphs  through  mystic  mazes  guide  their 

way. 
Through  all  the  giddy  circle  they  pursue. 
And  old  impertinence  expel  by  new. 
What  tender  maid  but  must  a  victim  fall     95 
To  one  man's  treat,  but  for  another's  ball? 
When  Florio  speaks,  what  virgin  could  with- 
stand. 
If  gentle  Damon  did  not  squeeze  her  hand  ? 
With  varying  vanities,  from  every  part. 
They  shift  the  moving  toyshop  of  their  heart ; 
Where    wigs    with    wigs,    with    sword-knots 
sword-knots  strive,  loi 

Beaux  banish  beaux,  and  coaches  coaches  drive. 
This  erring  mortals  levity  may  call ; 
Oh,  blind  to  truth  !  the  sylphs  contrive  it  all. 
"Of  these  am  I,  who  thy  protection  claim, 
A  watchful  sprite,  and  Ariel  is  my  name.   106 
Late,  as  I  ranged  the  crystal  wilds  of  air,. 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  thy  ruling  star 
I  saw,  alas  !  some  dread  event  impend, 
Ere  to  the  main  ^  this  morning  sun  descend, 
But  Heaven  reveals  not  what,  or  how,   or 
where.  1 1 1 

Warned  by  the  sylph,  O  pious  maid,  beware  ! 
This  to  disclose  is  all  thy  guardian  can : 
Beware  of  aU,  but  m.ost  beware  of  man  !" 
He  said ;    when  Shock,  who  thought  she 
slept  too  long,  115 

Leaped  up,  and  waked  his  mistress  with  his 

tongue. 
'Twas  then,  Belinda,  if  report  say  true. 
Thy  eyes  first  opened  on  a  billet-doux ; 
Wounds,  charms,  and  ardours  were  no  sooner 

read. 
But  all  the  vision  vanished  from  thy  head. 
And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  dis- 
played, 121 
Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 
First,  robed  in  white,  the  nymph  intent  adores. 
With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  powers. 
A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears,       125 
To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she  rears ; 
Th'  inferior  priestess,^  at  her  altar's  side. 
Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 
^I'he  various  offerings  of  the  world  appear ; 
From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil, 
And   decks   the  goddess  with   the  gUttering 
spoil.  132 

^  the  ocean        ^  her  maid 


THE    RAPE    OF    THE    LOCK 


277 


This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite,  135 

Transformed  to  combs,  the  speckled,  and  the 

white. 
Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 
Puft's,  powders,  patches,  bibles,  billets-doux 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms ; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms,  140 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace, 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face ; 
Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise, 
And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 
The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care, 
These  set  the  head,^  and  those  divide  the  hair, 
Some  fold  the  sleeve,  whilst  others  plait  the 

gown;  147 

And  Betty's  praised  for  labours  not  her  own. 

C.4NTO   II 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  th'  ethereal  plain, 
The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main,]  ^ 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 
Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 
Fair  nymphs,  and  weU-dressed  youths  around 
her  shone,  5 

But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 
On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore. 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose. 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those  ;io 
Favours  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends ; 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 
And,  like  the  sim,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet   graceful    ease,    and    sweetness   void    of 
pride,  15 

]\Iight  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to 

hide ; 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll  forget  'em  all. 
This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  man- 
kind, 
Nourished  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung  be- 
hind 20 
In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  the  smooth  ivory  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chains. 
With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray,      25 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey, 

*  head-dress    ^  Here  etids  the  first  addition  to  the 
original  version. 

AE  « 


Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  ensnare. 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 
Th'  adventurous  baron  ^  the  bright  locks  ad- 
mired ; 
He  saw,  he  wished,  and  to  the  prize  aspired. 
Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way,       31 
By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray ; 
For  when  success  a  lover's  toil  attends. 
Few  ask,  if  fraud  or  force  attained  his  ends. 

For  this,  ere  Phoebus  rose,  he  had  implored 
Propitious  Heaven,  and  every  power  adored, 
But  chiefly  Love ;  to  Love  an  altar  built. 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances,  neatly  gilt. 
There  lay  three  garters,  half  a  pair  of  gloves. 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves ;      40 
With  tender  billets-doux  he  lights  the  pyre. 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise  the 

fire. 
Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent 

eyes 
Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize. 
The  powers  gave  ear,  and  granted  half  his 
prayer ;  45 

The  rest  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty  air. 

^[But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides, 
The    sunbeams    trembling    on    the    floating 

tides ; 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And  softened  sounds  along  the  waters  die ;  50 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently 

play, 

Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 
All  but   the   sylph  —  wdth   carefid   thoughts 

oppressed, 
Th'  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. 
He  summons  straight  his  denizens  of  air ;     55 
The  lucid  squadrons  round  the  sails  repair ; 
Soft  o'er  the  shrouds  aerial  whispers  breathe. 
That  seemed  but  zephjTs  to  the  train  beneath. 
Some  to  the  sun  their  insect  wings  unfold. 
Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of  gold ; 
Transparent  forms,  too  fine  for  mortal  sight, 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolved  in  light. 
Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments  flew, 
Thin  glittering  textures  of  the  filmy  dew. 
Dipt  in  the  richest  tincture  of  the  skies,       65 
Where  light  disports  in  ever-mingling  dyes, 
WTiile    every    beam    new    transient    colours 

flings, 
Colours  that  change  whene'er  they  wave  their 

wings. 
Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gflded  mast, 

^  Lord   Petre      -  Here  begins  the  second  addi- 
tion to  the  original  version. 


278 


ALEXANDER    POPE 


Superior  by  the  head,  was  Ariel  placed ;       70 
His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun, 
He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  begun : 
"Ye  sylphs  and  sylphids,  to  your  chief  give 

ear  ! 
Fays,  fairies,  genii,  elves,  and  demons,  hear  ! 
Ye  know  the  spheres,  and  various  tasks  as- 
signed _  75 
By  laws  eternal  to  th'  aerial  kind. 
Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  aether  play, 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day. 
Some  guide  the  course  of  wandering  orbs  on 

high. 
Or   roll   the   planets   through   the  boundless 

sky. 
Some  less  refined,  beneath  the  moon's  pale 

light  81 

Pursue   the    stars    that    shoot    athwart    the 

night. 
Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  air  below, 
Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow, 
Or  brew  fierce  tempests  on  the  wintry  main, 
Or  o'er  the  glebe  distil  the  kindly  rain  ;        86 
Others  on  earth  o'er  human  race  preside, 
Watch  all  their  ways,  and  all  their  actions 

guide : 
Of  these  the  chief  the  care  of  nations  own, 
And    guard    with    arms    divine    the    British 

throne. 
"Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the  fair. 
Not  a  less  pleasing,  though  less  glorious  care ; 
To  save  the  powder  from  too  rude  a  gale, 
Nor  let  th'  imprisoned  essences  exhale ; 
To  draw  fresh  colours  from  the  vernal  flowers  ; 
To   steal   from   rainbows,   ere   they  drop   in 

showers,  96 

A  brighter  wash  ;   to  curl  their  waving  hairs, 
Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their  airs ; 
Nay,  oft  in  dreams,  invention  we  bestow, 
To  change  a  flounce,  or  add  a  furbelow.     100 
"This  day,  black  omens  threat  the  brightest 

fair 
That  e'er  deserved  a  watchful  spirit's  care; 
Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force,  or  sleight ; 
But  what,  or  where,  the  fates  have  wrapped  in 

night. 
Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana's  law, 
Or  some  frail  china  jar  receive  a  flaw ;        106 
Or  stain  her  honour,  or  her  new  brocade ; 
Forget  her  prayers,  or  miss  a  masquerade ; 
Or  lose  her  heart,  or  necklace,  at  a  ball ; 
Or  whether  Heaven  has  doomed  that  Shock 

must  fall.  no 

Haste,  then,  ye  spirits  !  to  your  charge  repair ; 
The  fluttering  fan  be  Zephyretta's  care; 


The  drops  ^  to  thee,  Brillante,  we  consign ; 
And,  Momentilla,  let  the  watch  be  thine ; 
Do  thou,  Crispissa,  tend  her  favourite  lock ; 
Ariel  himself  shall  be  the  guard  of  Shock.  116 
To  fitly  chosen  sylphs,  of  special  note, 
We  trust  th'  important  charge,  the  petticoat : 
Oft  have  we  known  that  seven-fold  fence  to 

fafl. 
Though  stiff  with  hoops,  and  armed  with  ribs 
of  whale;  120 

Form  a  strong  line  about  the  silver  bound, 
And  guard  the  wide  circumference  around. 
"Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge. 
His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at  large. 
Shall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  o'ertake  his 
sins,  125 

Be  stopped  in  vials,  or  transfixed  with  pins ; 
Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie. 
Or  wedged  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye ; 
Gums  and  pomatums  shall  his  flight  restrain, 
Whfle  clogged  he  beats  his  silken  wings  in 
vain;  130 

Or  alum  styptics  with  contracting  power 
Shrink  his  thin  essence  like  a  rivelled  ^  flower ; 
Or,  as  Ixion  fixed,  the  wretch  shaU  feel 
The  giddy  motion  of  the  whirling  mill,^ 
In  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow,  135 
And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  below  !". 
He  spoke ;    the  spirits  from  the  safls  de- 
scend ; 
Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  extend ; 
Some  thrid  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her  hair ; 
Some  hang  upon  the  pendants  of  her  ear ;  140 
With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they  wait. 
Anxious,  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of  fate.]  ■• 

Canto  HI 

Close  by  those  meads,  forever  crowned  with 

flowers. 
Where  Thames  with  pride  surveys  his  rising 

towers, 
There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame, 
Which  from  the  neighbouring  Hampton^  takes 

its  name. 
Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  foredoom 
Of  foreign  tyrants  and  of  nymphs  at  home ;  6 
Here  thou,  great  Anna  !  whom  three  realms 

obey, 
Dost  sometimes  counsel  take  —  and  some- 
times tea. 

^  ear-rings  ^  withered  ^  chocolate  mill.  ''  Here 
ends  the  second  addition  to  the  original  version. 
^  Hampton  Court 


THE    RAPE    OF    THE    LOCK 


279 


Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  resort, 
To  taste  awhile  the  pleasures  of  a  court ;      10 
In  various   talk   th'    instructive   hours   they 

passed, 
Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last ; 
One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  Queen, 
And  one  describes  a  charming  Indian  screen ; 
A  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and  eyes ; 
At  every  word  a  reputation  dies.  16 

Snuff,^  or  the  fan,  supply  each  pause  of  chat, 
With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that. 

Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of  day, 
The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray ;  20 
The  hungry'  judges  soon  the  sentence  sign. 
And  wretches  hang  that  jurymen  may  dine  ; 
The  merchant  from  th'  Exchange  returns  in 

peace, 
And  the  long  labours  of  the  toilet  cease. 
^  [Belinda  now,  whom  thirst  of  fame  invites,  25 
Burns  to  encounter  two  adventurous  knights. 
At  ombre  singly  to  decide  their  doom ; 
And  swells  her  breast  with  conquests  yet  to 

come. 
Straight  the  three  bands  prepare  in  arms  to 

join, 
Each  band  the  number  of  the  sacred  nine.^  30 
Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  th'  aerial  guard 
Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card: 
First,  Ariel  perched  upon  a  Matadore, 
Then  each,  according  to  the  rank  they  bore ; 
For  sylphs,  yet  mindful  of  their  ancient  race. 
Are,  as  when  women,  wondrous  fond  of  place. 

Behold,  four  kings  in  majesty  revered, 
With  hoary  whiskers  and  a  forky  beard ; 
And  four  fair  queens  whose  hands  sustain  a 

flower. 
The  expressive  emblem  of  their  softer  power ; 
Four  knaves  in  garbs  succinct,  a  trusty  band. 
Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberts  in  their 

hand ;  42 

And  parti-coloured  troops,  a  shining  train, 
Draw  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain. 
The  skilful  nymph  reviews  her  force  with 

care :  45 

Let  spades  be  trumps  !  she  said,  and  trumps 

they  were. 
Now  moved  to  war  her  sable  Matadores, 
In  show  like  leaders  of  the  swarthy  Moors. 
Spadillio  "^  first,  unconquerable  lord  ! 
Led  off  two  captive  trumps,  and  swept  the 

board.  50 

^  Suiifl  was  then  fashionable.  ^  Here  begins  the 
third  addition.  ^  the  Muses  ^  ace  of  spades,  the 
highest  trump 


As  many  more  Manillio '  forced  to  yield 
And  marched  a  victor  from  the  verdant  field. 
Him  Basto "  followed,  but  his  fate  more  hard 
Gained  but  one  trump  and  one  plebeian  card. 
With  his  broad  sabre  next,  a  chief  in  years, 
The  hoary  majesty  of  spades  appears,  56 

Puts  forth  one  manly  leg,  to  sight  revealed, 
The  rest,  his  many-coloured  robe  concealed. 
The  rebel  knave,  who  dares  his  prince  engage, 
Proves  the  just  victim  of  his  royal  rage.       60 
E'en  mighty  Pam,^  that  kings  and  queens  o'er- 

threw. 
And  mowed  dowm  armies  in  the  fights  of  Loo,* 
Sad  chance  of  war  !  now  destitute  of  aid. 
Falls  undistinguished  by  the  victor  spade! 

Thus  far  both  armdes  to  Belinda  yield ;     65 
Now  to  the  baron  fate  inclines  the  field. 
His  warlilce  Amazon  her  host  invades. 
The  imperial  consort  of  the  crown  of  spades ; 
The  club's  black  tyrant  first  her  victim  died, 
Spite  of  his  haughty  mien,   and  barbarous 

pride.  70 

\\Tiat  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head. 
His  giant  limbs,  in  state  unwieldy  spread ; 
That  long  behind  he  trails  his  pompous  robe, 
And,  of  all  monarchs,  only  grasps  the  globe? 
The  baron  now  his  diamonds  pours  apace  ; 
Th'  embroidered  king  who  shows  but  half  his 

face,  76 

And  his  refulgent  queen,  Avith  powers  com- 
bined. 
Of  broken  troops  an  easy  conquest  find. 
Clubs,  diamonds,  hearts,  in  wild  disorder  seen, 
With   throngs   promiscuous   strew   the   level 

green.  ^  80 

Thus  when  dispersed  a  routed  army  runs, 
Of  Asia's  troops,  and  Afric's  sable  sons. 
With  like  confusion  different  nations  fly, 
Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  dye. 
The  pierced  battalions  disunited  fall,  85 

In  heaps  on  heaps  ;  one  fate  o'erwhelms  them 

all. 
The  knave  of  diamonds  tries  his  wily  arts, 
And  wins  (oh  shamefrd  chance  !)  the  queen  of 

hearts. 
At  this  the  blood  the  xdrgin's  cheek  forsook, 
A  livid  paleness  spreads  o'er  all  her  look  ;     90 
She  sees,  and  trembles  at  th'  approaching  ill, 
Just  in  the  jaws  of  ruin,  and  codille.^ 

^  deuce  of  spades,  the  next  highest  ^ace  of  clubs, 
third  trump.  These  three  are  called  "maiadores." 
^  knave  of  clubs  *  another  game,  in  which  Pam 
is  the  highest  card  ^  the  card  table  ^  a  term  sig- 
nifj-nng  the  defeat  of  the  single  player 


28o 


ALEXANDER    POPE 


And  now  (as  oft  in  some  distempered  state) 
On  one  nice  trick  depends  the  general  fate. 
An  ace  of  laearts  steps  forth  ;  the  king  unseen 
Lurked  in  her  hand,  and  mourned  his  captive 

queen :  ■    96 

He  springs  to  vengeance  with  an  eager  pace, 
And  falls  like  thunder  on  the  prostrate  ace. 
The  nymph  exulting  fills  with  shouts  the  sky ; 
The  walls,  the  woods,  and  long  canals  reply. 

Oh  thoughtless  mortals  !  ever  blind  to  fate. 

Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate.        102 

Sudden,  these  honours  shall  be  snatched  away, 

And  cursed  forever  this  victorious  day.]  ^ 

For  lo  !  the  board  with  cups  and  spoons  is 

crowned,  105 

The  berries  -  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns  round ; 
On  shining  altars  of  Japan  ^  they  raise 
The  sUver  lamp  ;   the  fiery  spirits  blaze  : 
From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors  glide. 
While  China's  earth  ■*  receives  the  smoking  tide  : 
At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste,    1 1 1 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy  band ; 
Some,  as  she  sipped,  the  fuming  liquor  fanned, 
Some  o'er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  dis- 
played, 115 
Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich  brocade. 
Coffee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise. 
And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half-shut 

eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapours  to  the  baron's  brain 
New  stratagems  the  radiant  lock  to  gain.    1 20 
Ah,  cease,  rash  youth  !  desist  ere  'tis  too  late, 
Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's  fate  ! 
Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air. 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair  !  * 
But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their 

will,  _       125 

How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill ! 
Just  then  Clarissa  drew  with  tempting  grace 
A  two-edged  weapon  from  her  shining  case : 
So  ladies  in  romance  assist  their  knight,      129 
Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the  fight. 
He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  extends 
The  little  engine  on  his  fingers'  ends ; 
This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread. 
As  o'er  the  fragrant  steams  she  bends  her 

head. 
^  [Swift  to  the  lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair, 
A  thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back  the 

hair;  135 


And  thrice  they  twitched  the  diamond  in  her 

ear; 
Thrice  she  looked  back,  and  thrice  the  foe 

drew  near. 
Just  in  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought ;  140 
As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined. 
He  watched  th'  ideas  rising  in  her  mind. 
Sudden  he  viewed,  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 
An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,   confused,  he  found  his  power  ex- 
pired, _  145 
Resigned  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired.]^ 
The  peer  now  spreads  the  glittering  f orf ex  ^ 

wide, 
T'  inclose  the  lock;  now  joins-it,  to  divide. 
^  [E'en  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  closed, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed ;    150 
Fate  urged  the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph  in 

twain, 
(But  airy  substance  soon  imites  again).]* 
The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dissever 
From  the  fair  head,  forever,  and  forever  ! 
Then  flashed  the  living  lightning  from  her 

eyes,  _     155 

And  screams  of  horror  rend   th'   affrighted 

skies. 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  Heaven  are  cast. 
When  husbands,   or  when  lap-dogs  breathe 

their  last ; 
Or  when  rich  China  vessels,  fallen  from  high. 
In  glittering  dust  and  painted  fragments  lie  ! 
"Let  wreaths  of  triumph  now  my  temples 

twine,"  161 

The  victor  cried ;  "  the  glorious  prize  is  mine  ! 
While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in  air. 
Or  in  a  coach  and  six  the  British  fair, 
As  long  as  Atalantis  ^  shall  be  read,  165 

Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  bed. 
While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days. 
When  numerous  wax-lights  in  bright  order 

blaze. 
While   nymphs   take   treats,   or   assignations 

give, 
So  long  my  honour,  name,  and  praise  shall 

live!  170 

What  Time  would  spare,  from  steel  receives  its- 

date, 
And  monuments,  like  men,  submit  to  fate  ! 
Steel  could  the  labour  of  the  gods  destroy. 
And  strike  to  dust  th'  imperial  towers  of  Troy;* 


*  Here  ends  the  third  addition.  ^  coffee-laerries 
^  japanned  tables  ■•  porcelain  ^  Cf.  Gayley,  p. 
219. 


*  Here  begins  the  fourth  addition. 


^  Here  ends  the  fourth  addition.  -  scissors  ^  Here 
begins  the  fifth  addition.  ■*  Here  ends  the  fifth  ad- 
dition.    ^  a  scandalous  book  of  the  time 


THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK 


281 


Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  con- 
found, 175 

And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground. 

What  wonder  then,  fair  nymph  !  thy  hairs 
should  feel. 

The  conquering  force  of  unresisted  steel?" 

Canto  IV 

But   anxious  cares   the    pensive   nymph  op- 
pressed. 
And  secret  passions  laboured  in  her  breast. 
Not  youthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive, 
Not  scornful  virgins  who  their  charms  survive. 
Not  ardent  lovers  robbed  of  all  their  bliss,     5 
Not  ancient  ladies  when  refused  a  kiss, 
Not  tyrants  fierce  that  unrepenting  die, 
Not    Cynthia    when    her    manteau's    pinned 

awry. 
E'er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  despair. 
As  thou,  sad  virgin,  for  thy  ravished  hair.    10 
^  [For,  that  sad  moment,  when  the  sylphs  with- 
drew 
And  Ariel  weeping  from  Belinda  flew, 
Umbriel,  a  dusky,  melancholy  sprite. 
As  ever  sullied  the  fair  face  of  light,  14 

Down  to  the  central  earth,  his  proper  scene, 
Repaired  to  search  the  gloomy  cave  of  Spleen. - 

Swift  on  his  sooty  pinions  flits  the  gnome, 
And  in  a  vapour  reached  the  dismal  dome. 
No  cheerful  breeze  this  sullen  region  knows, 
The  dreaded  east  is  all  the  wind  that  blows. 
Here  in  a  grotto,  sheltered  close  from  air,     21 
And  screened  in  shades  from  day's  detested 

glare, 
She  sighs  forever  on  her  pensive  bed, 
Pain  at  her  side,  and  Megrim  ^  at  her  head. 
Two  handmaids  wait  the  throne,  alike  in 
place. 
But  differing  far' in  figure  and  in  face.  26 

Here  stood  Ill-nature  like  an  ancient  maid, 
Her  wrinkled  form  in  black  and  white  ar- 
rayed ; 
With  store  of  prayers,  for  mornings,  nights, 

and  noons 
Her  hand  is  fiUed  ;  her  bosom  with  lampoons. 
There  Affectation,  with  a  sickly  mien,  31 

Shows  in  her  cheek  the  roses  of  eighteen, 
Practised  to  lisp,  and  hang  the  head  aside. 
Faints  into  airs,  and  languishes  with  pride. 
On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming  woe,  35 
Wrapped  in  a  gown,  for  sickness,  and  for  show. 


^  Here    begins   the   sixth    addition. 
^  headache 


hysteria 


The  fair  ones  feel  such  maladies  as  these, 
When  each  new  night-dress  gives  a  new  dis- 
ease. 
A  constant  vapour  o'er  the  palace  flies ;   39 
Strange  phantoms  rising  as  the  mists  arise ; 
Dreadful,    as    hermit's    dreams    in    haunted 

shades, 
Or  bright,  as  visions  of  expiring  maids. 
Now  glaring  fiends,    and   snakes   on   rolling 

spires. 
Pale  spectres,  gaping  tombs,  and  purple  fires ; 
Now  lakes  of  liquid  gold,  Elysian  scenes,      45 
And  crystal  domes,  and  angels  in  machines.^ 
Unnumbered    throngs    on    every   side   are 
seen. 
Of  bodies  changed  to  various  forms  by  Spleen. 
Here  living  tea-pots  stand,  one  arm  held  out, 
One  bent ;  the  handle  this,  and  that  the  spout. 
A  pipkin  there,  like  Homer's  tripod,-  walks  ;  51 
Here  sighs  a  jar,  and  there  a  goose-pie  talks ; 
]Men   prove   with   child,    as   powerful   fancy 

works. 
And  maids,  turned  bottles,  call  aloud  for  corks. 
Safe  passed  the  gnome  through  this  fantastic 
band,  _  _       _  55 

A  branch  of  healing  spleenwort  in  his  hand. 
Then  thus  addressed  the  power  :   "Hail,  way- 
ward queen  ! 
Who  rule  the  sex,  to  fifty  from  fifteen : 
Parent  of  vapours  ^  and  of  female  wit ; 
Who  give  th'  hysteric,  or  poetic  fit ;  60 

On  various  tempers  act  by  various  ways. 
Make  some  take  physic,  others  scribble  plays ; 
Who  cause  the  proud  their  visits  to  delay, 
And  send  the  godly  in  a  pet  to  pray.  64 

A  nymph  there  is,  that  all  thy  power  disdains, 
And  thousands  more  in  equal  mirth  main- 
tains, 
But  oh  !  if  e'er  thy  gnome  could  spoU  a  grace, 
Or  raise  a  pimple  on  a  beauteous  face. 
Like  citron-waters  ■*  matrons'  cheeks  inflame, 
Or  change  complexions  at  a  losing  game ;      70 
If  e'er  with  airy  horns  I  planted  heads. 
Or  rumpled  petticoats,  or  tumbled  beds. 
Or  caused  suspicion  when  no  soul  was  rude, 
Or  discomposed  the  head-dress  of  a  prude, 
Or  e'er  to  costive  lap-dog  gave  disease,         75 
Which  not  the  tears  of  brightest  eyes  could 
ease : 

^  stage  devices  for  lowering  gods  or  angels 
from  the  sky  ^  In  the  Iliad,  xviii,  373  ff., 
Hephaistos  is  represented  as  making  tripods  that 
could  walk.  ^  hypochondria  *  a  liquor  distilled 
from  citron  rinds. 


282 


ALEXANDER    POPE 


Hear  me,  and  touch  Belinda  with  chagrin, 
That    single   act   gives   half    the   world   the 

spleen." 
The  goddess  with  a  discontented  air 
Seems  to  reject  him,  though  she  grants  his 

prayer.  80 

A  wondrous  bag  with  both  her  hands  she 

binds. 
Like  that  where  once  Ulysses  held  the  winds  ;  ^ 
There  she  collects  the  force  of  female  lungs. 
Sighs,   sobs,   and  passions,   and   the  war  of 

tongues. 
A  vial  next  she  fills  with  faintmg  fears,         85 
Soft  sorrows,  melting  griefs,  and  flowing  tears. 
The  gnome  rejoicing  bears  her  gifts  away. 
Spreads  his  black  wings,  and  slowly  mounts  to 

day. 
Sunk  in   Thalestris'   arms   the  nymph  he 

found, 
Her  eyes  dejected  and  her  hair  unbound.     90 
Full  o'er  their  heads  the  swelling  bag  he  rent. 
And  all  the  furies  issued  at  the  vent.]  ^ 
Belinda  burns  with  more  than  mortal  ire, 
And  fierce  Thalestris  fans  the  rising  fire. 
''O  wretched  maid!"  she  spread  her  hands, 

and  cried,  95 

(While  Hampton's  echoes,  "Wretched  maid  ! " 

replied) 
"Was  it  for  this  yovi  took  such  constant  care 
The  bodkin,^  comb,  and  essence  to  prepare? 
For  this  your  locks  in  paper  durance  bound. 
For     this     with     torturing    irons    wreathed 

aroimd?  100 

For  this  with  fillets  strained  your  tender  head. 
And  Ijravely  bore  the  double  loads  of  lead  ?  ^ 
Gods  !  shall  the  ravishcr  display  your  hair, 
While  the  fops  envy,  and  the  ladies  stare  ! 
Honour  forbid  !  at  wliose  unrivalled  shrine 
Ease,  pleasure,  virtue,  all  our  sex  resign.     106 
Mcthinks  already  I  your  tears  survey, 
iVlready  hear  the  horrid  things  they  say, 
Already  see  you  a  degraded  toast. 
And  all  your  honour  in  a  wliisper  lost!        no 
How  shall  I,  then,  your  helpless  fame  defend? 
'Twill  then  be  infamy  to  seem  your  friend ! 
And  shall  this  prize,  th'  inestimable  prize, 
Exposed  through  crystal  to  the  gazing  eyes, 
And  heightened  by  the  diamond's  circlmg 

rays, 
On  that  rapacious  hand  forever  blaze?        116 
Sooner  shall  grass  in  Hyde  Park  Circus  ^  grow, 

^  Cf.  the  Odyssey,  x,  20.  ^  Here  ends  the  sixth 
addition.  ^  Cf.  v,  95.  ^  for  curling  the  hair 
*  the  Ring,  cf.  i,  44 


And  wits  take  lodgings  in  the  sound  of  Bow ;  1 
Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  fall, 
Men,     monkeys,    lap-dogs,    parrots,    perish 

all!"  120 

She  said ;  then  raging  to  Sir  Plume  repairs. 
And  bids  her  beau  demand  the  precious  hairs 
(Sir  Plume,  of  amber  snuif-box  justly  vain. 
And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  ^  cane) . 
With  earnest  eyes,  and  round  unthinking  face, 
He  first  the  snuff-box  opened,  then  the  case, 
And  thus  broke  out  —  "My  lord,  why,  what 

the  devil?  127 

Zounds  !  damn  the  lock  !  'fore  Gad,  you  must 

be  civil ! 
Plague  on't !  'tis  past  a  jest  —  nay,  prithee 

pox ! 
Give  her  the  hair,"  he  spoke,  and  rapped  his 

box.  130 

"It  grieves  me  much,"  replied  the  peer  again, 
"Who  speaks  so  well  should  ever  speak  in 

vain. 
But  by  this  lock,  this  sacred  lock,  I  swear. 
(Which  never  more  shall  join  its  parted  hair ; 
Which  never  more  its  honours  shall  renew,  135 
Clipped  from  the  lovely  head  where  late  it 

grew) 
That  while  my  nostrils  draw  the  vital  air, 
This  hand,  which  won  it,  shall  forever  wear." 
He  spoke,  and  speaking,  in  proud  triumph 

spread 
The  long-contended  honours  of  her  head.   140 
^  [But  Umbriel,  hateful  gnome  !  forbears  not 

so ; 
He  breaks  the  vial  whence  the  sorrows  flow.]  •'' 
Then  see !  the  nymph  in  beauteous  grief  ajv 

pears, 
Her  eyes  half  languishing,  half  drowned  in 

tears ; 
On  her  heaved  bosom  hung  her  drooping  head, 
Which,  with  a  sigh,  she  raised ;   and  thus  she 

said:  146 

"Forever  curs'd  be  this  detested  day. 
Which  snatched  my  best,  my  favourite  curl 

away ! 
Happy  !  ah,  ten  times  happy  had  I  been. 
If  Hampton  Court  these  eyes  had  never  seen  1 
Yet  am  not  I  the  first  mistaken  maid,        151 
By  love  of  courts  to  numerous  ills  betrayed. 
Oh,  had  I  rather  unadmired  remained 
In  some  lone  isle  or  distant  northern  land ; 
Where  the  gilt  chariot  never  marks  the  way, 

1  the  bells  of  St.  Mary-le-bow,  in  the  older  and 
unfashionable  part  of  London  ^  mottled,  cf.  Tatler, 
No.  103.     ^"^  The  seventh  addition. 


THE    RAPE    OF    THE    LOCK 


283 


Where  none  learn  ombre,  none  e'er  taste 
bohea!^  156 

There  kept  my  charms  concealed  from  mortal 
eye, 

Like  roses,  that  in  deserts  bloom  and  die. 

What  moved  my  mind  with  youthful  lords  to 
roam?  159 

Oh,  had  I  stayed,  and  said  my  prayers  at 
home  ! 

'Twas  this,  the  morning  omens  seemed  to  tell : 

Thrice  from  my  trembhng  hand  the  patch- 
box  ^  fell ; 

The  tottering  china  shook  without  a  wind ; 

Nay,  Poll  ^  sat  mute,  and  Shock  *  was  most  un- 
kind ! 

A  sylph,  too,  warned  me  of  the  threats  of  fate, 

In  mystic  visions,  now  believed  too  late  !   166 

See  the  poor  remnants  of  these  slighted  hairs  ! 

IMy  hands  shall  rend  what  e'en  thy  rapine 
spares ; 

These  in  two  sable  ringlets  taught  to  break. 

Once  gave  new  beauties  to  the  snowy  neck ; 

The  sister  lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone,      171 

And  in  its  fellow's  fate  foresees  its  own ; 

Uncurled  it  hangs,  the  fatal  shears  demands. 

And  tempts  once  more,  thy  sacrilegious 
hands. 

Canto  V 

She  said :   the  pitying  audience  melt  in  tears. 

But  Fate  and  Jove  had  stopped  the  baron's 
ears. 

In  vain  Thalestris  with  reproach  assails. 

For  who  can  move  when  fair  Belinda  fails? 

Not  half  so  fixed  the  Trojan  ^  could  remain,  5 

While  Anna  begged  and  Dido  raged  in  vain. 

^  [Then  grave  Clarissa  graceful  waved  her  fan ; 

Silence  ensued,  and  thus  the  nymph  began : 
"Say,  why  are  beauties  praiised  and  hon- 
oured most, 

The  mse  man's  passion,  and  the  vain  man's 
toast?  10 

Why  decked  with  all  that  land  and  sea  afford. 

Why  angels  called,  and  angel-like  adored? 

Why  round  our  coaches  crowd  the  white- 
gloved  beaux, 

Why  bows  the  side-box  from  its  inmost  rows  ? 

How  vain  are  all  these  glories,  all  our  pains,  15 

Unless  good  sense  preserve  what  beauty  gains ; 

^  a  kind  of  tea  ^  for  patches  see  the  Spectator, 
No.  81.  ^  the  parrot  *  the  lap-dog  ^  yEneas,  cf. 
/Eneid,  iv,  296-440  ^  Bracketed  lines  were  not  in 
the  original  version. 


That  men  may  say,  when  we  the  front-box 

grace, 
'Behold  the  first  in  virtue  as  in  face  !' 
Oh  !  if  to  dance  all  night,  and  dress  all  day, 
Charmed  the  small-pox,   or  chased  old  age 

away. 
Who  would  not  scorn  what  housewife's  cares 

produce,  21 

Or  who  would  learn  one  earthly  thing  of  use? 
To  patch,  nay  ogle,  might  become  a  saint, 
Nor  could  it  sure  be  such  a  sin  to  paint. 
But  since,  alas  !  frail  beauty  must  decay ;     25 
Curled  or  uncurled,  since  locks  will  turn  to 

grey ; 
Since  painted,  or  not  painted,  all  shall  fade. 
And  she  who  scorns  a  man  must  die  a  maid; 
What  then  remains  but  well  our  power  to  use, 
And  keep  good  humour  still,  whate'er  we  lose? 
And  trust  me,  dear  !  good  humour  can  prevail. 
When  airs,  and  flights,  and  screams,  and  scold- 
ing fail.  32 
Beauties  in  vain  their  pretty  eyes  may  roll ; 
Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit  wins  the 

soul." 
So  spoke  the  dame,  but  no  applause  ensued ; 
Belinda  frowned,  Thalestris  called  her  prude.] 
"To  arms,  to  arms  !"  the  fierce  virago^  cries, 
And  swift  as  lightning  to  the  combat  flies.  38 
All  side  in  parties,  and  begin  th'  attack ; 
Fans  clap,  silks  rustle,  and  tough  whalebones 

crack ;  40 

Heroes'  and  heroines'  shouts  confus'dly  rise, 
And  bass  and  treble  voices  strike  the  skies. 
No  common  weapons  in  their  hands  are  foimd, 
Like  gods   they  fight,   nor   dread   a   mortal 

wound. 
So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods  en- 
gage, _  _  45 
And  heavenly  breasts  with  human  passions 

rage; 
'Gainst  Pallas,  Mars;  Latona,  Hermes  arms; 
And  all  Olympus  rings  with  loud  alarms : 
Jove's   thunder   roars,   Heaven   trembles   all 

around. 
Blue  Neptune  storms,  the  bellowing  deeps  re- 

soimd :  5° 

Earth  shakes  her  nodding  towers,  the  groimd 

gives  way. 
And  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of  day  ! 
2  [Triumphant  Umbriel  on  a  sconce's^  height 
Clapped  his  glad  wings,  and  sat  to  view  the 

fight; 

1  Thalestris    ^  Bracketed  lines  were  not  in  the 
original  version.     ^  candlestick 


284 


ALEXANDER    POPE 


Propped  on  their  bodkin  spears,  the  sprites 
survey  _  55 

The  growing  combat,  or  assist  the  fray.] 
While  through  the  press  enraged  Thalestris 
flies. 
And  scatters  death  around  from  both  her  eyes, 
A  beau  and  witling  perished  in  the  throng, 
One  died  in  metaphor,  and  one  in  song.        60 
"O  cruel  nymph  !  a  living  death  I  bear,"^ 
Cried  Dapperwit,  and  sunk  beside  his  chair. 
A  mournful  glance  Sir  Fopling  upwards  cast, 
"Those  eyes  are  made  so  killing"  ^  —  was  his 

last. 
Thus  on  JNIieander's^  flowery  margin  lies     65 
Th'  expiring  swan,  and  as  he  sings  he  dies. 
When  bold  Sir  Plume  had  drawn  Clarissa 
down, 
Chloe  stepped  in  and  killed  him  with  a  frown  ; 
She  smiled  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain, 
But,  at  her  smile,  the  beau  revived  again.    70 
Now  Jove  suspends  his  golden  scales  in  air, 
Weighs   the   men's   wits   against   the   lady's 

hair ; 
The  doubtful  beam  long  nods  from  side  to 

side ; 
At  length  the  wits  mount  up,  the  hairs  sub- 
side. 
See,  fierce  Belinda  on  the  Baron  flies,        75 
With  more  than  usual  lightning  in  her  eyes ; 
Nor  feared  the  chief  th'  unequal  fight  to  try, 
Who  sought  no  more  than  on  his  foe  to  die. 
But    this    bold    lord    with    manly    strength 

endued. 
She  with  one  finger  and  a  thumb  subdued :  80 
Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils  drew, 
A  charge  of  snuff  the  wily  virgin  threw ; 

*  [The  gnomes  direct,  to  every  atom  just, 
The  pungent  grains  of  titillating  dust.] 
Sudden,   with   starting   tears  each   eye  o'er- 

flows,  85 

And  the  high  dome  re-echoes  to  his  nose. 
"Now  meet  thy  fate,"  incensed  Belinda 

cried, 
And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 
^[(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck,  89 
Her  great  great  grandsire  wore  about  his  neck. 
In  three  seal-rings  ;  which  after,  melted  down, 
Formed  a  vast  l^uckle  for  his  widow's  gown  ; 
Her  infant  grandame's  whistle  next  it  grew, 
The  bells  she  jingled,  and  the  whistle  blew ; 

*  This  is  the  "metaphor."  ^  From  a  song  in  the 
opera  Camilla.  ^  a  winding  river  in  Asia  Minor, 
frequented  by  swans,  cf.   Ovid,  Epist.  vii,   i,   2 

*  Bracketed  lines  were  not  in  the  original  version. 


Then  in  a  bodkin  graced  her  mother's  hairs. 
Which  long  she  wore,  and  now  Behnda  wears.)] 
"Boast  not  my  fall,"  he  cried,  "insulting 

foe !  97 

Thou  by  some  other  shaft  be  laid  as  low ; 
Nor  think  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind : 
All  that  I  dread  is  leaving  you  behind  !      100 
Rather  than  so,  ah,  let  me  still  survive, 
And    burn    in    Cupid's    flames  —  but    burn 

alive." 
"Restore  the  lock!"   she  cries;    and   all 

around 
' '  Restore  the  lock  ! "  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
Not  fierce  OtheUo  in  so  loud  a  strain  105 

Roared  for  the  handkerchief  that  caused  his 

pain. 
But  see  how  oft  ambitious  aims  are  crossed, 
And  chiefs  contend  till  all  the  prize  is  lost ! 
The  lock,  obtained  with  guUt,  and  kept  with 

pain. 
In  every  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in  vain : 
With  such  a  prize  no  mortal  must  be  blessed, 
So  Heaven   decrees !  with  Heaven  who   can 

contest?  112 

Some   thought   it   mounted   to   the   lunar 

sphere. 
Since  all  things  lost  on  earth  are  treasured  there. 
There  heroes'  vvits  are  kept  in  ponderous  vases, 
And  beaux'  in  snuff-boxes  and  tweezer  cases ; 
There  broken  vows  and  death-bed  alms  are 

found,  117 

And  lovers'  hearts  with  ends  of  riband  bound, 
The    courtier's    promises,    and    sick    man's 

prayers. 
The  smiles  of  harlots,  and  the  tears  of  heirs, 
Cages  for  gnats,  and  chains  to  yoke  a  flea,  121 
Dried  butterflies,  and  tomes  of  casuistiy. 
But  trust  the  Aluse  —  she  saw  it  upward 

rise, 
Though  marked  by  none  but  quick,  poetic 

eyes: 
(So  Rome's  great  founder  to  the  heavens  with- 
drew, 125 
To  Proculus ^  alone  confessed  in  vievv) 
A  sudden  star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air, 
And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trail  of  hair. 
Not  Berenice's  locks  ^  first  rose  so  bright, 
The    heavens    bespangling    with    dishevelled 

light. 

^  Cf.  Livy,  1,6  ^  The  wife  of  Ptolemy  Euergeles 
dedicated  her  hair  for  the  safe  return  of  her  hus- 
band ;  upon  Us  disappearance  the  astronomer  Conon 
reported  that  it  had  been  changed  to  the  constellation 
Coma  Berenices. 


ELOISA   TO  ■  ABELARD 


285 


^[The  sylphs  behold  it  kindling  as  it  flies,   131 
And  pleased  pursue  its  progress  through  the 
skies.] 
This  the  beau  monde  shall  from  the  Mall  ^ 
survey, 
And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray. 
^  [This  the  blest  lover  shall  for  Venus  take,   135 
And  send  up  vows  from  Rosamonda's  lake.^] 
This  Partridge  ^  soon  shall  view  in  cloudless 

skies, 
When  next  he  looks  through  Galileo's  eyes ;  * 
And  hence  th'  egregious  wizard  shall  fore- 
doom 
The  fate  of  Louis  and  the  fall  of  Rome.      140 
Then  cease,  bright  nymph  !  to  mourn  thy 
ravished  hair, 
Which  adds  new  glory  to  the  shining  sphere  ! 
Not  all  the  tresses  that  fair  head  can  boast, 
Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the  lock  you  lost. 
For,  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye,        145 
When,  after  millions  slain,  yourself  shall  die ; 
When  those  fair  suns  shall  set,  as  set  they 

must, 
And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in  dust :  148 
This  lock,  the  Muse  shall  consecrate  to  fame. 
And  'midst  the  stars  inscribe  Belinda's  name. 


From  ELOISA  TO  ABELARD 

In  these  deep  solitudes  and  awful  cells, 
Where  heavenly-pensive  contemplation  dwells, 
And  ever-musing  melancholy  reigns, 
What  means  this  tumult  in  a  vestal's  veins? 
Why  rove  my  thoughts  beyond  this  last  re- 
treat ?  S 
Why  feels  my  heart  its  long-forgotten  heat  ? 
Yet,  yet  I  love  !  —  from  Abelard  it  came. 
And  Eloisa  yet  must  kiss  the  name. 

Dear  fatal  name  !  rest  ever  unrevealed. 
Nor  pass  these  lips  in  holy  silence  sealed  !    10 
Hide  it,  my  heart,  within  that  close  disguise. 
Where  mixed  with  God's,  his  loved  idea  lies  ! 
Oh,  write  it  not,  my  hand  —  the  name  appears 
Already  written  —  wash  it  out,  my  tears  ! 
In  vain  lost  Eloisa  weeps  and  prays  ;  1 5 

Her  heart  still  dictates,  and  her  hand  obeys. 

Relentless   walls !   whose   darksome   round 
contains 
Repentant  sighs,  and  voluntary  pains  : 

^  Bracketed  lines  were  not  in  ike  original  ver- 
sion. ^  in  St.  James'  Park.  ^  an  almanac  maker 
ridiculed  by  Swift  ^  a  telescope,  cf.  Par.  Lost, 
I,  288 


Ye  rugged  rocks  !  which  holy  knees  have  worn  ; 
\e  grots  and   caverns  shagg'd   with   horrid 

thorn !  20 

Shrines !  where  their  vigils  pale-eyed  virgins 

keep, 
And  pitying  saints,  whose  statues  learn   to 

weep  ! 
Though  cold  Uke  you,  unmoved  and  silent 

grown, 
I  have  not  yet  forgot  myself  to  stone. 
All  is  not  Heaven's  while  Abelard  has  part, 25 
Still  rebel  nature  holds  out  half  my  heart  ; 
Nor  prayers  nor  fasts  its  stubborn  pulse  re- 
strain, 
Nor  tears,  for  ages  taught  to  flow  in  vain. 

Soon  as  thy  letters  trembling  I  unclose. 
That  well-known  name  awakens  all  my  woes. 
Oh,  name  forever  sad  !  forever  dear  !  31 

Still  breathed  in  sighs,  still  ushered  with  a 

tear. 
I  tremble  too,  where'er  my  own  I  find ; 
Some  dire  misfortune  follows  close  behind. 
Line  after  line  my  gushing  eyes  o'erflow,      35 
Led  through  a  sad  variety  of  woe : 
Now  warm  in  love,   now  withering  in  my 

bloom. 
Lost  in  a  convent's  solitary  gloom  ! 
There  stern  religion  quenched  th'  unwilling 

flame,  39 

There  died  the  best  of  passions,  love  and  fame. 
Yet  write,  oh  !  write  me  all,  that  I  may  join 
Griefs  to  thy  griefs,  and  echo  sighs  to  thine. 
Nor  foes  nor  fortune  take  this  power  away  ; 
And  is  my  Abelard  less  kind  than  they  ? 
Tears  still  are  mine,  and  those  I  need  not 

spare,  45 

Love  but  demands  what   else  were  shed   in 

prayer ; 
No  happier  task  these  faded  eyes  pursue ; 
To  read  and  weep  is  all  they  now  can  do. 

Then  share  thy  pain,  allow  that  sad  relief ; 
Ah,  more  than  share  it,  give  me  all  thy  grief. 
Heaven  first  taught  letters  for  some  wretch's 

aid,  _  _   51 

Some  banished  lover,  or  some  captive  maid  ; 
They  live,  they  speak,  they  breathe  what  love 

inspires. 
Warm  from  the  soul,  and  faithful  to  its  fires. 
The  virgin's   wish    without    her    fears    im- 
part, 55 
Excuse  the  blush,  and  pour  out  all  the  heart. 
Speed  the  soft  intercourse  from  soul  to  soul. 
And  waft  a  sigh  from  Indus  to  the  Pole. 
Thou  know'st  how  guiltless  first  I  met  thy 

flame, 


286 


ALEXANt)ER    POPE 


When  love  approached  me  under  friendship's 

name ;  60 

My  fancy  formed  thee  of  angehc  kind, 
Some  emanation  of  th'  all-beauteous  Mind. 
Those  smiling  eyes,  attempering  every  ray, 
Shone  sweetly  lambent  with  celestial  day. 
Guiltless  I  gazed ;   Heaven  listened  while  you 

sung;  65 

And  truths  divine  came  mended^  from  that 

tongue. 
From  lips  like  those  what  precept  failed  to 

move  ? 
Too  soon  they  taught  me  'twas  no  sin  to  love  ; 
Back  through  the  paths  of  pleasing  sense  I 

ran, 
Nor  wished  an  angel  whom  I  loved  a  man.  70 
Dim  and  remote  the  joys  of  saints  I  see ; 
Nor  envy  them  that  Heaven  I  lose  for  thee. 


How  happy  is  the  blameless  vestal's  lot ! 
The  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot : 
Eternal  sunshine  of  the  spotless  mind ! 
Each  prayer  accepted,  and  each  wish  resigned ; 
Labour  and  rest,  that  equal  periods  keep ;  211 
"Obedient    slumbers    that    can    wake    and 

weep ;"^ 
Desires  composed,  affegtions  ever  even  ; 
Tears  that  delight,  and  sighs  that    waft    to 

Heaven. 
Grace  shines  around  her  with  serehest  beams, 
And   whispering   angels   prompt   her   golden 

dreams. 
For  her  th'  vmfading  rose  of  Eden  blooms,  217 
And  wings  of  seraphs  shed  divine  perfumes ; 
For  her  the  Spouse  prepares  the  bridal  ring ; 
For  her  white  virgins  hymenaeals  sing ;        220 
To  sounds  of  heavenly  harps  she  dies  away, 
And  melts  in  visions  of  eternal  day. 

Far  other  dreams  my  erring  soul  employ, 
Far  other  raptures,  of  unholy  joy.  224 

When  at  the  close  of  each  sad,  sorrowing  day. 
Fancy    restores    what     vengeance    snatched 

away, 
Then  conscience  sleeps,  and  leaving  nature 

free 
All  my  loose  soul  unbounded  springs  to  thee. 

0  curs'd,  dear  horrors  of  all-conscious  night ! 
How  glowing  guilt  exalts  the  keen  delight !  230 
Provoking  demons  all  restraint  remove. 

And  stir  within  me  every  source  of  love. 

1  hear  thee,   view  thee,   gaze    o'er    all    thy 

charms, 

^  improved         ^  Quoted  frotn  Crashaw. 


And    round  thy  phantom    glue  my  claspiiig 

arms. 
I  wake  :  —  no  more  I  hear,  no  more  I  view  ; 
The  phantom  flies  me,  as  unkind  as  you.    2,36 
I  call  aloud ;  it  hears  not  what  I  say  : 
I  stretch  my  empty  arms ;  it  glides  away. 
To  dream  once  more  I  close  my  willing  eyes  ; 
Ye  soft  illusions,  dear  deceits,  arise !  240 

Alas,  no  more !  methinks  we  wandering  go 
Through  dreary  wastes,  and  weep  each  other's 

woe. 
Where  round  some  mouldering  tower  pale  ivy 

creeps, 
And  low-browed  rocks  hang  nodding  o'er  the 

deeps.  I  244 

Sudden  you  mount,    you  beckon  from    the 

skies ; 
Clouds  interpose,  waves  roar,  and  winds  arise. 
I  shriek,  start  up,  the  same  sad  prospect  find, 
And  wake  to  all  the  griefs  I  left  behind. 

From  AN  ESSAY  ON  MAN 
BOOK  I 

Awake,  my  St.  John !  leave  ail  meaner  things 
To  low  ambition,  and  the  pride  of  kings. 
Let  us  (since  life  can  little  more  supply 
Than  just  to  look  about  us  and  to  die) 
Expatiate  free  o'er  all  this  scene  of  man ;       5 
A  mighty  maze  !  but  not  without  a  plan ; 
A  wild,  where  weeds  and  flowers  promiscuous 

shoot ; 
Or  garden,  tempting  with  forbidden  fruit. 
Together  let  us  beat  this  ample  field, 
Try  what  the  open,  what  the  covert  yield ;  10 
The  latent  tracts,  the  giddy  heights,  explore 
Of  all  who  blindly  creep,  or  sightless  soar ; 
Eye  nature's  walks,  shoot  folly  as  it  flies, 
And  catch  the  manners  living  as  they  rise ; 
Laugh  where  we  must,  be  candid  where  we 

can;  15 

But  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man. 

I.  Say  first,  of  God  above,  or  man  below, 
What  can  we  reason,  but  from  what  we  know  ? 
Of  man,  what  see  we  but  his  station  here 
From  which  to  reason  or  to  which  refer?      20 
Through    worlds    unnumbered    though    the 

God  be  known, 
'Tis  ours  to  trace  him  only  in  our  own. 
He,  who  through  vast  immensity  can  pierce. 
See  worlds  on  worlds  compose  one  universe. 
Observe  how  system  into  system  runs,  25 

What  other  planets  circle  other  suns, 
What  varied  being  peoples  every  star, 


AN   ESSAY    ON    MAN 


287 


May  tell  why  Heaven  has  made  us  as  we  are. 
But  of  this  frame  the  bearings,  and  the  ties, 
The  strong  connections,  nice  dependencies,  30 
Gradations  just,  has  thy  pervading  soul 
Looked  through?  or  can  a  part  contain  the 
whole  ? 

Is  the  great  chain,  that  draws  all  to  agree, 
And  drawn  supports,  upheld  by  God,  or  thee? 

II.  Presumptuous  man  !  the  reason  wouldst 
thou  find,  35 

\Miy  formed  so  weak,  so  little,  and  so  blind? 
First,  if  thou  canst,  the  harder  reason  guess. 
Why  formed  no  weaker,  blinder,  and  no  less  ? 
Ask  of  thy  mother  earth,  why  oaks  are  made 
Taller  or  stronger  than  the  weeds  they  shade  ? 
Or  ask  of  yonder  argent  fields  above,  41 

Why  Jove's  satellites^  are  less  than  Jove. 

Of  systems  possible,  if  'tis  confessed 
That  wisdom  infinite  must  form  the  best, 
WTiere  all  must  fuU  or  not  coherent  be,         45 
And  all  that  rises,  rise  in  due  degree ; 
Then,  in  the  scale  of  reasoning  life,  'tis  plain. 
There  must  be,  somewhere,  such  a  rank  as 

man : 
And  all  the  question  (wrangle  e'er  so  long) 
Is  only  this,  if  God  has  placed  him  wTong?  50 

Respecting  man,  whatever  wrong  we  call, 
IVIay,  must  be  right,  as  relative  to  all. 
In  human  works,  though  laboured  on    with 

pain, 
A  thousand  movements   scarce  one  purpose 

gain ; 
In  God's,  one  single  can  its  end  produce ;     55 
Yet  serves  to  second  too  some  other  use. 
So  man,  who  here  seems  principal  alone. 
Perhaps  acts  second  to  some  sphere  unknown, 
Touches  some  wheel,  or  verges  to  some  goal ; 
'Tis  but  a  part  we  see,  and  not  a  whole.       60 


Then  say  not  man's  imperfect.  Heaven  in 

fault ; 
Say  rather,  man's  as  perfect  as  he  ought :    70 
His  knowledge  measured  to   his   state   and 

place. 
His  time  a  moment,  and  a  point  his  space. 
If  to  be  perfect  in  a  certain  sphere. 
What  matter,  soon  or  late,  or  here  or  there? 
The  blest  to-day  is  as  completely  so,  75 

As  who  began  a  thousand  j^ears  ago. 

III.  Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides   the 

book  of  f^te. 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present  state  : 


From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits 

know: 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below  ?         80 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day. 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play  ? 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food, 
And   licks  the  hand  just   raised  to  shed  his 

blood. 
Oh,  blindness  to  the  future  !  kindly  given,    85 
That   each   may   fill   the   circle   marked    by 

Heaven : 
WTio  sees  ■with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall. 
Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurled. 
And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world.  90 
Flope  himibiy  then  ;  with  trembling  pinions 
soar ; 
Wait   the   great   teacher   Death ;    and    God 

adore. 
W^hat  future  bliss,  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eterpal  in  the  human  breast :  95 
]Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest. 
The  sold,  uneasy  and  confined  from  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 

Lo,  the  poor  Indian !  whose  untutored  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind ; 
His  soul,  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way ;  102 

Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  given, 
Behind   the   cloud-topped  hill,   an    hiunbler 

Heaven ; 
Some   safer  world  in  depths  of  woods  em- 
braced, 105 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste, 
WTiere  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  be- 
hold. 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold. 
To  be,  contents  his  natural  desire. 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire ;  no 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 


VH.  Far  as  creation's  ample  range  extends, 
The  scale  of  sensual,^  mental  power  ascends. 
INlark  how  it  mounts,  to  man's  imperial  race. 
From  the  green  myriads  in  the  peopled  grass : 
What  modes  of  sight  betwixt  each  wide  ex- 
treme, 211 
The  mole's  dim  curtain,  and  the  lynx's  beam : 
Of  smell,  the  headlong  lioness  between 
And  hound  sagacious  on  the  tainted  green : 


^  Pronounced  sa-tel'-li-tes. 


^  belonging  to  the  senses 


288 


ALEXANDER    POPE 


Of  hearing,  from  the  life  that  fills  the  Hood, 
To  that  which  warbles  through  the  vernal 

wood:  216 

The  spider's  touch,  how  exquisitely  fine  ! 
Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line : 
In  the  nice  ^  bee,  what  sense  so  subtly  true 
From   poisonous  herbs   extracts   the  healing 

dew?  220 

How  instinct  varies  in  the  grovelling  swine, 
Compared,     half-reasoning     elephant,     with 

thine  ! 
'Twixt  that  and  reason,  what  a  nice  barrier, 
Forever  separate,  yet  forever  near  ! 
Remembrance  and  reflection  how  allied ;     225 
What    thin    partitions    sense    from    thought 

divide : 
And  middle  natures,  how  they  long  to  join, 
Yet  never  pass  th'  insuperable  line  ! 
Without  this  just  gradation,  could  they  be 
Subjected,  these  to  those,  or  all  to  thee?    230 
The  powers  of  all  subdued  by  thee  alone. 
Is  not  thy  reason  all  these  powers  in  one? 


All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul ; 
That,  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the 

same; 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  th'  ethereal  frame  ;  ^ 
Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze,  271 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees, 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  ex- 
tent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent ; 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part. 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart ;  276 

As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  mourns. 
As  the  rapt  seraph  ^  that  adores  and  burns : 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small ; 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  and  equals  all. 
X.  Cease  then,  nor  order  imperfection 
name:  281 

Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we  blame. 
Know  thy  own  point :    this  kind,   this  due 

degree 
Of  blindness,  weakness.  Heaven  bestows  on 

thee. 
Submit.  —  In  this,  or  any  other  sphere,      285 
Secure  to  be  as  blest  as  thou  canst  bear : 
Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  Power, 
Or  in  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 
All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee ; 

^  discriminating      ^  the  heavens      ^  angels   of 
flame 


All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not 

see; 
All  discord,  harmony  not  understood  ;         291 
AU  partial  evil,  universal  good  : 
And,  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite. 
One  truth  is  clear,  Whatever  is,  is  right. 


EPISTLE   TO  DR.   ARBUTHNOT 

P.  Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John  !  ^  fatigued, 

I  said  ? 
Tie  up  the  knocker,  say  I'm  sick,  I'm  dead. 
The  Dog-star  rages  !  nay,  'tis  past  a  doubt. 
All  Bedlam, 2  or  Parnassus,^  is  let  out : 
Fire  in  each  eye,  and  papers  in  each  hand,     5 
They  rave,  recite,  and  madden  round  the  land. 
What  walls  can  guard  me,  or  what  shades 

can  hide? 
They  pierce  my  thickets,  through  my  grot 

they  glide ; 
By  land,  by  water,  they  renew  the  charge. 
They  stop  the  chariot,  and  they  board  the 

barge.  i  o 

No  place  is  sacred,  not  the  church  is  free  ; 
E'en  Sunday  shines  no  Sabbath  day  to  me : 
Then  from  the  Mint  ^  walks  forth  the  man  of 

rhyme, 
Happy  to  catch  me  just  at  dinner-time. 

Is  there  a  parson,  much  bemused  in  beer,  15 
A  maudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer, 
A  clerk,  foredoomed  his  father's  soul  to  cross. 
Who  pens  a  stanza,  when  he  should  engross  ? 
Is  there,  who,  locked   from  ink  and  paper, 

scrawls 
With  desperate  charcoal  round  his  darkened 

walls  ? 
All  fly  to  Twit'nam  ^  and  in  humble  strain  21 
Apply  to  me,  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 
Arthur,  whose  giddy  son  neglects  the  laws. 
Imputes  to  me  and  my  damn'd  works  the 

cause : 
Poor  Cornus  sees  his  frantic  wife  elope,        25 
And  curses  wit,  and  poetry,  and  Pope. 

Friend  to  my  life  ! ''  (which  did  not  you  pro- 
long, 
The  world  had  wanted  many  an  idle  song) 

^  Pope's  servant  ^  a  hosi)ital  for  lunatics 
^  figuratively  the  abode  of  poets  '^  a  place  in 
which  insolvent  debtors  lived,  free  from  arrest; 
on  Sundays  they  could  go  anywh^e  without. fear 
of  arrest  ^  Pope's  villa  at  Twickenham,  famous 
for  its  romantic  garden  and  grotto  "^  Dr.  Ar- 
buthnot 


EPISTLE    TO    DR.    ARBUTHNOT 


289 


What  drop  or  nostrum  can  this  plague  re- 
move? 

Or  which  must  end  me,  a  fool's  wrath  or  love? 

A  dire  dilemma  !  either  way  I'm  sped  :         3 1 

If  foes,  they  write,  if  friends,  they  read  me 
dead. 

Seized  and  tied  down  to  judge,  how  wretched 
I! 

Who  can't  be  silent,  and  who  will  not  lie. 


Why  did  I  write  ?  what  sin  to  me  unknown 
Dipped  me  in  ink,  my  parents',  or  my  own? 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame,         127 
I  lisped  in  numbers,^  for  the  numbers  came. 
I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade. 
No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobeyed.  130 

The  Muse  ^  but  served  to  case  some  friend, 

not  wife, 
To  help  me  through  this  long  disease,  my  life. 
To  second,  Arbuthnot !  thy  art  and  care. 
And  teach  the  being  you  preserved,  to  bear. 

But  why  then  publish  ?  Granville  the  polite. 
And  knowing  Walsh,  would  tell  me  I  could 

write ;  136 

Well-natured     Garth    inflamed    with     early 

praise, 
And  Congreve  loved,  and  Swift  endured  my 

lays; 
The  courtly  Talbot,  Somers,  Sheffield,  read; 
E'en  mitred  Rochester  would  nod  the  head. 
And  St.  John's  self  (great  Dryden's  friends 

before)  141 

With  open  arms  received  one  poet  more. 
Happy  my  studies,  when  by  these  approved ! 
Happier  their  author,  when  by  these  beloved  ! 
From  these  the  world  will  judge  of  men  and 

books,  145 

Not     from     the     Burnets,   Oldmixons,   and 

Cookes. 
Soft  were  my  numbers;    who  could  take 

offence 
Wnile  pure  description  held  the  place  of  sense  ? 
Like  gentle  Fanny's  was  my  flowery  theme, 
A  painted  mistress,  or  a  purling  stream.     150 
Yet  then  did  Gildon  draw  his  venal  quill ;  — 
I  wished  the  man  a  dinner,  and  sat  still. 
Yet  then  did  Dennis  rave  in  furious  fret ; 
I  never  answered  —  I  was  not  in  debt. 
If  want  provoked,  or  madness    made  them 

print,  155 

I  waged  no  war. with  Bedlam  or  the  Mint. 
Did  some  more  sober  critic  come  aboard ; 

^  verses  ^  poetry 


If  wrong,  I  smiled ;   if  right,  I  kissed  the  rod. 
Pains,  reading,  study,  are  their  just  pretence, 
And  all  they  want  is  spirit,  taste,  and  sense. 
Commas  and  points  they  set  exactly  right,  i6i 
And  'twere  a  sin  to  rob  them  of  their  mite ; 
Yet   ne'er  one  sprig  of  laurel  graced   these 

ribalds, 
From    slashing    Bentley    down    to    piddling 

Tibbalds. 
Each  wight,  who  reads  not,  and  but  scans  and 

spells,  165 

Each  word-catcher,  that  lives  on  syllables. 
E'en  such  small  critics  some  regard  may  claim, 
Preserved   in    Milton's   or   in    Shakespeare's 

name. 
Pretty  !  in  amber  to  observe  the  forms       169 
Of  hairs,  or  straws,  or  dirt,  or  grubs,  or  worms  ! 
The  things,  we  know,  are  neither  rich  nor  rare. 
But  wonder  how  the  devil  they  got  there. 

Were  others  angry :   I  excused  them  too  ; 
Well  might  they  rage,  I  gave  them  but  their 

due. 
A  man's  true  merit  'tis  not  hard  to  find ;    175 
But  each  man's  secret  standard  in  his  mind, — 
That  casting-weight  pride  adds  to  emptiness,  — 
This,  who  can  gratify?  for  who  can  guess? 
The  bard  whom  pilfered  Pastorals  renown, 
WTio  turns  a  Persian  tale  for  half  a  crown,  180 
Just  writes  to  make  his  barrenness  appear. 
And  strains  from  hard-bound  brains,  eight  lines 

a  year ; 
He,  who  still  wanting,  though  he  lives  on  theft, 
Steals  much,  spends  little,  yet  has  nothing 

left; 
And  he,   who  now   to   sense,   now  nonsense 

leaning,  185 

Means  not,  but  blunders  round  about  a  mean- 
ing; 
And  he,  whose  fustian's  so  sublimely  bad, 
It  is  not  poetry,  but  prose  run  mad : 
All  these,  my  modest  satire  bade  translate,  189 
And  owned  that  nine  such  poets  made  a  Tate. 
How  did  they  fume,  and  stamp,  and  roar,  and 

chafe  ! 
And  swear,  not  Addison  himself  was  safe. 
Peace  to  all  such  !  but  were  there  one  whose 

fires 
True  genius  kindles,  and  fair  fame  inspires ; 
Blessed   with   each   talent   and    each   art   to 

please,  195 

And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with 

ease : 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone. 
Bear,   like   the  Turk,   no  brother  near  the 

throne,  198 


290 


ALEXANDER    POPE 


View  him  with  scornful,  yet  with  jealous  eyes 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise ; 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer, 
And  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneer ; 
Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike, 
Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike ; 
Ahke  reserved  to  blame,  or  to  commend,    205 
A  timorous  foe,  and  a  suspicious  friend ; 
Dreading  e'en  fools,  by  flatterers  besieged, 
And  so  obliging,  that  he  ne'er  obliged ; 
Like  Cato,  give  his  little  senate  laws, 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause ;       210 
While  wits  and  Templars  every  sentence  raise, 
And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise  — 
Who  but  must  laugh,  if  such  a  man  there  be? 
Who  would  .not  weep,  if  Atticus  were  he  ! 


THE  DUNCIAD 
From  BOOK  IV 

0  Muse  !  relate  (for  you  can  tell  alone ; 
Wits  have  short  memories,  and  dvmces  none) 
Relate,  who  first,  who  last  resigned  to  rest, 
Whose  heads  she  partly,  whose  completely, 

blest ;  622 

What  charms  could  faction,  what  ambition 

lull, 
The  venal  quiet,  and  entrance  the  dull ; 
Till  drowned  was  sense,  and  shame,  and  right, 

and  wrong  —  625 

O  sing,  and  hush  the  nations  with  thy  song  ! 

In  vain,  in  vain  —  the  all-composing  hour 
Resistless  falls :   the  Muse  obeys  the  power. 
She  comes  !  she  comes  !  the  sable  throne  behold 
Of  Night  primeval  and  of  Chaos  old  !         630 
Before  her,  Fancy's  gilded  clouds  decay, 
And  all  its  varying  rainbows  die  away. 
Wit  shoots  in  vain  its  momentary  fires, 
The  meteor  drops,  and  in  a  flash  expires. 
As  one  by  one,  at  dread  Medea's  strain,^    635 
Tlie  sickening  stars  fade  off  th'  ethereal  plain ; 
\s  Argus'  eyes,  by  Hermes'  wand  oppressed. 
Closed  one  by  one  to  everlasting  rest  :^ 
'Unis  at  her  felt  approach,  and  secret  might, 
Art  after  art  goes  out,  and  all  is  night.       640 
See  skulking  Truth  to  her  old  cavern  fled, 
IVIountains  of  casuistry  heaped  o'er  her  head  ! 
Philosophy,  thtit  leaned  on  Heaven  before, 
Shrinks  to  her  second  cause,  and  is  no  more. 

^  Cf.   the  incantations  of  Medea,  as  told  by 
Gower.     ^  See  the  story  in  Gayiey,  pp.  92-94. 


Physic  of  Metaphysic  begs  defence,  645 

And  Metaphysic  calls  for  aid  on  Sense  ! 
See  Mystery  to  Mathematics  fly  1 
In  vain  !  they  gaze,  turn  giddy,  rave,  and  die. 
Religion  blushing  veils  her  sacred  fires. 
And  unawares  Morality  expires.  650 

Nor  public  flame,  nor  private,  dares  to  shine ; 
Nor  human  spark  is  left,  nor  glimpse  divine  ! 
Lo  1  thy  dread  empire.  Chaos  !  is  restored ; 
Light  dies  before  thy  uncreating  word : 
Thy  hand,   great  Anarch  !  lets   the  curtain 
fall;  655 

And  universal  darkness  buries  all. 


THE  ILIAD 

From  BOOK  VI 

The  chief  replied:    "That  post  shall  be  my 
care,  560 

Not  that  alone,  but  all  the  works  of  war. 
How  would  the  sons  of  Troy,  in  arms  re- 
nown'd. 
And  Troy's  proud  dames,   whose  garments 

sweep  the  ground. 
Attaint  the  lustre  of  my  former  name, 
Should  Hector  basely  quit  the  field  of  fame? 
My  early  youth  was  bred  to  martial  pains, 
My  soul  impels  me  to  th'  embattled  plains : 
Let  me  be  foremost  to  defend  the  throne, 
And  guard  my  father's  glories  and  my  own. 
Yet  come  it  will,  the  day  decreed  by  fates, 
(How  my  heart  trembles  while  my  tongue 
relates!)  571 

The  day  when  thou,   imperial  Troy !   must 

bend, 
And  see  thy  warriors  fall,  thy  glories  end. 
And  yet  no  dire  presage  so  wounds  my  mind, 
My  mother's  death,  the  ruin  of  my  kind. 
Not  Priam's  hoary  hairs  defil'd  with  gore. 
Not  all  my  brothers  gasping  on  the  shore. 
As  thine,  Andromache  !     Thy  griefs  I  dread : 
I  see  thee  trembling,  weeping,  captive  led, 
In  Argive^  looms  our  battles  to  design,      580 
And  woes  of  which  so  large  a  part  was  thine  ! 
To  bear  the  victor's  hard  commands,  or  bring 
The  weight  of  waters  from  Hyperia's  spring ! 
There,  while  you  groan  beneath  the  load  of 

life. 
They  cry,  'Behold  the  mighty  Hector's  wife  !' 
Some  haughty  Greek,  who  hves  thy  tears  to 

see. 
Embitters  all  thy  woes  by  naming  me. 

^  Grecian 


JOHN  GAY 


291 


The  thoughts  of  glory  past  and  present  shame, 
A  thousand  griefs,  shall  waken  at  the  name  ! 
May  I  lie  cold  before  that  dreadful  day,     590 
Press'd  with  a  load  of  monumental  clay  ! 
Thy  Hector,  wrapp'd  in  everlasting  sleep, 
Shall   neither  hear   thee   sigh,   nor  see   thee 

weep." 
Thus  having  spoke,  th'  illustrious  chief  of 

Troy 
Stretch 'd  his  fond  arms  to  clasp  the  lovely  boy. 
The  babe  clung  crying  to  his  nurse's  breast, 
Scar'd  at  the  dazzling  helm  and  nodding  crest. 
With  secret  pleasure  each  fond  parent  smil'd, 
And  Hector  hasted  to  reheve  his  child  ;  599 
The  glittr'ing  terrors  from  his  brows  unboimd, 
And  plac'd  the  beaming  helmet  on  the  ground. 
Then  kiss'd  the  child,   and,  lifting  high  in 

air, 
Thus  to  the  gods  preferr'd  a  father's  pray'r  : 
"O   thou!   whose   glory   fills   th'   ethereal 

throne, 
And  all  ye  deathless  pow'rs  !  protect  my  son  ! 
Grant  him,  Uke  me,  to  purchase  just  renown, 
To  guard  the  Trojans,  to  defend  the  crown, 
Against  his  country's  foes  the  war  to  wage, 
And  rise  the  Hector  of  the  future  age  ! 
So  when,  triumphant  from  successful  toils,  610 
Of  heroes  slain  he  bears  the  reeking  spoils, 
Whole   hosts   may  hail   him  with   deserv'd 

acclaim. 
And  say,  "This  chief  transcends  his  father's 

fame ' : 
While  pleas'd,  amidst  the  gen'ral  shouts  of 

Troy, 
His  mother's  conscious  heart  o'erflows  with 

joy." 
He  spoke,  and  fondly  gazing  on  her  charms, 
Restor'd  the  pleasing  burthen  to  her  arms ; 
Soft  on  her  fragrant  breast  the  babe  she  laid, 
Hush'd  to  repose,  and  with  a  smile  survey 'd. 
The  troubled  pleasure  soon  chastis'd  by  fear, 
She  mingled  with  the  smile  a  tender  tear.  621 
The    soften'd    chief    with    kind    compassion 

view'd. 
And  dried  the  falling  drops,  and  thus  pur- 
sued : 
"Andromache  !  my  soul's  far  better  part, 
WTiy    with    untimely    sorrows    heaves    thy 

heart  ? 
No  hostile  hand  can  antedate  my  doom. 
Till  fate  condemns  me  to  the  silent  tomb. 
Fix'd  is  the  term  to  all  the  race  of  earth. 
And  such  the  hard  condition  of  our  birth. 
No  force  can  then  resist,  no  flight  can  save ; 
All  sink  alike,  the  fearful  and  the  brave.    631 


No  more  —  but  hasten  to  thy  tasks  at  home, 
There  guide  tTie  spindle,  and  direct  the  loom ; 
Me  glory  summons  to  the  martial  scene. 
The  field  of  combat  is  the  sphere  for  men. 
Where  heroes  war,  the  foremost  place  I  claim, 
The  first  in  danger  as  the  first  in  fame." 


JOHN   GAY    (1685-1732) 

THE  HARE  WITH  ]VL\NY  FRIENDS 

Friendship,  like  love,  is  but  a  name, 

Unless  to  one  you  stint  the  flame. 

The  child  whom  many  fathers  share, 

Hath  seldom  known  a  father's  care. 

'Tis  thus  in  friendship  ;  who  depend 

On  many  rarely  find  a  friend.  6 

A  Hare,  who,  in  a  civil  way, 
Complied  with  ever>'thing,  like  Gay, 
Was  known  by  all  the  bestial  train. 
Who  haunt  the  wood,  or  graze  the  plain. 
Her  care  was,  never  to  offend, 
And  every  creature  was  her  friend.  1 2 

As  forth  she  went  at  early  dawn, 
To  taste  the  dew-besprinkled  lawn, 
Behind  she  hears  the  himter's  cries, 
And  from  the  deep-mouthed  thunder  flies. 
She  starts,  she  stops,  she  pants  for  breath ; 
She  hears  the  near  advance  of  death  ;  18 

She  doubles,  |o  mislead  the  hound. 
And  measures  back  her  mazy  round : 
Tfll,  fainting  in  the  pubhc  way. 
Half  dead  with  fear  she  gasping  lay. 
What  transport  in  her  bosom  grew, 
When  first  the  Horse  appeared  in  view  !       24 
"Let  me,"  says  she,  "your  back  ascend, 
And  owe  my  safety  to  a  friend. 
You  know  my  feet  betray  my  flight ; 
To  friendship  every  burden's  hght." 
The  Horse  replied  :   "  Poor  honest  Puss, 
It  grieves  my  heart  to  see  thee  thus ; 
Be  comforted  ;  relief  is  near, 
For  aU  your  friends  are  in  the  rear."  32 

She  ne.xt  the  stately  Bifll  implored ; 
And  thus  replied  the  mighty  lord, 
"  Since  every  beast  alive  can  teU 
That  I  sincerely  wish  you  weU, 
I  may,  v/ithout  offence,  pretend, 
To  take  the  freedom  of  a  friend ;  38 

Love  calls  me  hence  ;  a  favourite  cow 
Expects  me  near  yon  barley-mow : 
And  when  a  lady's  in  the  case. 
You  know,  all  other  things  give  place. 


292 


EDWARD    YOUNG 


To  leave  you  thus  might  seem  unkind  ; 
But  see,  the  Goat  is  just  behind." 

The  Goat  remarked  her  pulse  was  high, 
Her  languid  head,  her  heavy  eye  ; 
"My  back,"  says  he,  "may  do  you  harm ; 
The  Sheep's  at  hand,  and  wool  is  warm."    48 

The  Sheep  was  feeble,  and  complained 
His  sides  a  load  of  wool  sustained : 
Said  he  was  slow,  confessed  his  fears, 
For  hounds  eat  sheep  as  well  as  hares.  52 

She  now  the  trotting  Calf  addressed, 
To  save  from  death  a  friend  distressed. 
"Shall  I,"  says  he,  "of  tender  age, 
In  this  important  care  engage  ? 
Older  and  abler  passed  you  by ; 
How  strong  are  those,  how  weak  am  I ! 
Should  I  presume  to  bear  you  hence. 
Those  friends  of  mine  may  take  offence. 
Excuse  me,  then.     You  know  my  heart. 
But  dearest  friends,  alas,  must  part !  62 

How  shall  we  all  lament !     Adieu  ! 
For  see,  the  hounds  are  just  in  view." 


BLACK-EYED   SUSAN 

All  in  the  Downs  ^  the  fleet  was  moored, 
The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind. 

When  Black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard, 
"Oh  !  where  shall  I  my  true  love  find? 

Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true,  5 

If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew?" 

William,  v/ho  high  upon  the  yard 

Rocked  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 
Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard 

He  sighed,  and  cast  his  eyes  below :  10 

The  cord  shdes  swiftly  through  his  glowing 

hands 
And,    quick   as   lightning,    on    the   deck   he 
stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air. 
Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast  — 

If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear  —     15 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest. 

The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 

Might  envy  WiUiam's  lips  those  kisses  sweet. 

"O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear. 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain ;  20 

Let  me  kiss  off  that  falHng  tear ; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 

^  Cf.  above,  p.  260  b,  note  2. 


Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds  !  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

"Believe  not  what  the  landsmen  say,  25 

Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind ; 

They'll  tell  thee,  sailors,  when  away. 
In  every  port  a  mistress  find ; 

Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so. 

For  thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go.  30 

"If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail. 
Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright ; 

Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale. 
Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 

Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view,    35 

Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

"Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms, 
Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn ; 

Though  cannons  roar,  yet  safe  from  harms, 
William  shall  to  his  dear  return.  40 

Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly. 

Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's 
eye." 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word ; 

The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread ; 
No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard ;  45 

They  kissed  — •  she   sighed  —  he   hung   his 
head. 
Her  lessening  boat  unwflling  rows  to  land, 
"Adieu  !"  she  cries,  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 


EDWARD   YOUNG   (1683-1765) 

From  THE  COMPLAINT,  OR  NIGHT 
THOUGHTS 

NIGHT  I 

Man 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august, 
How  complicate,  how  wonderful,  is  man  ! 
How  passing  wonder  He  who  made  him  such  ! 
Who  centred  in  our  make  such  strange  ex- 
tremes, 70 
From  different  natures  marvellously  mixed! 
Connection  exquisite  of  distant  worlds  ! 
Distinguished  link  in  being's  endless  chain  ! 
Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity  ! 
A  beam  ethereal,  sullied,  and  absorpt ! 
Though  sullied  and  dishonoured,  still  divine ! 
Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute  ! 


PROCRASTINATION 


29: 


An  heir  of  glory  !  a  frail  child  of  dust ! 
Helpless  immortal !  insect  infinite  ! 
A  worm  !  a  god  !  —  I  tremble  at  myself,      80 
And  in  myself  am  lost!     At  home  a  stranger, 
Thought   wanders  up   and  down,   surprised, 

aghast, 
And   wondering   at   her   own.     How    reason 

reels  ! 
O,  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man  ! 
Triumphantly  distressed  !     What  joy  !  what 

dread ! 
Alternately  transported  and  alarmed  ! 
What  can  preserve  my  life  ?  or  what  destroy  ? 
An   angel's  arm   can't   snatch  me  from   the 

grave ; 
Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there. 


Procrastination 

By  nature's  law,  what  may  be,  may  be  now ; 
There's  no  prerogative  in  human  hours.  371 
In  human  hearts  what  bolder  thought  can 

rise 
Than    man's    presumption    on    to-morrow's 

dawn? 
Where  is  to-morrow  ?     In  another  world. 
For  numbers  this  is  certain ;   the  reverse 
Is  sure  to  none;   and  yet  on  this  'perhaps,' 
This  'peradventure,'  infainous  for  lies, 
As  on  a  rock  of  adamant,  we  build 
Our  mountain  hopes,  spin  our  eternal  schemes, 
As  ^  we  the  fatal  sisters  -  could  out-spin,     380 
And  big  with  life's  futurities,  expire. 
Not  e'en  Philander  ^  had  bespoke  his  shroud, 
Nor  had  he  cause ;  a  warning  was  denied : 
How  many  fall  as  sudden,  not  as  safe ; 
As    sudden,    though    for    years    admonish'd 

home ! 
Of  hum.an  ills  the  last  extreme  beware ; 


Beware,  Lorenzo,^  a  slow  sudden  death. 
How  dreadful  that  deliberate  surprise  ! 
Be  wise  to-day  ;   'tis  madness  to  defer ; 
Next  day  the  fatal  precedent  will  plead ;    390 
Thus  on,  till  wisdom  is  push'd  out  of  life. 
Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time ; 
Year  after  year  it  steals,  till  all  are  fled, 
And  to  the  mercies  of  a  moment  leaves 
The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 
If  not  so  frequent,  would  not  this  be  strange? 
That  'tis  so  frequent,  this  is  stranger  still. 
Of  man's  miraculous  mistakes  this  bears 
The  palm,  "That  all  men  are  about  to  live. 
Forever  on  the  brink  of  being  born."  400 

All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think 
They  one  day  shall  not   drivel :    and  their 

pride 
On  this  reversion  takes  up  ready  praise ; 
At  least,  their  own ;    their  future  selves  ap- 
plaud ; 
How  excellent  that  life  they  ne'er  will  lead. 
Time   lodg'd   in    their   own  hands  is  folly's 

vails ;  ^ 
That  lodg'd  in  fate's  to  wisdom  they  consign. 
The  thing  they  can't  but  purpose,  they  post- 
pone. 
'Tis  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a  fool, 
And  scarce  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more.  410 
All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man. 
And  that  through  every  stage :  when  young, 

indeed. 
In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  rest, 
Unanxious  for  ourselves  ;   and  only  wish, 
As  duteous  sons  our  fathers  were  more  wise. 
At  thirty  man  suspects  himself  a  fool, 
Knows  it  at  forty  and  reforms  his  plan ; 
At  fifty  chides  his  infamous  delay. 
Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve ; 
In  all  the  magninimity  of  thought  420 

Resolves ;  and  re-resoives  ;  then  dies  the  same. 


^  as  if        2  the  Fates        ^  Young's  son-in-law, 
Mr.  Temple,  who  had  died  two  years  before 


1  probably    the    Duke    of    Wharton      -  folly's 
perquisite 


THE    TRANSITION 


LADY    WINCHILSEA    (1661-1720) 
A  NOCTURNAL  REVERIE 

In  such  a  night,  when  every  louder  wind 
Is  to  its  distant  cavern  safe  confin'd, 
And  only  gentle  zephyr  fans  his  wings, 
And  lonely  Philomel,  still  waking,  sings ; 
Or  from  some  tree,  fam'd  for  the  owl's  delight. 
She,   hollowing   clear,    directs    the   wand'rer 

right ; 
In  such  a  night,  when  passing  clouds  give 

place. 
Or  thinly  vail  the  Heav'ns  mysterious  face ; 
When  in  some  river,  overhung  with  green, 
The  waving  moon  and  trembling  leaves  are 

seen ;  10 

When  freshen'd  grass  now  bears  itself  upright. 
And  makes  cool  banks  to  pleasing  rest  invite. 
Whence     springs     the     woodbind    and     the 

bramble-rose, 
And  where  the  sleepy  cowslip  shelter'd  grows  ; 
Whilst  now  a  paler  hue  the  foxglove  takes, 
Yet  chequers  stiU  with  red  the  dusky  brakes ; 
When  scatter'd  glow-worms,  but  in  twilight 

fine. 
Show   trivial   beauties  watch   their   hour   to 

shine. 
Whilst  Salisb'ry  ^  stands  the  test  of  every  light 
In  perfect  charms  and  perfect  virtue  bright ;  20 
When  odours  which  declin'd  repelling  day 
Thro'  temp'rate  air  uninterrupted  stray  ; 
When  darken'd  groves  their  softest  shadows 

wear, 
And  falling  waters  we  distinctly  hear ; 
When  thro'  the  gloom  more  venerable  shows 
Some  ancient  fabric,  awful  in  repose, 
While  sunburnt  hills  their  swarthy  looks  con- 
ceal 
And  swelling  haycocks  thicken  up  the  vale ; 
When  the  loos'd  horse  now,  as  his  pasture 

leads. 
Comes    slowly    grazing    thro'    th'    adjoining 

meads,  30 

^  the  Countess  of  Salisbury 


Whose  stealing  pace,  and  lengthen'd  shade  we 

fear. 
Till  torn  up  forage  in  his  teeth  we  hear ; 
When  nibbling  sheep  at  large  pursue  their 

food, 
And  unmolested  kine  re-chew  the  cud ; 
When  curlews  cry  beneath  the  village-walls, 
And   to  her  straggling  brood   the  partridge 

calls ; 
Their  shortliv'd  jubilee  the  creatures  keep. 
Which  but  endures  whilst  tyrant-man  does 

sleep ; 
When  a  sedate  content  the  spirit  feels, 
And  no  fierce  light  disturb,  whUst  it  reveals ; 
But  silent  musings  urge  the  mind  to  seek     41 
Something  too  high  for  syllables  to  speak ; 
Till  the  free  soul  to  a  compos'dness  charm'd,- 
Finding  the  elements  of  rage  disarm'd, 
O'er  all  below  a  solemn  quiet  grown, 
Joys  in  th'  inferior  world  and  thinks  it  like  her 

own : 
In  such  a  night  let  me  abroad  remain 
Till  morning  breaks  and  all's  confus'd  again ; 
Our  cares,  our  toils,  our  clamours  are  renew'd, 
Or  pleasures,  seldom  reach'd,  again  pursu'd.  50 


ROBERT   BLAIR    (1699-1746) 

From  THE   GRAVE 

While  some  affect  the  sun,  and  some  the  shade, 
Some  flee  the  city,  some  the  hermitage. 
Their  aims  as  various  as  the  roads  they  take 
In  journeying  through  life ;   the  task  be  mine 
To  paint  the  gloomy  horrors  of  the  tomb ; 
Th'  appointed  place  of  rendezvous,  where  all 
These  travellers  meet.     Thy  succours  I  im- 
plore. 
Eternal  King  !  whose  potent  arm  sustains 
The  keys  of  hell  and  death.  —  The  Grave, 
■  dread  thing  !  9 

Men   shiver   when  thou'rt  nam'd :     Nature, 

appall'd. 
Shakes  off  her  wonted  firmness.  —  Ah !  how 
dark 


294 


THE    GRAVE 


295 


Thy  long-extended  realms,  and  rueful  wastes  ! 
WTiere  nought  but  silence  reigns,  and  night, 

dark  night. 
Dark  as  was  chaos,  ere  the  infant  sun 
Was  roll'd  together,  or  had  tried  his  beams 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound.  —  The  sickly 

taper 
By  glimmering  through  thy  low-brow'd  misty 

vaults, 
(Furr'd  round  with  mouldy  damps  and  ropy 

slime) 
Lets  fall  a  supernumerary  horror, 
And  only  serves   to   make   thy   night   more 

irksome.  20 

Well  do  I  know  thee  by  thy  trusty  yew. 
Cheerless,  unsocial  plant !  that  loves  to  dwell 
Midst  skulls  and  coffins,  epitaphs  and  worms : 
Where    light-heel'd    ghosts,    and    visionary 

shades. 
Beneath  the  wan  cold  moon  (as  fame  reports) 
Embodied,  thick,  perform  their  mystic  rounds. 
No  other  merriment,  dull  tree  !  is  thine. 

See  yonder  hallow'd  fane  ;  —  the  pious  work 
Of  names  once  fam'd,  now  dubious  or  forgot. 
And  buried  midst  the  wreck  of  things  which 

were ;  30 

There  lie  interr'd  the  more  illustrious  dead. 
The  wind  is  up :   hark  !  how  it  howls  !     Me- 

thinks 
Till  now  I  never  heard  a,  sound  so  dreary : 
Doors  creak,  and  windows  clap,  and  night's 

foul  bird, 
Rook'd  ^  in  the  spire,  screams  loud  :  the  gloomy 

aisles, 
Black-plaster'd,  and  hung  round  with  shreds 

of  'scutcheons 
And  tatter'd  coats  of  arms,  send  back  the 

sound 
Laden  with  heavier  airs,  from  the  low  vaults. 
The  mansions  of  the  dead.  —  Rous'd  from 

their  sliunbers. 
In  grim  array  the  grisly  spectres  rise,  40 

Grin  horrible,  and,  obstinately  sullen, 
Pass  and  repass,  hush'd  as  the  foot  of  night. 
Again    the   screech-owl   shrieks :     imgracious 

sound  ! 
I'll  hear  no  more ;   it  makes  one's  blood  run 

chill. 
Quite  round  the  pile,  a  row  of  reverend 

elms, 
(Coeval  near  with  that)  all  ragged  show. 
Long  lash'd  by  the  rude  winds.    Some  rift  half 

down 


Their  branchless  trunks ;  others  so  thin  a-top, 
That  scarce  two  crows  could  lodge  in  the  same 

tree. 
Strange    things,    the    neighbours    say,    have 

happen'd  here :  50 

Wild   shrieks   have   issued   from   the   hollow 

tombs : 
Dead    men    have    come    again,    and    walk'd 

about ; 
And   the  great  bell  has  toll'd,  unrung,   un- 

touch'd. 
(Such  tales  their  cheer,  at  wake  or  gossiping. 
When   it   draws   near   the   witching   time   of 

night.) 
Oft  in  the  lone  church-yard  at  night  I've 

seen. 
By  glimpse  of  moonshine  chequering  through 

the  trees. 
The  school-boy,  with  his  satchel  in  his  hand. 
Whistling  aloud  to  bear  his  courage  up, 
And  lightly  tripping  o'er  the  long  flat  stones, 
(With  nettles  skirted,   and  with  moss  o'er- 
'gro^^^l,)  61 

That  tell  in  homely  phrase  who  lie  below. 
Sudden  he  starts,   and  hears,   or  thinks  he 

hears, 
The  sound  of  something  purring  at  his  heels ; 
Fidl  fast  he  ihes,  and  dares  not  look  behind 

him. 
Till  out  of  breath  he  overtakes  his  fellows ; 
Who  gather  round,  and  wonder  at  the  tale 
Of  horrid  apparition,  tall  and  ghastly, 
That  walks  at  dead  of  night,  or  takes  his 

stand 
O'er  some  new-open 'd  grave ;  and  (strange  to 

tell !)  70 

Evanishes  at  crowing  of  the  cock. 

The  new-made  widow,  too,  I've  sometimes 

'spied. 
Sad   sight !   slow  moving  o'er   the  prostrate 

dead: 
Listless,  she  crawls  along  in  doleful  black. 
Whilst    bursts    of   sorrow   gush  from   either 

eye, 
Fast  falling  down  her  now  untasted  cheek : 
Prone  on  the  lowly  grave  of  the  dear  man 
She  drops  ;  whilst  busy,  meddling  memory, 
In  barbarous  succession  musters  up  79 

The  past  endearments  of  their  softer  hours, 
Tenacious  of  its  theme.     Still,  still  she  thinks 
She  sees  him,  and  indulging  the  fond  thought, 
Clings  yet  more  closely  to  the  senseless  turf. 
Nor  heeds  the  passenger  who  looks  that  way.. 


^  perched,  as  roosting 


296 


JAMES    THOMSON 


JAMES   THOMSON    (i 700-1 748) 

THE   SEASONS 

A    SNOW    SCENE 

From  Winter 

The  keener  tempests  come :    and  fuming 
dun 
From  all  the  livid  east,  or  piercing  north, 
Thick   clouds   ascend  —  in   whose   capacious 

womb 
A  vapoury  deluge  lies,  to  snow  congealed. 
Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along ; 
And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gathered  storm. 
Through  the  hushed  air  the  whitening  shower 

descends, 
At  first  thin  wavering ;   tUl  at  last  the  flakes 
Fall  broad,  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming  the 
day  231 

With  a  continual  flow.     The  cherished  fields 
Put  on  their  winter-robe  of  purest  white. " 
'Tis  brightness  all ;  save  where  the  new  snow 

melts 
Along  the  mazy  current.     Low,  the  woods 
Bow  their  hoar  head ;  and,  ere  the  languid  sun 
Faint  from  the  west  emits  his  evening  ray, 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep-hid  and  chill, 
Is  one  wild  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 
The  works  of  man.     Drooping,  the  labourer- 
ox  240 
Stands  covered  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  de- 
mands 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.     The  fowls  of  heaven. 
Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone, 
The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky, 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit.     Half-afraid,  he  first        250 
Against    the    window    beats ;     then,    brisk, 

alights 
On  the  warm  hearth ;   then,  hopping  o'er  the 

floor. 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance. 
And  pecks,  a»fl  starts,  and  wonders  where  he 

is  — 
Till,  more  familiar  grown,  the  table-crumbs 
Attract  his  slender  feet.     The  foodless  wilds 
Pour    forth    their    brown    inhabitants.     The 

hare. 
Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 


By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snares,  and 
dogs. 

And  more  unpitying  men,  the  garden  seeks. 

Urged  on  by  fearless  want.  The  bleating 
kind  261 

Eye  the  black  heaven,  and  next  the  glistening 
earth 

With  looks  of  dumb  despair ;  then,  sad  dis- 
persed, 

Dig  for  the  withered  herb  through  heaps  of 
snow. 


THE    SHEEP-WASHING 

From  Summer 

Or  rushing  thence,  in  one  diffusive  band, 
They  drive  the  troubled  flocks,  by  many  a  dog 
Compelled,  to  where  the  mazy-running  brook 
Forms  a  deep  pool ;    this  bank  abrupt  and 

high. 
And  that,  fair-spreading  in  a  pebbled  shore. 
Urged  to  the  giddy  brink,  much  is  the  toil. 
The  clamour  much,  of  men,  and  boys,  and 

dogs. 
Ere  the  soft,  fearfiil  people  to  the  flood 
Commit    their    woolly   sides.     And    oft    the 

swain. 
On  some  impatient  seizing,  hurls  them  in  :  380 
Emboldened  then,  nor  hesitating  more. 
Fast,  fast,  they  plunge  amid  the  flashing  wave, 
And  panting  labour  to  the  farther  shore. 
Repeated  this,  till  deep  the  well-washed  fleece 
Has   drunk   the   flood,   and  from  his   lively 

haunt 
The  trout  is  banished  by  the  sordid  stream ; 
Heavy  and  dripping,  to  the  breezy  brow 
Slow  move  the  harmless  race ;  where,  as  they 

spread 
Their  swelling  treasures  to  the  sunny  ray, 
Inly  disturbed,  and  wondering  what  this  wild 
Outrageous  tumult  means,   their  loud  com- 
plaints 391 
The  country  fill  —  and,  tossed  from  rock  to 

rock. 
Incessant  bleatings  run  around  the  hills. 
At  last,  of  snowy  white,  the  gathered  flocks 
Are  in  the  wattled  pen  innumerous  pressed, 
Head  above  head ;  and  ranged  in  lusty  rows 
The  shepherds  sil,   and   whet   the  sounding 

shears. 
The  housewife  waits  to  roll  her  fleecy  stores. 
With  all  her  gay-drest  maids  attending  round. 
One,  chief,  in  gracious  dignity  enthroned,  400 


THE    SEASONS 


297 


Shines  o'er  the  rest,  the  pastoral  queen,  and 

rays 
Her  smiles,  sweet-beaming,  on  her  shepherd- 
king  ; 
While  the  glad  circle  round  them  yield  their 

souls 
To  festive  mirth,  and  wit  that  knows  no  gall. 
Meantime,  their  joyous  task  goes  on  apace  : 
Some  mingling  stir  the  melted  tar,  and  some, 
Deep  on  the  new-shorn  vagrant's  heaving  side, 
To  stamp  his  master's  cypher  ready  stand ; 
Others  the  unwilling  wether  drag  along ;     409 
And,  glorying  in  his  might,  the  sturdy  boy 
Holds  by  the  twisted  horns  the  indignant  ram. 
Behold  where  bound,  and  of  its  robe  bereft. 
By  needy  man,  that  all-depending  lord. 
How   meek,  how  patient,  the   mild   creature 

lies ! 
What  softness  in  its  melaijcholy  face, 
What  dumb  complaining  innocence  appears ! 
Fear  not,  ye  gentle  tribes,  'tis  not  the  knife 
Of  horrid  slaughter  that  is  o'er  you  waved ; 
No,  'tis  the  tender  swain's  well-guided  shears, 
Who  having  now,  to  pay  his  annual  care,   420 
Borrowed  your  fleece,  to  you  a  cumbrous  load, 
Will  send  you  bounding  to  yovir  hills  again. 

THE    COMING   OF   THE    RAIN 

From  Spring 

At  first  a  dusky  wreath  they  seem  to  rise, 
Scarce  staining  ether ;   but  by  fast  degrees, 
In  heaps  on  heaps,  the  doubling  vapour  sails 
Along  the  loaded  sky,  and  mingling  deep,  150 
Sits  on  the  horizon  round,  a  settled  gloom  : 
Not  such  as  wintry  storms  on  mortals  shed. 
Oppressing  life  ;   but  lovely,  gentle,  kind. 
And  full  of  every  hope  and  every  joy. 
The    wish    of    Nature.     Gradual    sinks    the 

breeze 
Into  a  perfect  calm ;   that  not  a  breath 
Is  heard  to  quiver  through  the  closing  woods. 
Or  rustling  turn  the  many  twinkling  leaves 
Of  aspen  tall.     The  uncurling  floods,  diffused 
In   glassy   breadth,    seem    through    delusive 

lapse 
Forgetful  of  their  course.     'Tis  silence  all,  161 
And  pleasing  expectation.     Herds  and  flocks 
Drop  the  dry  sprig,  and,  mute-imploring,  eye 
The  fallen  verdure.    Hushed  in  short  suspense 
The  plumy  people  streak  their  wings  with  oil. 
To  throw  the  lucid  moisture  trickling  off ; 
And  wait  the  approaching  sign  to  strike,  at 

once, 


Into   the  general    choir.      Even    mountains, 

vales. 
And  forests  seem,  impatient,  to  demand 
The     promised     sweetness.      Man     superior 

walks  1 70 

Amid  the  glad  creation,  musing  praise. 
And  looking  lively  gratitude.  At  last, 
The   clouds   consign    their   treasures    to    the 

fields ; 
And,  softly  shaking  on  the  dimpled  pool 
Prelusive  drops,  let  all  their  moisture  flow, 
In  large  effusion,  o'er  the  freshened  world. 

STORM    IN    HARVEST 

From  AuxtnaN 

Defeating  oft  the  labours  of  the  year, 
The  sultry  south  collects  a  potent  blast. 
At  first,  the  groves  are  scarcely  seen  to  stir 
Their  trembling  tops,  and  a  still  murmur  runs 
Along  the  soft-inclining  fields  of  corn  ; 
But  as  the  aerial  tempest  fuller  swells, 
And  in  one  mighty  stream,  invisible, 
Immense,  the  whole  excited  atmosphere 
Impetuous  rushes  o'er  the  sounding  world, 
Strained  to  the  root,  the  stooping  forest  pours 
A  rustling  shower  of  yet  untimely  leaves.  321 
High-beat,  the  circling  mountains  eddy  in. 
From  the  bare  wfld,  the  dissipated  storm, 
And  send  it  in  a  torrent  down  the  vale. 
Exposed,  and  naked,  to  its  utmost  rage. 
Through  all  the  sea  of  harvest  rolling  round, 
The  billowy  plain  floats  wide ;   nor  can  evade, 
Though  pliant  to  the  blast,  its  seizing  force  — 
Or  whirled  in  air,  or  into  vacant  chaff        329 
Shook  waste.     And  sometimes  too  a  burst  of 

rain, 
Swept  from  the  black  horizon,  broad,  descends 
In  one  continuous  flood.     Stfll  over  head 
The  mingling  tempest  weaves  its  gloom,  and 

stfll 
The  deluge  deepens ;   till  the  fields  around 
Lie  sunk,  and  flatted,  in  the  sordid  wave. 
Sudden,    the    ditches    swell ;     the    meadows 

swim. 
Red,  from  the  hills,  innumerable  streams 
Tumultuous  roar ;   and  high  above  its  banks 
The  river  lift ;  before  whose  rushing  tide. 
Herds,    flocks,    and   harvests,    cottages,   and 

swains. 
Roll  mingled  down 

spared. 
In  one  wild  moment  ruined ;   the  big  hopes. 
And  well-earned  treasures  of  the  painful  year 


340 
all  that  the  winds  had 


298 


JAMES    THOMSON 


Fled  to  some  eminence,  the  husbandman, 

eelpless,  beholds  the  miserable  wreck 
riving  along ;  his  drowning  ox  at  once 
Descending,  with  his  labours  scattered  round. 
He  sees  ;  and  instant  o'er  his  shivering  thought 
Comes  Winter  unprovided,  and  a  train 
Of  clamant  children  dear.     Ye  masters,  then, 
Be  mindful  of  the  rough  laborious  hand     351 
That  sinks  you  soft  in  elegance  and  ease ; 
Be  mindful  of  those  limbs,  in  russet  ^  clad, 
Whose  toil  to  yours  is  warmth  and  graceful 

pride ; 
And,  oh,  be  mindful  of  that  sparing  board 
Which  covers  yours  with  luxury  profuse. 
Makes  your   glass   sparkle,   and   your  sense 

rejoice ! 
Nor  cruelly  demand  what  the  deep  rains 
And  all-involving  winds  have  swept  away. 


From    THE    CASTLE    OF    INDOLENCE 

In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side  10 

With    woody    hill    o'er    hill    encompassed 

round, 
A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide. 
Than  whom  a  fiend  more  fell  is  nowhere 

found. 
It  was,  I  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  ground ; 
And  there  a  season  atween  June  and  May, 
Half  prankt  with  spring,  with  summer  half 

imbrowned, 
A  listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth  to  say, 
No  living  wight  could  work,  ne  cared  for  play. 

Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest : 

Sleep-soothing  groves,  and  quiet  lawns  be- 
tween ;  20 

And  flowery  beds,  that  slumbrous  influence 
kest,^ 

From  poppies  breathed ;   and  beds  of  pleas- 
ant green, 

Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature  seen. 

Meantime  unnumbered  glittering  streamlets 
played. 

And  hurled  everywhere  tlieir  waters  sheen ; 

That,  as  they  bickered  through  the  sunny 
glade. 
Though  restless  still  themselves,  a  lulling  mur- 
mur made. 

Joined  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills. 
Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the  vale, 


And  flocks  loud-bleating  from  the  distant 
hills,  30 

And  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale : 
And  now  and  then  sweet  Philomel  would 

wail. 
Or  stock-doves  plain  ^  amid  the  forest  deep, 
That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale ; 
And  still  a  coil  ^  the  grasshopper  did  keep : 
Yet  all  the  sounds  yblent  inclined  all  to  sleep. 

Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale,  above, 
A  sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood ; 
Where  nought  but  shadowy  forms  were  seen 

to  move. 
As  Idless  ^  fancied  in  her  dreaming  mood : 
And  up  the  hills,  on  either  side,  a  wood   41 
Of  blackening  pines,  aye  waving  to  and  fro, 
Sent   forth   a   sleepy   horror   through   the 

blood ; 
And  where  this  valley  winded  out  below, 
The  m.urmuring  main  was  heard,  and  scarcely 

heard,  to  flow. 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was : 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut 

eye ; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
Forever  flushing  round  a  summer-sky. 
There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly 
Instil    a    wanton    sweetness    through    the 

breast,  51 

And   the   calm  pleasures,  always   hovered 

nigh ; 
But  whate'er  smackt  of  noyance,  or  iinrest, 
Was  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  delicious 

nest. 

The  landscape  such,  inspiring  perfect  ease, 
Where  Indolence  (for  so  the  wizard  hight) 
Close-hid  his  castle  mid  embowering  trees, 
That  half  shut  out  the  beams  of  Phoebus 

bright. 
And  made  a  kind  of  checkered  day  and 

night. 
Meanwhile,  unceasing  at  the  massy  gate, 60 
Beneath  a  spacious  palm,  the  wicked  wight 
Was  placed ;  and  to  his  lute,  of  cruel  fate 
And    labour    harsh,    complained,    lamenting 

man's  estate. 

Thither  continual  pilgrims  crowded  still. 
From  all  the  roads  of  earth  that  pass  there 
by: 


^  undyed  homespun        ^  cast 


^  complain        "  disturbance       ^  Idleness 


THE    CASTLE    OF    INDOLENCE 


299 


For,  as  they  chanced  to  breathe  on  neigh- 
bouring hill. 
The  freshness  of  this  valley  smote  their  eye, 
And  drew  them  ever  and  anon  more  nigh ; 
Till  clustering  round  the  enchanter  false 

they  hung, 
Ymolten  with  his  syren  melody ;  70 

While  o'er  the  enfeebling  lute  his  hand  he 
flung, 
And  to  the  trembling  chords  these  tempting 
verses  sung : 

"Behold  !  ye  pilgrims  of  this  earth,  behold  ! 
See  all  but  man  with  unearned  pleasure  gay : 
See  her  bright  robes  the  butterfly  unfold. 
Broke  from  her  wintry  tomb  in  prime  of 

May! 
What  youthful  bride  can  equal  her  array? 
Who  can  with  her  for  easy  pleasure  vie? 
From  mead  to  mead  with  gentle  wing  to 

stray, 
From  flower  to  flower  on  balmy  gales  to 

fly,  80 

Is  aU  she  has  to  do  beneath  the  radiant  sky. 

"Behold  the  merry  minstrels  of  the  morn, 

The  swarming  songsters  of  the  careless^ 
grove ; 

Ten  thousand  throats  that,  from  the  flower- 
ing thorn. 

Hymn  their  good  God,  and  carol  sweet  of 
love, 

Such  grateful  kindly  raptures  them  emove  !  - 

Thev  neither  plough,  nor  sow ;  ne,^  fit  for 
flail. 

E'er  to  the  barn  the  nodding  sheaves  they 
drove ; 

Yet  theirs  each  harvest  dancing  in  the  gale, 

Whatever  crowns  the  hill,  or  smiles  along  the 

vale.  90 

"Outcast  of  Nature,  man!  the  wretched 

thraU 
Of  bitter-dropping  sweat,  of  sweltry  pain, 
Of  cares  that  eat  away  the  heart  with  gall. 
And  of  the  vices,  an  inhuman  train. 
That  all  proceed  from  savage  thirst  of  gain  : 
For  when  hard-hearted  Interest  first  began 
To  poison  earth,  Astraea  '^  left  the  plain ; 
Guile,  Violence,  and  Murder,  seized  on  man, 
And,  for  soft  milky  streams,  with  blood  the 

rivers  ran.  99 

^  care-free  ^  move    ^  nor    *  the  goddess  of  jus- 
tice, who  in  the  Golden  Age  dwelt  among  men 


"Come,  ye  who  still  the  cumbrous  load  of 

life 
Push   hard   up-hill ;    but   as   the   farthest 

steep 
You  trust  to  gain,  and  put  an  end  to  strife, 
Down  thunders  back  the  stone  with  mighty 

sweep, 
And  hurls  your  labours  to  the  valley  deep, 
Forever  vain  :  come,  and,  withouten  fee, 
I  in  oblivion  wiU  your  sorrows  steep. 
Your  cares,  your  toils ;   wiU  steep  you  in  a 

sea 
Of  fuU  delight :  O  come,  ye  weary  wights,  to 

me ! 

"With  me,  you  need  not  rise  at  early  dawn, 
To  pass  the  joyless  day  in  various  stounds;> 
Or  louting^  low,  on  upstart  Fortune  fawn, 
And    sell    fair    Honour    for    some    paltry 
pomids;  '         112 

Or  through  the  city  take  your  dirty  rounds. 
To  cheat,  and  dun,  and  lie,  and  visit  pay, 
Now    flattering    base,    now   giving    secret 

wounds ; 
Or  prowl  in  courts  of  law  for  human  prey. 
In  venal  senate  thieve,  or  rob  on  broad  high- 
way. 

"No  cocks,  with  me,  to  rustic  labour  call, 
From  village  on  to  village  sounding  clear; 
To  tardy  swain  no  shrill-voiced  matrons 

squall;  120 

No  dogs,  no  babes,  no  wives,  to  stun  your 

ear; 
No  hammers  thump  ;  no  horrid  blacksmith 

sear; 
Ne  noisy  tradesman  your  sweet  slumbers 

start 
With  sounds  that  are  a  misery  to  hear ; 
But  aU  is  calm,  —  as  would  delight   the 

heart 
Of  Sybarite  of  old,  —  aU  Nature,  and  all  Art. 


"The  best  of  men  have  ever  loved  repose : 
They  hate  to  mingle  in  the  filthy  fray ; 
Where  the  soul  sours,  and  gradual  rancour 

grows. 
Embittered  more  from  peevish  day  to  day, 
Even  those  whom  Fame  has  lent  her  fairest 

ray. 
The  most  renowned  of  worthy  wights  of 

yore,  150 


^  griefs 


2  bowing 


300 


JOHN    DYER 


From  a  base  world  at  last  have  stolen  away : 
So  Scipio,  to  the  soft  Cumaean  shore ' 
Retiring,  tasted  joy  he  never  knew  before. 

"But  if  a  little  exercise  you  choose, 
Some  zest  for  ease,  'tis  not  forbidden  here. 
Amid    the    groves    you    may  indulge    the 

Muse, 
Or  tend  the  blooms,  and  deck  the  vernal 

year; 
Or,  softly  stealing,  with  your  watery  gear,^ 
Along  the  brooks,  the  crimson-spotted  fry 
You  may  delude ;   the  whilst,  amused,  you 

hear  i6o 

Now    the    hoarse    stream,    and    now    the 

Zephyr's  sigh. 
Attuned  to  the  birds,  and  woodland  melody. 

"O  grievous  folly  !  to  heap  up  estate. 

Losing  the  days  you  see  beneath  the  sun ; 

When,  sudden,  comes  blind  unrelenting 
Fate, 

And  gives  the  untasted  portion  you  have 
won, 

With  ruthless  toil  and  many  a  wretch  un- 
done. 

To  those  who  mock  you  gone  to  Pluto's 
reign. 

There  with  sad  ghosts  to  pine,  and  shadows 
dun ; 

But  sure  it  is  of  vanities  most  vain,  170 
To  toil  for  what  you  here  untoiling  may 
obtain." 


RULE,   BRITANNIA 

From  ALFRED,   A   MASQUE 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command, 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main. 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land. 

And  guardian  angels  sang  this  strain: 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves  ! 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves  ! 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee, 
Must  in  their  turns  to  tyrants  fall. 

Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all.  10 

Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

^  Scipio  Airicanus,  the  elder,  retired  from  the 
intrigues  of  Rome  to  his  country  jilacc  near 
Cumie  on  the  Italian  coast.    ^  Ashing  tackle 


Stm  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise. 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke  ; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies, 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame ; 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
WUl  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame. 

But  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown.         20 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine ; 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main,"^ 

And  every  shore  it  circles  thine. 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

The  Muses,  still  ^  with  freedom  found. 
Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair ; 

Blest  isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crowned, 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair  !         30 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 


JOHN   DYER    (i7oo?-i758) 
From  GRONGAR  HILL^ 

Silent  Nymph,  with  curious  eye, 

Who,  the  purple  evening,  lie 

On  the  mountain's  lonely  van,^ 

Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man, 

Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 

While  the  yellow  linnet  sings ; 

Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 

Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale ; 

Come  with  all  thy  various  hues. 

Come,  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse ;  10 

Now  while  Phoebus  riding  high 

Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  sky  ! 

Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song. 

Draw  the  landskip  ^  bright  and  strong ; 

Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells 

Sweetly  musing  (^uiet  dwells ; 

Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade. 

For  the  modest  Muses  made. 

So  oft  I  have,  the  evening  still, 

At  the  fountain  of  a  rill,  20 

Sate  upon  a  flowery  bed. 

With  my  hand  beneath  my  head ; 

^  ocean    ^  always     '  a  hill  in  southwest  Wales 
^  peak    ^  of.  L' Allegro,  1.  70 


DAVID    MALLET 


301 


While  strayed  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  '■  flood, 
Over  mead,  and  over  wood, 
From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hUl, 
'Till  Contemplation  had  her  fill. 

About  his  chequered  sides  I  wind, 
And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind, 
And  groves,  and  grottoes  where  I  lay, 
And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day  :  30 

Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale  ; 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal : 
The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate  ! 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height. 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies. 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise : 
Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads, 
Still  it  widens,  widens  still. 
And  sinks  the  newly-risen  hill.  40 

Now,  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow, 
What  a  landskip  lies  below  ! 
No  clouds,  no  vapours  intervene. 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  nature  show. 
In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow  ! 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise. 
Proudly  towering  in  the  skies ;  50 

Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires ; 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain-heads, 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks. 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks. 

Below  me  trees  unnumbered  rise, 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes : 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beach,  the  sable  yew,  60 

The  slender  fir,  that  taper  grows. 
The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs ; 
And  beyond  the  purple  grove, 
Haunt  of  Phfllis,  queen  of  love, 
Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn, 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye. 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood. 
His  sides  are  cloth'd  with  waving  wood,       70 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow. 
That  cast  an  aweful  look  below  ; 
Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 
And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps ; 

^  a  river  that  flows   into  Carmarthen  Bay  in 
southwest  Wales 


So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind 
On  mutual  dependence  find. 

DAVID   MALLET    (1705-1765) 

WILLIAM  AND   MARGARET 

'Twas  at  the  silent  solemn  hour. 

When  night  and  morning  meet ; 
In  glided  Margaret's  grimly  ghost, 

And  stood  at  William's  feet.  4 

Her  face  was  like  an  April  morn 

Clad  in  a  wintry  cloud ; 
And  clay-cold  was  her  lily  hand 

That  held  her  sable  shroud.  8 

So  shall  the  fairest  face  appear, 
When  youth  and  years  are  flown : 

Such  is  the  robe  that  kings  must  wear. 

When  death  has  reft  their  crown.  12 

Her  bloom  was  like  the  springing  flower. 

That  sips  the  silver  dew  ; 
The  rose  was  budded  in  her  cheek, 

Just  opening  to  the  view.  16 

But  love  had,  like  the  canker-worm, 

Consumed  her  early  prime  ; 
The  rose  grew  pale,  and  left  her  cheek, 

She  died  before  her  time.  20 

"Awake  !"  she  cried,  "thy  true  love  calls, 

Come  from  her  midnight  grave : 
Now  let  thy  pity  hear  the  maid 

Thy  love  refused  to  save.  24 

"This  is  the  dark  and  dreary  hour 

When  injured  ghosts  complain  ; 
When  yawning  graves  give  up  their  dead, 

To  haunt  the  faithless  swain.  28 

"Bethink  thee,  William,  of  thy  fault, 

Thy  pledge  and  broken  oath  ! 
And  give  me  back  my  maiden  vow. 

And  give  me  back  my  troth.  32 

"Why  did  you  promise  love  to  me, 

And  not  that  promise  keep? 
Why  did  you  swear  my  eyes  w^ere  bright, 

Yet  leave  those  eyes  to  weep  ?  36 

"How  could  you  say  my  face  was  fair. 
And  yet  that  face  forsake  ? 


302 


SAMUEL   JOHNSON 


How  could  you  win  my  virgin  heart, 

Yet  leave  that  heart  to  break  ?  40 

"WTiy  did  you  say  my  lip  was  sweet. 

And  make  the  scarlet  pale  ? 
And  why  did  I,  young,  witless  maid  ! 

Believe  the  flattering  tale  ?  44 

"That  face,  alas  !  no  more  is  fair, 

Those  lips  no  longer  red  : 
Dark  are  my  eyes,  now  closed  in  death, 

And  every  claarm  is  fled.  48 

"The  hungry  worm  my  sister  is ; 

This  winding-sheet  I  wear  : 
And  cold  and  weary  lasts  our  night, 

Till  that  last  morn  appear.  52 

"But  hark  !   the  cock  has  warned  me  hence  ; 

A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 
Come  see,  false  man,  how  low  she  lies, 

Who  died  for  love  of  you."  56 

The  lark  sung  loud  ;  the  morning  smiled 

With  beams  of  rosy  red  : 
Pale  William  quaked  in  every  limb, 

And  raving  left  his  bed.  60 

He  hied  him  to  the  fatal  place 

Where  INIargaret's  body  lay  ; 
And  stretched  him  on  the  green-grass  turf 

That  wrapt  her  breathless  clay.  64 

And  thrice  he  called  on  Margaret's  name. 

And  thrice  he  wept  full  sore ; 
Then  laid  his  cheek  to  her  cold  grave. 

And  word  spake  never  more  ! 

68 

SAMUEL   JOHNSON    (1709-1784) 

CONGREVE 

William  Congreve  descended  from  a  family 
in  Staffordshire,  of  so  great  antiquity  that  it 
claims  a  place  among  the  few  that  extend  their 
line  beyond  the  Norman  Conquest ;  and  was 
the  son  of  William  Congreve,  second  son  of 
Richard  Congreve,  of  Congreve  and  Stratton. 
He  visited,  once  at  least,  the  residence  of  his 
ancestors ;  and,  I  believe,  more  places  than 
one  arc  still  shown,  in  groves  and  .gardens, 
where  he  is  related  to  have  written  his  "Old 
Bachelor." 

Neither  the  time  nor  place  of  his  birth  arc 


certainly  known ;  if  the  inscription  upon  his 
monument  be  true,  he  was  born  in  1672.  For 
the  place  ;  it  was  said  by  himself,  that  he  owed 
his  nativity  to  England,  and  by  every  body 
else  that  he  was  born  in  Ireland.  Southern 
mentioned  him  with  sharp  censure,  as  a  man 
that  meanly  disowned  his  native  country. 
The  biographers  assign  his  nativity  to  Bardsa, 
near  Leeds  in  Yorkshire,  from  the  account 
given  by  himself,  as  they  suppose,  to  Jacob.^ 

To  doubt  whether  a  man  of  eminence  has 
told  the  truth  about  his  own  birth,  is,  in  ap- 
pearance, to  be  very  deficient  in  candour ;  yet 
nobody  can  live  long  without  knowing  that 
falsehoods  of  convenience  or  vanity,  false- 
hoods from  which  no  evfl  immediately  visible 
ensues,  except  the  general  degradation  of  hu- 
man testimony,  are  very  lightly  uttered,  and 
once  uttered  are  sullenly  supported.  BoUeau, 
who  desired  to  be  thought  a  rigorous  and 
steady  moralist,  having  told  a  petty  lie  to 
Lewis  XIV,  continued  it  afterwards  by  false 
dates;  "thinking  himself  obliged  in  honouyj" 
says  his  admirer,  "to  maintain  what,  when  he 
said  it,  was  so  well  received." 

Wherever  Congreve  was  bom,  he  was  edu- 
cated first  at  Kilkenny,  and  afterwards  at 
Dublin,  his  father  having  some  military  em- 
ployment that  stationed  him  in  Ireland :  but, 
after  having  passed  through  the  usual  pre- 
paratory studies,  as  may  be  reasonably  sup- 
posed, with  great  celerity  and  success,  his 
father  thought  it  proper  to  assign  him  a  pro- 
fession, by  which  something  might  be  gotten  ; 
and  about  the  time  of  the  Revolution  sent 
him,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  to  study  law  in  the 
Middle  Temple,^  where  he  lived  for  several 
years,  but  with  very  little  attention  to  Statutes 
or  Reports. 

His  disposition  to  become  an  author  ap- 
peared very  early,  as  he  very  early  felt  that 
force"  of  imagination,  and  possessed  that 
copiousness  of  sentiment,  by  which  intellec- 
tual pleasure  can  be  given.  His  first  per- 
formance was  a  novel,  ca,lled  "Incognita,  or 
Love  and  Duty  reconciled:"  it  is  praised 
by  the  biographers,  who  quote  some  part  of 
the  Preface,  that  is,  indeed,  for  such  a  time 
of  life,  uncommonly  judicious.  I  would  rather 
praise  it  than  read  it. 

His  first  dramatic  labour  was  "The  Old 
Bachelor;"   of  which  he  says,  in  his  defence 

^  Giles  Jacob,  compiler  of  the  Poclical  Register, 
an  account  of  poets    ^  in  London 


CONGREVE 


303 


against  Collier/  "that  the  comedy  was  written, 
as  several  know,  some  years  before  it  was 
acted.  WTien  I  wrote  it,  I  had  little  thoughts 
of  the  stage ;  but  did  it  to  am.use  myself  in  a 
slow  recovery  from  a  fit  of  sickness.  After- 
wards, through  my  indiscretion,  it  was  seen, 
and  in  some  little  time  more  it  was  acted; 
and  I,  through  the  remainder  of  my  indis- 
cretion, suffered  myself  to  be  drawn  into  the 
prosecution  of  a  difficult  and  thankless  study, 
and  to  be  involved  m  a  perpetual  war  with 
knaves  and  fools." 

There  seems  to  be  a  strange  affectation  in 
authors  of  appearing  to  have  done  every  thing 
by  chance.  "The  Old  Bachelor"  was  written 
for  amusement  in  the  languor  of  convales- 
cence. Yet  it  is  apparently  composed  with 
great  elaborateness  of  dialogue,  and  incessant 
ambition  of  wit.  The  age  of  the  writer  con- 
sidered, it  is  mdeed  a  very  wonderful  per- 
formance ;  for,  whenever  written,  it  was  acted 
(1693)  when  he  was  not  more  than  twenty- 
one  years  old ;  and  was  then  recommended 
by  ilr.  Dryden,  INIr.  Southern,-  and  Mr.  Mayn- 
waring.^  Dryden  said  that  he  never  had  seen 
such  a  first  play ;  but  they  found  it  deficient 
in  some  things  requisite  to  the  success  of  its 
exhibition,  and  by  their  greater  experience 
fitted  it  for  the  stage.  Southern  used  to  relate 
of  one  comedy,  probably  of  this,  that,  when 
Congreve  read  it  to  the  players,  he  pronoimced 
it  so  wretchedly,  that  they  had  almost  rejected 
it ;  but  they  were  afterv\'ards  so  well  per- 
suaded of  its  excellence,  that,  for  half  a  year 
before  it  was  acted,  the  m.anager  allowed  its 
author  the  privilege  of  the  house. 

Few  plays  have  ever  been  so  beneficial  to 
the  writer  ;  for  it  procured  him  the  patronage 
of  Halifax,"'  who  immediately  made  him  one  of 
the  commissioners  for  licensing  coaches,  and 
soon  after  gave  him  a  place  in  the  pipe-office,^ 
and  another  in  the  customs  of  six  hundred 
pounds  a  year.  Congreve's  conversation 
must  surely  have  been  at  least  equally  pleas- 
ing with  his  Avritings. 

Such  a  comedy,  written  at  such  an  age,  re- 
quires some  consideration.  As  the  lighter 
species  of  dramatic  poetry  professes  the  imi- 
tation of  common  life,  of  real  manners,  and 

^  Jeremy  Collier ;  see  below  ^  a  well-known 
dramatist  '  a  Templar  and  influential  man  of 
letters  ^  George  Savile,  Marquis  of  Halifax  *  a 
government  office  in  which  records  called  pipe- 
rolls  were  kept 


daily  incidents,  it  apparently  presupposes  a 
familiar  knowledge  of  many  characters,  and 
exact  observation  of  the  passing  world ;  the 
difficulty  therefore  is,  to  conceive  how  this 
knowledge  can  be  obtained  by  a  boy. 

But  if  "The  Old  Bachelor"  be  more  nearly 
examined,  it  wiU  be  found  to  be  one  of  those 
comedies  which  may  be  made  by  a  mind  vigor- 
ous and  acute,  and  furnished  with  comic  char- 
acters by  the  perusal  of  other  poets,  without 
much  actual  commerce  with  mankind.  The 
dialogue  is  one  constant  reciprocation  of  con- 
ceits, or  clash  of  wit,  in  which  nothing  flov,-s 
necessarily  from  the  occasion  or  is  dictated 
by  nature.  The  characters  both  of  men  and 
women  are  either  fictitious  and  artificial,  as 
those  of  HeartweU  and  the  Ladies ;  or  easy 
and  common,  as  Wittol  a  tame  idiot.  Bluff  a 
swaggering  cov>^ard,  and  Fondlewife  a  jealous 
puritan;  and  the  catastrophe  arises  from  a 
mistake  not  very  probably  produced,  by 
marrying  a  woman  in  a  mask. 

Yet  this  gay  comedy,  when  all  these  deduc- 
tions are  made,  will  still  remain  the  work  of 
very  powerful  and  fertile  faculties ;  the  dia- 
logue is  quick  and  sparkling,  the  incidents 
such  as  seize  the  attention,  and  the  wit  so 
exuberant  that  it "  o'er-informs  its  tenement."  ^ 

Next  year  he  gave  another  specimen  of  his 
abilities  in  "The  Double  Dealer,"  which  was 
not  received  with  equal  kindness.  He  writes 
to  his  patron  the  lord  Halifax  a  dedication,  in 
which  he  endeavours  to  reconcile  the  reader 
to  that  which  found  few  friends  among  the 
audience.  These  apologies  are  always  use- 
less: "de  gustibus  non  est  disputandum ; "  ^ 
men  may  be  convinced,  but  they  cannot  be 
pleased,  against  their  will.  But,  though  taste 
is  obstinate,  it  is  very  variable  :  and  time  often 
prevails  when  arguments  have  failed. 

Queen  Mary  conferred  upon  both  those 
plays  the  honour  of  her  presence ;  and  when 
she  died  soon  after,  Congreve  testified  his 
gratitude  by  a  despicable  effusion  of  elegiac 
pastoral ;  a  composition  in  which  aU  is  im- 
natural,  and  yet  nothing  is  new. 

In  another  year  (1695)  his  prolific  pen  pro- 
duced "Love  for  Love ;"  a  comedy  of  nearer 
alliance  to  life,  and  exhibiting  more  real 
manners  than  either  of  the  former.  The  char- 
acter of  Foresight  ^  was  then  common.  Dry- 
den calculated  nativities  ;  both  Cromwell  and 

^  cf.  Absalom  and  Ackitopliel,  1.  74  ^  tastes  are 
not  a  subject  for  argument  ^  an  astrologer 


304 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


King  William  had  their  lucky  days;  and 
Shaftesbury  himself,  though  he  had  no  reli- 
gion, was  said  to  regard  predictions.  The 
Sailor  is  not  accounted  very  natural,  but  he 
is  very  pleasant. 

With  this  play  was  opened  the  New  Thea- 
tre, under  the  direction  of  Betterton  the  trage- 
dian ;  where  he  exhibited  two  years  after- 
wards (1687)  "The  Mourning  Bride,"  a 
tragedy,  so  written  as  to  show  him  sufficiently 
qualified  for  either  kind  of  dramatic  poetry. 

In  this  play,  of  which,  when  he  afterwards 
revised  it,  he  reduced  the  versification  to 
greater  regularity,  there  is  more  bustle  than 
sentiment ;  the  plot  is  busy  and  intricate,  and 
the  events  take  hold  on  the  attention ;  but, 
except  a  very  few  passages,  we  are  rather 
amused  with  noise,  and  perplexed  with  strata- 
gem, than  entertained  with  any  true  delinea- 
tion of  natural  characters.  This,  however, 
was  received  wdth  more  benevolence  than  any 
other  of  his  works,  and  still  continues  to  be 
acted  and  applauded. 

But  whatever  objections  may  be  made  either 
to  his  comic  or  tragic  excellence,  they  are  lost 
at  once  in  the  blaze  of  admiration,  when  it  is 
remembered  that  he  had  produced  these  four 
plays  before  he  had  passed  his  twenty-fifth 
year,  before  other  men,  even  such  as  are  some- 
time to  shine  in  eminence,  have  passed  their 
probation  of  literature,  or  presume  to  hope 
for  any  other  notice  than  such  as  is  bestowed 
on  diligence  and  inquiry.  Among  all  the 
efforts  of  early  genius  which  literary  history 
records,  I  doubt  whether  any  one  can  be 
produced  that  more  surpasses  the  common 
limits  of  nature  than  the  plays  of  Congreve. 

About  this  time  began  the  long-continued 
controversy  between  Collier  and  the  poets. 
In  the  reign  of  Charles  the  First  the  Puritans 
had  raised  a  violent  clamour  against  the  drama, 
which  they  considered  as  an  entertainment 
not  lawful  to  Christians,  an  opinion  held  by 
them  in  common  with  the  church  of  Rome ; 
and  Prynne  published  "Histriomastix,"  a  huge 
volume,  in  which  stage-plays  were  censured. 
The  outrages  and  crimes  of  the  Puritans 
brought  afterwards  their  whole  system  of  doc- 
trine into  disrepute,  and  from  the  Restoration 
the  poets  and  players  were  left  at  quiet ;  for 
to  have  molested  them  would  have  had  the 
appearance  of  tendency  to  puritanical  malig- 
nity. 

This  danger,  however,  was  worn  away  by 
time ;    and   Collier,  a  fierce  and  implacable 


Nonjuror,^  knew  that  an  attack  upon  the  thea- 
tre would  never  make  him  suspected  for  a 
Puritan;  he  therefore  (1698)  published  "A 
short  View  of  the  Immorality  and  Profaneness 
of  the  English  Stage,"  I  believe  with  no  other 
motiv6  than  religious  zeal  and  honest  indig- 
nation. He  was  formed  for  a  controvertist ; 
with  sufficient  learning ;  with  diction  vehe- 
ment and  pointed,  though  often  vulgar  and 
incorrect ;  with  unconquerable  pertinacity ; 
with  wit  in  the  highest  degree  keen  and  sar- 
castic ;  and  with  all  those  powers,  exalted  and 
invigorated  by  just  confidence  in  his  cause. 

Thus  qualified,  and  thus  incited,  he  walked 
out  to  battle,  and  assailed  at  once  most  of  the 
living  writers,  from  Dryden  to  D'Urfey.^  His 
onset  was  violent ;  those  passages,  which, 
while  they  stood  single  had  passed  with  little, 
notice,  when  they  were  accumulated  and  ex- 
posed together,  excited  horror ;  the  wise  and 
the  pious  caught  the  alarm ;  and  the  nation 
wondered  why  it  had  so  long  suffered  irre- 
ligion  and  licentiousness  to  be  openly  taught 
at  the  public  charge. 

Nothing  now  remained  for  the  poets  but 
to  resist  or  fly.  Dryden's  conscience,  or  his 
prudence,  angry  as  he  was,  withlield  him  from 
the  conflict :  Congreve  and  Vanbrugh  at- 
tempted answers.  Congreve,  a  very  young 
man,  elated  with  success,  and  impatient  of 
censure,  assumed  an  air  of  confidence  and  se- 
curity. His  chief  artifice  of  controversy  is  to 
retort  upon  his  adversary  his  own  words ;  he 
is  very  angry,  and,  hoping  to  conquer  Collier 
with  his  own  weapons,  allows  himself  in  the 
use  of  every  term  of  contumely  and  contempt ; 
but  he  has  the  sword  without  the  arm  of 
Scanderbeg ;  he  has  his  antagonist's  coarse- 
ness, but  not  his  strength.  Collier  replied; 
for  contest  was  his  delight,  he  was  not  to  be 
frighted  from  his  purpose  or  his  prey. 

The  cause  of  Congreve  was  not  tenable; 
whatever  glosses  he  might  use  for  the  defence 
or  palliation  of  single  passages,  the  general 
tenor  and  tendency  of  his  plays  must  always 
be  condemned.  It  is  acknowledged,  with  uni- 
versal conviction,  that  the  perusal  of  his  works 
will  make  no  man  better ;  and  that  their  ulti- 
mate effect  is  to  represent  pleasure  in  aUiance 
with  vice,  and  to  relax  those  obligations  by 
which  life  ought  to  be  regulated. 

'  one  who  in  1689  refused  to  swear  allegiance 
to  William  and  Mary  as  king  and  queen  ^  Tom 
D'Urfey,  a  disreputable  writer 


CONGREVE 


305 


The  stage  found  other  advocates,  and  the 
dispute  was  protracted  through  ten  years :  but 
at  last  Comedy  grew  more  modest ;  and  Col- 
Her  lived  to  see  the  reward  of  his  labour  in  the 
reformation  of  the  theatre. 

Of  the  powers  by  which  this  important  vic- 
tory was  achieved,  a  quotation  from  "Love 
for  Love,"  and  the  remark  upon  it,  may  afford 
a  specimen  : 

' '  Sir  Samps.  Sampson's  a  very  good  name  ; 
for  your  Sampsons  were  strong  dogs  from  the 
beginning. 

"Angel.  Have  a  care  —  If  you  remember, 
the  strongest  Sampson  of  your  name  pull'd 
an  old  house  over  his  head  at  last." 

Here  you  have  the  Sacred  History  bur- 
lesqued ;  and  Sampson  once  more  brought 
into  the  house  of  Dagon,  to  make  sport  for 
the  Philistines. 

Congreve's  last  play  was  "The  Way  of  the 
World;"  which,  though  as  he  hints  in  his 
dedication  it  was  written  with  great  labour 
and  much  thought,  was  received  with  so  little 
favour,  that,  being  in  a  high  degree  offended 
and  disgusted,  he  resolved  to  commit  his  quiet 
and  his  fame  no  more  to  the  caprices  of  an 
audience. 

From  this  time  his  life  ceased  to  the  public  ; 
he  lived  for  himself  and  for  his  friends ;  and 
among  his  friends  was  able  to  name  every 
man  of  his  time  whom  wit  and  elegance  had 
raised  to  reputation.  It  may  be  therefore 
reasonably  supposed  that  his  manners  were 
polite,  and  his  conversation  pleasing. 

He  seems  not  to  have  taken  much  pleasure 
in  writing,  as  he  contributed  nothing  to  the 
Spectator,  and  only  one  paper  to  the  Tatl'er, 
though  published  by  men  with  whom  he  might 
be  supposed  willing  to  associate ;  and  though 
he  lived  many  years  after  the  publication  of 
his  "Miscellaneous  Poems,"  yet  he  added 
nothing  to  them,  but  hved  on  in  literary  indo- 
lence ;  engaged  in  no  controversy,  contending 
with  no  rival,  neither  soliciting  flattery  by 
public  commendations,  nor  provoking  enmity 
by  malignant  criticism,  but  passing  his  time 
among  the  great  and  splendid,  in  the  placid 
enjoyment  of  his  fame  and  fortune. 

Having  owed  his  fortune  to  Halifax,  he  con- 
tinued always  of  his  patron's  party,  but,  as 
it  seems,  without  violence  or  acrimony ;  and 
his  firmness  was  naturally  esteemed,  as  his 
abilities  were  reverenced.  His  security  there- 
fore was  never  violated  ;  and  when,  upon  the 
e.xtrusion  of  the  Whigs,  some  intercession  was 


used  lest  Congreve  should  be  displaced,  the 
earl  of  Oxford  made  this  answer : 

"Non  obtusa  adeo  gestamus  pectora  Poeni, 
Nee  tarn  aversus  equosTyria  sol  jungit  ab  urbe."  ^ 

He  that  was  thus  honoured  by  the  adverse 
party  might  naturally  expect  to  be  advanced 
when  his  friends  returned  to  power,  and  he 
was  accordingly  made  secretary  for  the  island 
of  Jamaica  ;  a  place,  I  suppose,  without  trust 
or  care,  but  which,  with  his  post  in  the  cus- 
toms, is  said  to  have  afforded  him  twelve  him- 
dred  pounds  a  year. 

His  honours  were  yet  far  greater  than  his 
profits.  Every  writer  mentioned  him  with 
respect ;  and,  among  other  testimonies  to  his 
merit,  Steele  made  him  the  patron  of  his  Mis- 
cellany, and  Pope  inscribed  to  him  his  trans- 
lation of  the  Iliad. 

But  he  treated  the  Muses  with  ingratitude ; 
for,  having  long  conversed  familiarly  with  the 
great,  he  wished  to  be  considered  rather  as  a 
man  of  fashion  than  of  wit ;  and,  when  he 
received  a  visit  from  \'oltaire,  disgusted  him 
by  the  despicable  foppery  of  desiring  to  be 
considered  not  as  an  author  but  a  gentleman ; 
to  which  the  Frenchman  rephed,  "that,  if  he 
'had  been  only  a  gentleman,  he  should  not  have 
come  to  visit  him." 

In  his  retirement  he  may  be  supposed  to 
have  applied  himself  to  books ;  for  he  dis- 
covers more  literature  than  the  poets  have 
commonly  attamed.  But  his  studies  were  in 
his  latter  days  obstructed  by  cataracts  in  his 
eyes,  which  at  last  terminated  in  blindness. 
This  melancholy  state  was  aggravated  by  the 
gout,  for  which  he  sought  relief  by  a  journey 
to  Bath  ;  but,  being  overturned  in  his  chariot, 
complained  from  that  time  of  a  pain  in  his 
side,  and  died  at  his  house  in  Surrey-street  in 
the  Strand,  Jan.  29,  1728-9.  Having  lain 
in  state  in  the  Jerusalem-chamber,-  he  was 
buried  in  Westminster-abbey,  where  a  m.onu- 
ment  is  erected  to  his  memor>^  by  Henrietta, 
duchess  of  IMarlborough,  to  whom,  for  reasons 
either  not  known  or  not  mentioned,  he  be- 
queathed a  legacy  of  about  ten  thousand 
pounds ;  the  accumulation  of  attentive  parsi- 
mony, which  though  to  her  superfluous  and 
useless,  might  have  given  great  assistance  to 
the  ancient  family  from  which  he  descended, 

1  We  Carthaginians  bear  not  such  blunted  souls, 
nor  does  the  sun  averse  from  our  city  yoke  his 
steeds.    ^  Cf.  2  Henry  IV,  Act  iv,  sc.  v. 


3o6 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


at  tha't  time,  by  the  imprudence  of  his  relation, 
reduced  to  difficulties  and  distress. 

Congreve  has  merit  of  the  highest  kind  ;  he 
is  an  original  writer,  who  borrowed  neither 
the  models  of  his  plot  nor  the  manner  of  his 
dialogue.  Of  his  plays  I  cannot  speak  dis- 
tinctly ;  for  since  I  inspected  them  many 
years  have  passed ;  but  what  remains  upon 
my  memory  is,  that  his  characters  are  com- 
monly fictitious  and  artificial,  with  very  little 
of  nature,  and  not  much  of  life.  He  formed  a 
peculiar  idea  of  comic  excellence,  which  he 
supposed  to  consist  in  gay  remarks  and  un- 
expected answers ;  but  that  which  he  en- 
deavoured, he  seldom  failed  of  performing. 
His  scenes  exhibit  not  much  of  humour, 
imager}^,  or  passion  ;  his  personages  are  a  kind 
of  intellectual  gladiators ;  every  sentence  is  to 
ward  or  strike;  the  contest  of  smartness  is 
never  intermitted;  his  wit  is  a  meteor  play- 
ing to  and  fro  with  alternate  coruscations. 
His  comedies  have  therefore,  in  some  degree, 
the  operation  of  tragedies;  they  surprise 
rather  than  divert,  and  raise  admiration 
oftener  than  merriment.  But  they  are  the 
works  of  a  mind  replete  with  images,  and  quick 
in  combination. 

Of  his  miscellaneous  poetry  I  cannot  say 
any  thing  very  favourable.  The  powers  of 
Congreve  seem  to  desert  him  when  he  leaves 
the  stage,  as  Antaeus^  was  no  longer  strong 
than  when  he  could  touch  the  ground.  It 
cannot  be  observed  without  wonder,  that  a 
mind  so  vigorous  and  fertile  in  dramatic  com- 
positions should  on  any  other  occasion  dis- 
cover nothing  but  impotence  and  poverty. 
He  has  in  these  little  pieces  neither  elevation 
of  fancy,  selection  of  language,  nor  skill  in  ver- 
sification ;  yet,  if  I  were  required  to  select 
from  the  whole  mass  of  English  poetry  the 
most  poetical  paragraph,  I  know  not  what  I 
could  prefer  to  an  exclamation  in  "The 
Mourning  Bride" : 

Aim.   It  was  a  fancy'd  noise ;   for  all  is  hush'd. 

Leo.   It  bore  the  accent  of  a  human  voice. 

Aim.   It  was  thy  fear,  or  else  some  transient 
wind 
Whistling  through  hollows  of  this  vaulted  aisle: 
We'll  listen  — 

Leo.   Hark  ! 

Aim.   No,  all  is  hush'd  and  still  as  death.  —  'Tis 
drcjulful ! 
How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall  pile, 
Whose  ancient  pillars  rear  their  marble  heads, 

^  Cf.  Gaylcy,  p.  238. 


To  bear  aloft  its  arch'd  and  ponderous  roof. 
By  its  own  weight  made  steadfast  and  immoveable, 
Looking  tranquillity  !     It  strikes  an  awe 
And  terror  on  my  aching  sight ;  the  tombs 
And  monumental  caves  of  death  look  cold, 
And  shoot  a  chillness  to  my  trembling  heart. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  let  me  hear  thy  voice ; 
Nay,  quickly  speak  to  me,  and  let  me  hear 
Thy  voice  —  my  own  ailriglits  me  with  its  echoes. 

He  who  reads  these  lines  enjoys  for  a 
moment  the  pov/ers  of  a  poet ;  he  feels  what 
he  remembers  to  have  felt  before ;  but  he 
feels  it  with  great  increase  of  sensibility ;  he 
recognizes  a  familiar  image,  but  meets  it  again 
amplified  and  expanded,  embellished  with 
beauty,  and  enlarged  with  majesty. 

Yet  could  the  author,  who  appears  here  to 
have  enjoyed  the  confidence  of  Nature,  lament 
the  death  of  queen  Mary  in  lines  like  these : 

The  rocks  are  cleft,  and  new-descending  rills 
Furrow  the  brows  of  all  the  impending  hills. 
The  water-gods  to  floods  their  rivulets  turn, 
And  each,  with  streaming  eyes,  supplies  his  want- 
ing urn. 
The  Fauns  forsake  the  woods,  the  Nymphs  the 

grove. 
And  round  the  plain  in  sad  distractions  rove : 
In  prickly  brakes  their  tender  limbs  they  tear, 
And  leave  on  thorns  their  locks  of  golden  hair. 
With   their   sharp   nails,   themselves   the   Satyrs 

wound, 
And  tug  their  shagg}^  beards,  and  bite  with  grief 

the  ground. 
Lo  Pan  himself,  beneath  a  blasted  oak, 
Dejected  lies,  his  pipe  in  pieces  broke. 
See  Pales  ^  weeping  too,  in  wild  despair, 
And  to  the  piercing  winds  her  bosom  bare. 
And  see  yon  fading  myrtle,  where  appears 
The  Queen  of  Love,  all  bath'd  in  flowing  tears; 
See  how  she  wrings  her  hands,   and  beats  her 

breast. 
And  tears  her  useless  girdle  from  her  waist ! 
Hear  the  sad  murmurs  of  her  sighing  doves  ! 
For  grief  they  sigh,  forgetful  of  their  loves. 

And,  many  j'ears  after,  he  gave  no  proof  that 
time  had  improved  his  wisdom  or  his  wit ;  for, 
on  the  death  of  the  marquis  of  Blandford,  this 
was  his  song : 

And  now  the  winds,  which  had  so  long  been  stfll, 
Began  the  swelling  air  with  sighs  to  fill ! 
The  water  nymphs,  who  motionless  remain'd, 
Like  images  of  ice,  while  she  complain'd, 
Now  loos'd  their  streams;    as  when  descending 
rains 

^  goddess  of  pasturage  and  cattle 


CONGREVE 


307 


Roll  the  steep  torrents  headlong  o'er  the  plains. 
The  prone  creation,  who  so  long  had  gaz'd, 
Charm'd  with  her  cries,  and  at  her  griefs  amaz'd, 
Began  to  roar  and  howl  with  horrid  yell, 
Dismal  to  hear,  and  terrible  to  tell ! 
Nothing  but  groans  and  sighs  were  heard  around, 
And  Echo  multiplied  each  mournful  sound. 

In  both  these  ftmeral  poems,  when  he  has 
yelled  out  many  syllables  of  senseless  dolour, 
he  dismisses  his  reader  with  senseless  conso- 
lation :  from  the  grave  of  Pastora^  rises  a  light 
that  forms  a  star  ;  and  where  Amaryllis  -  wept 
for  Amyntas,^  from  every  tear  sprung  up  a 
violet. 

But  William  is  his  hero,  and  of  William  he 
will  sing : 

The  hovering  winds  on  downy  wangs  shall  wait 

arovmd. 
And  catch,  and  waft  to  foreign  lands,  the  flying 

sound. 

It  cannot  but  be  proper  to  show  what  they 
shall  have  to  catch  and  carry : 

'Twas  now  when  flowery  lawns  the  prospect  made, 
And  flowing  brooks  beneath  a  forest  shade, 
A  lowing  heifer,  loveliest  of  the  herd, 
Stood  feeding  b}^ ;  while  two  fierce  bulls  prepar'd 
Their  armed  heads  for  fight,  b}'  fate  of  war  to 

prove 
The  victor  worthy  of  the  fair-one's  love ; 
Unthought  presage  of  what  met  next  my  view ; 
For  soon  the  shady  scene  withdrew. 
And  now,   for  woods  and  fields,   and  springing 

flowers. 
Behold  a  town  arise,  bulwark'd  with  walls  and  lofty 

towers ; 
Two  rival  armies  all  the  plain  o'erspread. 
Each  in  battalia  rang'd,  and  shining  arms  array'd; 
With  eager  eyes  beholding  both  from  far 
Namur,  the  prize  and  mistress  of  the  war. 

The  "Birth  of  the  JNIuse"  is  a  miserable 
fiction.  One  good  line  it  has,  which  was  bor- 
rowed from  Dryden.  The  concluding  verses 
are  these : 

This  said,  no  more  remain'd.     Th'  etherial  host 
Again  impatient  crowd  the  crystal  coast. 
The  Father,  now,  within  his  spacious  hands 
Encompass'd  all  the  mingled  mass  of  seas  and 

lands ; 
And,  having  heav'd  aloft  the  ponderous  sphere. 
He  launch'd  the  world  to  float  in  ambient  air. 

^  Queen  Mary  ^  the  Marchioness  of  Blandford 
'  the  Marquis  of  Blandford 


Of  his  irregular  poems,  that  to  Mrs.  Ara- 
bella Hunt  seems  to  be  the  best :  his  ode  for 
St.  Cecilia's  Day,  however,  has  some  lines 
which  Pope  had  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote 
his  own. 

His  imitations  of  Horace  are  feebly  para- 
phrastical,  and  the  additions  w'hich  he  makes 
are  of  httle  value.  He  sometimes  -retains 
what  were  more  properly  omitted,  as  when 
he  talks  of  vervain  and  gums  to  propitiate 
Venus. 

Of  his  translations,  the  satire  of  Juvenal 
was  written  very  early,  and  may  therefore 
be  forgiven  though  it  have  not  the  massi- 
ness  and  vigour  of  the  original.  In  aU  his 
versions  strength  and  sprightliness  are  want- 
ing :  his  Hymn  to  Venus,  from  Homer,  is 
perhaps  the  best.  His  lines  are  weakened 
with  expletives,  and  his  rhymes  are  frequently 
imperfect. 

His  petty  poems  are  seldom  worth  the  cost 
of  criticism ;  sometimes  the  thoughts  are  false, 
and  sometimes  common.  In  his  verses  on 
Lady  Gethin,  the  latter  part  is  in  imitati6n  of 
Dryden's  ode  on  Mrs.  Killigrew ;  and  Doris, 
that  has  been  so  lavishly  flattered  by  Steele, 
has  indeed  some  lively  stanzas,  but  the  expres- 
sion might  be  mended ;  and  the  most  striking 
part  of  the  character  had  been  already  shown 
in  ''Love  for  Love."  His  "Art  of  Pleasing" 
is  founded  on  a  vulgar,  but  perhaps  imprac- 
ticable principle,  and  the  staleness  of  the 
sense  is  not  concealed  by  any  novelty  of  illus- 
tration or  elegance  of  diction. 

This  tissue  of  poetry,  from  which  he  seems 
to  have  hoped  a  lasting  name,  is  totally  neg- 
lected, and  known  only  as  appended  to  his 
plays. 

While  comedy  or  while  tragedy  is  regarded, 
his  plays  are  likely  to  be  read;  but,  except 
what  relates  to  the  stage,  I  know  not  that  he 
has  ever  written  a  stanza  that  is  sung,  or  a 
couplet  that  is  quoted.  The  general  character 
of  his  "Miscellanies"  is,  that  they  show  httle 
wit,  and  little  virtue. 

Yet  to  him  it  must  be  confessed,  that  we 
are  indebted  for  the  correction  of  a  national 
error,  and  for  the  cure  of  our  Pindaric  mad- 
ness. He  first  taught  the  English  writers  that 
Pindar's  odes  were  regular ;  and  though  cer- 
tainly he  had  not  the  fire  requisite  for  the 
higher  species  of  lyric  poetry,  he  has  shown 
us,  that  enthusiasm  has  its  rules,  and  that  in 
mere  confusion  there  is  neither  grace  nor 
greatness. 


3o8 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


ESSAY  FROM  THE  RAMBLER 
NO.    69.     TUESDAY,    NOVEMBER    13,    1750 

Flet  quoque,  td  in  speciilo  rugas  adspexit  aniles, 
Tyndaris ;   et  sccum,  cur  sit  bis  rapta,  reqidrit. 
Tern  pus  edax  rerum,  tuque  invidiosa  vetustas 
Omnia  destruitis;  vitiataque  dentibus  aevi 
Paulatim  lenta  consumitis  o?miia  morte}  —  Ovid. 

An  old  Greek  epigrammatist,  intending  to 
show  the  miseries  that  attend  the  last  stage 
of  man,  imprecates  upon  those  who  are  so 
foolish  as  to  wish  for  long  life,  the  calamity 
of  continuing  to  grow  old  from  century  to 
century.  lie  thought  that  no  adventitious 
or  foreign  pain  was  requisite;  that  decrepi- 
tude itself  was  an  epitome  of  whatever  is 
dreadful ;  and  nothing  could  be  added  to  the 
curse  of  age,  but  that  it  should  be  extended 
beyond  its  natural  limits. 

The  most  indifferent  or  negligent  spectator 
can  indeed  scarcely  retire  without  heaviness 
of  heart,  from  a  view  of  the  last  scenes  of  the 
tragedy  of  life,  in  which  he  finds  those,  who 
in  the  former  parts  of  the  drama,  were  distin- 
guished by  opposition  of  conduct,  contrariety 
of  designs,  and  dissimilitude  of  personal  quali- 
ties, all  involved  in  one  common  distress,  and 
all  strugghng  with  affliction  which  they  can- 
not hope  to  overcome. 

The  other  miseries,  which  waylay  our  pas- 
sage through  the  world,  wisdom  may  escape, 
and  fortitude  may  conquer:  by  caution  and 
circumspection  we  may  steal  along  with  very 
little  to  obstruct  or  incommode  us ;  by  spirit 
and  vigour  we  may  force  a  way,  and  reward 
the  vexation  of  contest  by  the  pleasures  of 
victory.  But  a  time  must  come  when  our 
policy  and  bravery  shall  be  equally  useless ; 
when  we  shall  all  sink  into  helplessness  and 
sadness,  without  any  power  of  receiving  solace 
from  the  pleasures  that  have  formerly  de- 
lighted us,  or  any  prospect  of  emerging  into 
a  second  possession  of  the  blessings  that  we 
have  lost. 

^The  dreadful  wrinkles  when  poor  Helen  spy'd, 
Ah!    why  this  second  rape?  —  with  tears  she 

cry'd. 
Time,  thou  devourcr,  and  tliou  envious  age, 
Who  all  destroy  with  keen  corroding  rage. 
Beneath  your  jaws,  whate'cr  have  plcas'd  or 

please, 
Must  sink,  consum'd  by  swift  or  slow  degrees. 
—  Elphinston. 


The  industry  of  man  has,  indeed,  not  been 
wanting  in  endeavours  to  procure  comforts  for 
these  hours  of  dejection  and  melancholy,  and 
to  gild  the  dreadful  gloom  with  artificial  light. 
The  most  usual  support  of  old  age  is  wealth. 
He  whose  possessions  are  large,  and  whose 
chests  are  full,  imagines  himself  always  forti- 
fied against  invasions  on  his  authority.  If  he 
has  lost  all  other  means  of  government,  if  his 
strength  and  his  reason  fail  him,  he  can  at 
last  alter  his  will ;  and  therefore  all  that  have 
hopes  must  Ukewise  have  fears,  and  he  may 
still  continue  to  give  laws  to  such  as  have  not 
ceased  to  regard  their  own  interest. 

This  is,  indeed,  too  frequently  the  citadel  of 
the  dotard,  the  last  fortress  to  which  age  re- 
tires, and  in  which  he  makes  the  stand  against 
the  upstart  race  that  seizes  his  domains,  dis- 
putes his  commands,  and  cancels  his  prescrip- 
tions. But  here,  though  there  may  be  safety, 
there  is  no  pleasure ;  and  what  remains  is  but 
a  proof  that  more  was  once  possessed. 

Nothing  seems  to  have  been  more  univer- 
sally dreaded  by  the  ancients  than  orbity,  or 
want  of  children ;  and,  indeed,  to  a  man  who 
has  survived  all  the  companions  of  his  youth, 
all  who  have  participated  his  pleasures  and 
his  cares,  have  been  engaged  in  the  same 
events,  and  filled  their  minds  with  the  same 
conceptions,  this  full-peopled  world  is  a  dismal 
solitude.  He  stands  forlorn  and  silent,  neg- 
lected or  insulted,  in  the  midst  of  multitudes 
animated  with  hopes  which  he  cannot  share 
and  employed  in  business  which  he  is  no  longer 
able  to  forward  or  retard;  nor  can  he  find 
any  to  whom  his  life  or  his  death  are  of  im- 
portance, unless  he  has  secured  some  dom.estic 
gratifications,  some  tender  employments,  and 
endeared  himself  to  some  whose  interest  and 
gratitude  may  unite  them  to  him. 

So  different  are  the  colours  of  life  as  we 
look  forward  to  the  future,  or  backward  to  the 
past ;  and  so  different  the  opinions  and  senti- 
ments which  this  contrariety  of  appearance 
naturally  produces,  that  the  conversation  of 
the  old  and  young  ends  generally  with  con- 
tempt or  pity  on  either  side.  To  a  young  man 
entering  the  world  with  fulness  of  hope,  and 
ardour  of  pursuit,  nothing  is  so  unplcasing  as 
the  cold  caution,  the  faint  expectations,  the 
scrupulous  diffidence,  which  experience  and 
disappointments  certainly  infuse ;  and  the  old 
wonders  in  his  turn  that  the  world  never  can 
grow  wiser,  that  neither  precepts,  nor  testi- 
monies can  cure  boys  of  their  credulity  and 


LONDON 


309 


sufficiency  ;  and  that  no  one  can  be  convinced 
that  snares  are  laid  for  him,  till  he  finds  him- 
self entangled. 

Thus  one  generation  is  always  the  scorn  and 
wonder  of  the  other,  and  the  notions  of  the  old 
and  young  are  hke  liquors  of  different  gravity 
and  texture  which  never  can  unite.  The 
spirits  of  youth  sublimed  by  health,  and  vola- 
tilised by  passion,  soon  leave  behind  them  the 
phlegmatic  sediment  of  weariness  and  de- 
liberation, and  burst  out  in  temerity  and 
enterprise.  The  tenderness  therefore  which 
nature  infuses,  and  which  long  habits  of  be- 
neficence confirm,  is  necessary  to  reconcile 
such  opposition ;  and  an  old  man  must  be  a 
father  to  bear  with  patience  those  follies  and 
absurdities  which  he  will  perpetually  imagine 
himself  to  find  in  the  schemes  and  expectations, 
the  pleasures  and  the  sorrows,  of  those  who 
have  not  yet  been  hardened  by  time,  and 
chilled  by  frustration. 

Yet  it  may  be  doubted,  whether  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  children  ripening  into  strength,  be 
not  overbalanced  by  the  pain  of  seeing  some 
fall  in  their  blossom,  and  others  blasted  in 
their  growth ;  some  shaken  down  with  storms, 
some  tainted  with  cankers,  and  some  shrivelled 
in  the  shade ;  and  whether  he  that  extends  his 
care  beyond  himself,  does  not  multiply  his 
anxieties  more  than  his  pleasures,  and  weary 
himself  to  no  purpose,  by  superintending  what 
he  cannot  regulate. 

But,  though  age  be  to  every  order  of  human 
beings  sufficiently  terrible,  it  is  particularly  to 
be  dreaded  by  fine  ladies,  who  have  had  no 
other  end  or  ambition  than  to  fill  up  the  day 
and  the  night  with  dress,  diversions,  and 
flattery,  and  who,  having  made  no  acquaint- 
ance with  knowledge,  or  with  business,  have 
constantly  caught  all  their  ideas  from  the 
current  prattle  of  the  hour,  and  been  indebted 
for  all  their  happiness  to  compliments  and 
treats.  With  these  ladies,  age  begins  early, 
and  very  often  lasts  long ;  it  begins  when 
their  beauty  fades,  when  their  mirth  loses  its 
sprightliness,  and  their  motion  its  ease.  From 
that  time  aU  which  gave  them  joy  vanishes 
from  about  them ;  they  hear  the  praises  be- 
stowed on  others,  which  used  to  swell  their 
bosoms  with  exultation.  They  visit  the  seats 
of  felicity,  and  endeavour  to  continue  the 
habit  of  being  delighted.  But  pleasure  is  only 
received  when  we  believe  that  we  give  it  in 
return.  Neglect  and  petulance  inform  them 
that  their  power  and  their  value  are  past  ; 


and  what  then  remains  but  a  tedious  and  com- 
fortless uniformity  of  time,  without  any 
motion  of  the  heart,  or  exercise  of  the  reason? 

Yet,  however  age  may  discourage  us  by  its 
appearance  from  considering  it  in  prospect, 
we  shall  all  by  degrees  certainly  be  old ;  and 
therefore  we  ought  to  inquire  what  provision 
can  be  made  against  that  time  of  distress? 
what  happiness  can  be  stored  up  against  the 
winter  of  life?  and  how  we  may  pass  our 
latter  years  with  serenity  and  cheerfulness? 

If  it  has  been  found  by  the  experience  of 
mankind,  that  not  even  the  best  seasons  of 
life  are  able  to  supply  sufficient  gratifications, 
without  anticipating  uncertain  felicities,  it 
cannot  surely  be  supposed  that  old  age,  worn 
with  labours,  harassed  with  anxieties,  and" 
tortured  with  diseases,  should  have  any  glad- 
ness of  its  own,  or  feel  any  satisfaction  from 
the  contemplation  of  the  present.  ^\11  the 
comfort  that  can  now  be  expected  must  be  re- 
called from  the  past,  or  borrowed  from  the 
future;  the  past  is  very  soon  exhausted,  all 
the  events  or  actions  of  which  the  memory 
can  afford  pleasure  are  quickly  recollected ; 
and  the  future  lies  beyond  the  grave,  where  it 
can  be  reached  only  by  virtue  and  devotion. 

Piety  is  the  only  proper  and  adequate  relief 
of  decaying  man.  He  that  grows  old  without 
religious  hopes,  as  he  declines  into  imbecility, 
and  feels  pains  and  sorrows  incessantly  crowd- 
ing upon  him,  falls  into  a  gulf  of  bottomless 
misery,  in  which  every  reflection  must  plunge 
him  deeper,  and  where  he  finds  only  new 
gradations  of  anguish,  and  precipices  of  horror. 

From  LONDON 

By  numbers  here  from  shame  or  censure  free 
All  crimes  are  safe,  but  hated  poverty.       155 
This,  only  this,  the  rigid  law  pursues ; 
This,  only  this,  provokes  the  snarling  muse. 
The  sober  trader  at  a  tatter'd  cloak 
Wakes  from  his  dream,  and  labours  for  a  joke ; 
With  brisker  air  the  silken  courtiers,  gaze,  160 
And  turn  the  varied  taunt  a  thousand  ways. 
Of  all  the  griefs  that  harass  the  distress'd. 
Sure  the  most  bitter  is  a  scornful  jest ; 
Fate  never  wovmds  more  deep  the  gen'rous 

heart, 
Than  when  a  blockhead's  insult   points   the 
dart.  165 

Has  heaven  reserv'd,  in  pity  to  the  poor, 
No  pathless  waste,  or  undiscover'd  shore? 
No  secret  island  in  the  boundless  main  ? 


3IO 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


No  peaceful  desert  yet  unclaim'd  by  Spain  ? 
Quick  let  us  rise,  the  happy  seats  explore,   1 70 
And  bear  oppression's  insolence  no  more. 
This  mournful  truth  is  ev'ry  where  confess'd : 
Slovv'  rises  worth,  by  poverty  depress'd ; 
But  here  more  slow,  where  aU  are  slaves  to 

gold, 
Where  looks  are  merchandise,  and  smiles  are 

sold;  175 

Where  won  by  bribes,  by  flatteries  implor'd, 
The  groom  retails  the  favours  of  his  lord. 
But  hark  !   th'  affrighted  crowd's  tumultu- 
ous cries 
Roll  through  the  streets,  and  thunder  to  the 

skies. 
Rais'd  from  some  pleasing  dream  of  wealth 

and  pow'r,  180 

Some  pompous  palace,  or  some  blissful  bow'r, 
Aghast  you  start,  and  scarce  with  aching  sight 
Sustain    the    approaching    tire's    tremendous 

light ; 
Swift  from  pursuing  horrors  take  your  way, 
And  leave  your  little  AU  to  flames  a  prey ;  185 
Then   thro'   the    world  a  wretched  vagrant 

roam. 
For  where  can  starving  merit  find  a  home  ? 
In  vam  your  mournful  narrative  disclose. 
While  all  neglect,  and  most  insult  your  woes. 


From  THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN 
WISHES 

Let  observation,  with  extensive  view, 
Survey  mankind,  from  China  to  Peru ; 
Remark  each  anxious  toil,  each  eager  strife, 
And  watch  the  busy  scenes  of  crowded  life : 
Then  say  how  hope  and  fear,  desire  and  hate,  5 
O'erspread  with  snares  the  clouded  maze  of 

fate, 
Where  wav'ring  man,  betray'd  by  vent'rous 

pride 
To  tread  the  dreary  paths  without  a  guide, 
As  treach'rous  i)hantoms  in  the  mist  delude, 
Shuns  fancied  ills,  or  chases  airy  good ;         10 
How  rarely  reason  guides  the  stubborn  choice, 
Rules  the  bold  hand,  or  prompts  the  suppliant 

voice ; 
How  nations  sink,   by  darling  schemes  op- 

press'd. 
When  Vengeance  listens  to  the  fool's  request. 
Fate  wings  with  ev'ry  wish  Ih'  afflictive  dart. 
Each  gift  of  nature  and  each  grace  of  art ;     16 
Wilh  fatal  heat  impetuous  courage  glows, 
With  fatal  sweetness  elocution  flows, 


Impeachment  stops  the  speaker's  pow'rful 
breath. 

And  restless  fire  precipitates  on  death.  20 

But  scarce  observ'd,  the  knowing  and  the 
bold 

Fall  in  the  gen'ral  massacre  of  gold ; 

Wide-wasting  pest !  that  rages  unconfin'd. 

And  crowds  with  crimes  the  records  of  man- 
kind ; 

For  gold  his  sword  the  hireling  ruffian  draws, 

For  gold  the  hirehng  judge  distorts  the 
laws :  26 

Wealth  heap'd  on  wealth  nor  truth  nor  safety 
buys ; 

The  dangers  gather  as  the  treasures  rise. 


On  what  foundation  stands  the  warrior's 
pride, 
How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  ^  de- 
cide : 
A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fi.re. 
No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labours  tire; 
O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain, 
Unconquer'd  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ;  196 
No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield,  — 
War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  tlie  field  ; 
Behold  surrounding  kings  their  pow'rs  com- 
bine, 
And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign  :  200 

Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her  charms 

in  vain ; 
"Think  nothing  gain'd,"  he  cries,  "till  naught 

remain, 
On  Moscow's  walls  tiU  Gothic^  standards  fly, 
And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky." 
The  march  begins  in  military  state,  205 

And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait ; 
Stern  Famine  guards  the  solitary  coast. 
And  Winter  barricades  the  realms  of  Frost : 
He  comes;   nor    want    nor   cold    his   course 

delay ;  — 
Hide,  blushing  Glory,  hide  Pultowa's  day :  210 
The  vanquish'd  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands, 
And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands; 
Condemn'd  a  needy  supplicant  to  wait. 
While  ladies  interpose  and  slaves  debate. 
But  did  not  Chance  at  length  her  error  mend? 
Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end?     216 
Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound? 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground? 
His  fall  was  destin'd  to  a  barren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand.  220 

^  Charles  XII        ^  here  =  Swedish 


WILLIAM    SHENSTONE 


311 


He  left  the  name,  at  which  the  world  grew 

pale, 
To  point  a  moral,  or  adoni  a  tale. 


But  grant,  the  virtues  of  a  temp'rate  prime  ^ 
Bless  with  an  age  exempt  from  scorn  or  crime ; 
An  age  that  melts  with  unperceiv'd  decay, 
And  glides  in  modest  innocence  away ; 
Whose  peaceful  day  Benevolence  endears,  295 
Whose     night      congratulating      Conscience 

cheers ; 
The  gen'ral  fav'rite  as  the  gen'ral  friend : 
Such  age  there  is,  and  who  shall  wish  its  end  ? 
Yet  ev'n  on  this  her  load  Misfortune  flings. 
To  press  the  weary  minutes'  flagging  wings ; 
New  sorrow  rises  as  the  day  returns,  301 

A  sister  sickens,  or  a  daughter  mourns. 
Now  kindred  JMerit  fills  the  sable  bier. 
Now  lacerated  Friendship  claims  a  tear. 
Year  chases  j^ear,  decay  pursues  decay,      305 
Still  drops  some  joy  from  with 'ring  hfe  away ; 
New  forms  arise,  and  diff'rent  views  engage, 
Superfluous  lags  the  vet 'ran  on  the  stage, 
Till  pitying  Nature  signs  the  last  release. 
And  bids  afflicted  worth  retire  to  peace.     310 
But  few  there  are  whom  hours  hke  these 
await. 
Who  set  unclouded  in  the  gulphs  of  Fate. 
From   Lydia's  monarch^   should  the  search 

descend. 
By  Solon  caution'd  to  regard  his  end,         314 
In  life's  last  scene  what  prodigies  surprise  — 
Fears  of  the  brave,  and  follies  of  the  wise  ! 
From  Marlb'rough's  eyes  the  streams  of  do- 
tage flow, 
And  Swift  expires  a  driv'ler  and  a  show. 


Where   then   shall   Hope   and   Fear   their 

objects  find  ? 
Must    dull    Suspense    corrupt    the    stagnant 

mind? 
Must  helpless  man,  in  ignorance  sedate,     345 
RoU  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate? 
Must  no  dislike  alarm,  no  wishes  rise.- 
No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the  skies  ?  — 
Enquirer,  cease  ;  petitions  yet  remain, 
Which  heav'n  may  hear ;    nor  deem  religion 

vain.  _  _      350 

Still  raise  for  good  the  suppUcating  voice. 
But  leave  to  heav'n  the  measure  and  the 

choice ; 

^  j-outh        ^  Croesus 


Safe  in  his  pow'r,  whose  eyes  discern  afar 
The  secret  ambush  of  a  specious  pray'r. 
Implore  his  aid,  in  his  decisions  rest,  355 

Secure,  whate'er  he  gives,  he  gives  the  best. 
Yet  when  the  sense  of  sacred  presence  fires, 
And  strong  devotion  to  the  skies  aspires, 
Pour    forth    thy    fervours    for    a    healthful 

mind. 
Obedient  passions,  and  a  will  resign'd;       360 
For   love,   which   scarce   collective  man  can 

fill; 
For  patience,  sov'reign  o'er  transmuted  ill ; 
For  faith,  that,  panting  for  a  happier  seat, 
Counts  death  kind  Nature's  signal  of  retreat : 
These   goods   for   man   the   laws   of   heav'n 

ordain ;  365 

These  goods  He  grants,  who  grants  the  pow'r 

to  gain ; 
With    these    celestial    Wisdom     calms     the 

mind. 
And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not  find. 


WILLIAM   SHENSTONE 

(1714-1763) 

WRITTEN   AT   AN   INN   AT   HENT.EY 

To  thee,  fair  freedom  !  I  retire 

From  flattery,  cards,  and  dice,  and  din  ; 
Nor  art  thou  found  in  mansions  higher 

Than  the  low  cot,  or  humble  mn.  4 

'Tis  here  with  boundless  pow'r  I  reign ; 

And  every  health  which  I  begin, 
Converts  dull  port  to  bright  champagne ; 

Such  freedom  crowns  it,  at  an  inn.  8 

I  fly  from  pomp,  I  fly  from  plate  ! 

I  fly  from  falsehood's  specious  grin  ! 
Freedom  I  love,  and  form  I  hate. 

And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  inn.        12 

Here,  waiter  !  take  my  sordid  ore. 

Which  lacqueys  else  might  hope  to  win ; 

It  buys,  what  courts  have  not  in  store ; 
It  buys  me  freedom  at  an  inn.  16 

Whoe'er  has  travell'd  life's  dull  round. 
Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been, 

May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 

The  warmest  welcome,  at  an  inn.  20 


312 


WILLIAM    SHENSTONE 


From  THE   SCHOOL-MISTRESS 

IN  IMITATION  OF   SPENSER 

Ah  me  !  full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn, 
To  think  how  modest  worth  neglected  lies ; 
While  partial  fame  doth  with  her  blasts 

adorn 
Such  deeds  alone,  as  pride  and  pomp  dis- 
guise ; 
Deeds  of  ill  sort,  and  mischievous  emprize : 
Lend  me  thy  clarion,  goddess !   let  me  try 
To  sound  the  praise  of  merit,  ere  it  dies; 
Such  as  I  oft  have  chaunced  to  espy. 
Lost  in  the  dreary  shades  of  duU  obscurity.  9 

In  ev'ry  village  mark'd  with  httle  spire, 
Embow'r'd  in  trees,  and  hardly  known  to 

fame. 
There  dwells,  in  lowly  shed,  and  mean  attire, 
A  matron   old,   whom   we   school-mistress 

name ; 
Who   boasts   unruly   brats   with   birch   to 

tame; 
They  grieven  sore,  in  piteous  durance  pent, 
Aw'd  by  the  pow'r  of  this  relentless  dame ; 
And  oft-times,  on  vagaries  idly  bent. 
For  unkempt  hair,  or  talk  unconn'd,  are  sorely 

shent.i  18 

And  all  in  sight  doth  rise  a  birchen  tree. 
Which  learning  near  her  little  dome  did 

stow ; 
Whilom  a  twig  of  small  regard  to  see, 
Tho'  now  so  wide  its  waving  branches  flow ; 
And  work  the  simple  vassals  mickle  woe ; 
For  not  a  wind  might  curl  the  leaves  that 

blew. 
But  their  limbs  shudder'd,  and  their  pulse 

beat  low ; 
And  as  they  look'd  they  found  their  horror 

grew. 
And  shap'd  it  into  rods,  and  tingled  at  the 

view.  27 


A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders  thrown ; 

A  russet  kirtle  fenc'd  the  nipping  air ; 

'Twas  simple  russet,^  but  it  was  her  own  ; 

'Twas  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so 
fair; 

'Twas  her  own  labour  did  the  fleece  pre- 
pare; 


^  put  to  shame 


undyed  homespun 


And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils,  rang'd  around, 

Thro'  pious  awe,  did  term  it  passing  rare ; 

For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound. 

And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest 

wight  on  ground.  72 

Albeit  ne  flatt'ry  did  corrupt  her  truth, 

Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear ; 

Goody,   good-woman,  gossip,   n'aunt,^  for- 
sooth. 

Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  ^  she  did  hear ; 

Yet  these  she  challeng'd,   these  she  held 
right  dear : 

Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought  behove, 

Who  should  not  honour 'd  eld  with  these 
revere : 

For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove, 
But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which  did  that  title 
love.  81 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed. 
The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame ; 
Which,  ever  and  anon,  impell'd  by  need. 
Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens,  came ; 
Such  favour  did  her  past  deportment  claim : 
And,  if  neglect  had  lavish'd  on  the  ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  she^  would  collect  the 

same ; 
For  well  she  ^  knew,  and  quaintly  could  ex- 
pound. 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb 
she  found.  90 


In  elbow  chair,  like  that  of  Scottish  stem 
By  the  sharp  tooth  of  cank'ring  eld  defac'd, 
In  which,  when  he  receives  his  diadem. 
Our   sov'reign   prince   and   liefest   liege   is 

plac'd. 
The  matron  sate ;   and  some  with  rank  she 

grac'd, 
(The  source  of  children's  and  of  courtier's 

pride  !) 
Redress'd  affronts,  for  vile  affronts  there 

pass'd ; 
And  -warn'd  them  not  the  fretful  to  deride. 
But  love  each  other  dear,  whatever  them  be- 
tide. 144 

Right  well  she  knew  each  temper  to  descry  ; 
To  thwart  the  proud,  and  the  submiss  •*  to 
raise ; 

^  mine  aunt;  cf.  nuncle  in  King  Lear,  I,  iv,  117 
^  titles    '  the  hen     ■•  submissive 


THOMAS    GRAY 


313 


Some  with  vile  copper  prize '  exalt  on  high, 
And  some  entice  with  pittance  small  of 

praise ; 
And  other  some  with  baleful  sprig  she  'frays : 
Ev'n  absent,  she  the  reins  of  pow'r  doth 

hold,  _ 
While  with  quaint  arts  the  giddy  crowd  she 
sways ;  151 

Forewarn'd,  if  little  bird  their  pranks  be- 
hold, _ 
'Twill  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the  scene 
unfold.  153 

Lo,  now  with  state  she  utters  the  command  ! 
Eftsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair ; 
Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take  in 

hand. 
Which  with  pellucid  horn  secured  are,^ 
To  save  from  finger  wet  the  letters  fair : 
The  work  so  gay,  that  on  their  back  is  seen, 
St.  George's  high  atchievements  does  de- 
clare ; 
On  which  thilk  wight  ^  that  has  y-gazingbeen 
Kens  the  forth-coming  rod,  unpleasing  sight, 
I  ween !  162 

Ah,  luckless  he,  and  bom  beneath  the  beam 
Of  evil  star  !  it  irks  me  whilst  I  write  ! 
As  erst  the  bard  *  by  Muila's  silver  stream, 
Oft,  as  he  told  of  deadly  dolorous  plight, 
Sigh'd  as  he  sung,  and  did  in  tears  indite. 
For  brandishing  the  rod,  she  doth  begin 
To  loose  the  brogues,^  the  stripling's  late 

delight ! 
And  down  they  drop ;    appears  his  dainty 
skin. 
Fair  as  the  furry  coat  of  whitest  ermUin.     171 

O  ruthful  scene  !  when  from  a  nook  obscure, 
His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see : 
All  playful  as  she  sate,  she  grows  demure; 
She  finds  full  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee ; 
She  meditates  a  pray'r  to  set  him  free : 
Nor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny, 
(If  gentle  pardon  could  with  dames  agree) 
To  her  sad  grief  that  swells  in  either  eye, 
And  wrings  her  so  that  all  for  pity  she  could 
die.  180 

No  longer  can  she  now  her  shrieks  com- 
mand ; 
And  hardly  she  forbears  thro'  aweful  fear, 

^  a  penny    ^  hornbooks     '  that  person     *  Ed- 
mund Spenser    °  breeches 


To  rushen  forth,  and,  with  presumptuous 

hand, 
To  stay  harsh  justice  in  its  mid  career. 
On  thee  she  calls,  on  thee,  her  parent  dear ! 
(Ah  !     too   remote   to   ward   the   shameful 

blow  !) 
She  sees  no  kind  domestic  visage  near, 
And  soon  a  flood  of  tears  begins  to  flow ; 
And  gives  a  loose  at  last  to  unavaihng  woe. 


The  other  tribe,  aghast,  with  sore  dismay. 
Attend,  and  conn  their  tasks  with  mickle 

care:  191 

By  turns,  astony'd,  ev'ry  twig  survey, 
And,  from  their  fellow's  hateful  wounds, 

beware ; 
Knowing,  I  wist,i  how  each  the  same  may 

share ; 
'Till  fear  has  taught  them  a  performance 

meet, 
And  to  the  well-known  chest  the  dame  re- 
pair; 
WTience  oft  with  sugar'd  cates  she  doth  'em 

greet, 
And  ginger-bread  y-rare  ;  now,  certes,  doubly 

sweet !  207 


THOMAS    GRAY    (1716-1771) 

AN  ODE 

ON     A     DISTANT     PROSPECT    OF  ETON 
COLLEGE 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

That  crown  the  watry  glade. 
Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's^  holy  Shade; 
And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow  5 

Of  Windsor's  heights  th'  expanse  below 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey. 
Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver- winding  way.  10 

Ah,  happy  hiUs,  ah,  pleasing  shade, 

Ah,  fields  belov'd  in  vain, 
W^here  once  my  careless  childhood  stray'd, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain  ! 

^  certainly    ^  Henry  VI,  the  founder  of  Eton 


314 


THOMAS    GRAY 


I  feel  the  gales,  that  from  ye  blow,  15 

A  momentary  bliss  bestow. 

As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 
'My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  sooth, 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth. 

To  breathe  a  second  spring.  20 

Say,  Father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

FuU  many  a  sprightly  race 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace, 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave  25 

With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave? 

The  captive  linnet  which  enthrall? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed, 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball?  30 

While  some  on  earnest  business  bent 

Their  murm'ring  labours  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint 

To  sweeten  liberty : 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain  35 

The  limits  of  their  little  reign, 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry: 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind. 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 

And  snatch  a  fearful  joy.  40 

Gay  hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possest ; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast : 
Theirs  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue,  45 

Wild  wit,  invention  ever-new. 

And  lively  cheer  of  vigour  born  ; 
The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light, 

That  fly  th'  approach  of  morn.  50 

Alas,  regardless  of  their  doom. 

The  little  victims  play  ! 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day  : 
Yet  see  how  all  around  'em  wait  55 

The  Ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train  ! 
Ah,  shew  them  where  in  ambush  stand 
To  seize  their  prey  the  murth'rous  band  ! 

Ah,  tell  them,  they  are  men  !  60 

These '  shall  the  fury  ^  Passions  tear. 
The  vultures  of  the  mind, 


Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame  that  skulks  behind; 
Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth,       65 
Or  Jealousy  with  rankling  tooth, 

That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart, 
And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visag'd  comfortless  Despair, 

And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart.  70 

Ambition  this  ^  shall  tempt  to  rise. 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high. 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice. 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try,        75 
And  hard  Unkindness'  alter'd  eye. 

That  mocks  the  tear  it  forc'd  to  flow ; 
And  keen  Remorse  with  blood  defil'd. 
And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 

Amid  severest  woe.  80 

Lo,  m  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  griesly  troop  are  seen. 
The  pain  fill  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  Queen : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins,     85 
That  every  labouring  sinew  strains. 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage : 
Lo,  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band. 
That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand. 

And  slow-consuming  Age.  90 

To  each  his  suff 'rings :   aU  are  men, 

Condemn'd  aUke  to  groan. 
The  tender  for  another's  pain ; 

Th'  unfeeUng  for  his  own. 
Yet  ah  !  why  should  they  know  their  fate?  95 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late. 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies. 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 
No  more  ;  where  ignorance  is  bliss,    ' 

'Tis  folly  to  be  wise.  100 


ELEGY 

WRITTEN  IN  A   COUNTRY  CHURCH- 
Y.\RD 

The  Curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea. 

The    plowman    homeward    plods   his   weary 
way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 


^  dir.  obj. 


a  noun  epithet 


this  one 


AN    ELEGY 


315 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the 
sight,  5 

And  all  the  air '  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droningilight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ; " 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tow'r 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such,  as  wand'ring  near  her  secret  bow'r,  11 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  .rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's 
shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mould'ring 
heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid,  15 

The  rude  Forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 

The  swallow  twitt'ring  from  the  straw-built ' 

shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn,  * 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly 

bed.  20 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall 
burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care : 
No  children  nm  to  hsp  their  sire's  return. 

Or  chmb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield,       25 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has 

broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 

How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy 

stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ;  30 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  pow'r, 
And  all  that  beauty,  aU  that  wealth  e'er 
gave. 

Awaits  alike  th'  inevitable  hour.^  35 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  These  the  fault. 
If  Mem'ry  o'er  their  Tomb  no  Trophies 
raise, 

^  dir.  obj.     -  sheep  folds     *  thatched    ■*  of  the 
hunters   *  subject 


Where  thro'  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted 
vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust  41 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  ^  the  sUent  dust, 
Or  Flatt'ry  sooth  ^  the  dull  cold  ear  of 
Death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid  45 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might   have 
sway'd. 
Or  wak'd  to  extasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Kjiowledge  to  their  ej-es  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

ChUl  Penur}'' repress 'd  their  noble  rage,  51 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear: 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen,  55 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village-Hampden,  that  with  dauntless 
breast 
The  little  Tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood ; 
Some  mute  inglorious  INIilton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's 
blood.  60 

Th'  applause  of  Hst'ning  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 
And  read  their  hist'ry  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscrib'd  alone  65 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  con- 
fin'd; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind. 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride  71 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  leam'd  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool  sequester'd  vale  of  life  75 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

^  to  call  forth  to  action   -  humor  by  assenting 


3i6 


THOMAS    GRAY 


Yet  ev'n  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture 
deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh.     80 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd 
Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey,  85 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor  cast  one  longing  ling'ring  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

Ev'n   from   the   tomb   the  voice  of   Nature 

cries,  91 

Ev'n  in  our  Ashes  live  their  wonted  Fires. 


Approach  and  read  (for  thou  can'st  read)  the 

lay,  IIS 

Grav'd  on   the   stone    beneath  yon  aged 

thorn." 

THE  EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  Youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown. 

Fair  Science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth. 
A  nd  Melancholy  mark  'd  him  for  her  own .  120 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soid  sincere, 
Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 

He  gave  to  MisWy  all  he  had,  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  Heaven  {'twas  all  he  wish'd)  a 
friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose,  125 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

{There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


For  thee,  who  mindful  of  th'  unhonour'd  Dead 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 

If  chance,^  by  lonely  contemplation  led,  95 
Some  kindred  Spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  Swain  may  say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn.   100 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch. 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 

Mutt'ring  his  wayward  fancies  he  would 

rove,  106 

Now  drooping,  woeful  wan,  like  one  forlorn. 

Or  craz'd  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless 

love. 

"One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  custom'd  hill. 
Along  the  heath  and  near  his  fav'rite  tree. 

Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill,  1 1 1 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he; 

"  The  next,  v/ith  dirges  due  in  sad  array 
Slow  thro'  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him 
borne. 

^  if  perchance 


THE   PROGRESS  OF  POESY 


A  PINDARIC  ODE 


The  Strophe 

Awake,  ^olian  ^  lyre,  awake. 
And  give  to  rapture  all  thy  trembling  strings. 
From  Helicon's  -  harmonious  springs 
A  thousand  rills  their  mazy  progress  take : 
The  laughing  flowers,  that  round  them  blow. 
Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow.  6 

Now  the  rich  stream  of  music  winds  along 
Deep,  majestic,  smooth,  and  strong. 
Thro'  verdant  vales,  and  Ceres'  golden  reign  : ' 
Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain,  10 

Headlong,  impetuous,  see  it  pour : 
The  rocks,  and  nodding  groves  rebellow  to  the 


The  Antistrophe 

Oh!   Sovereign  of  the  willing  soul, 
Parent  of  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  airs, 
Enchanting  shell!  ■*  the  sullen  Cares,  15 

And  frantic  Passions  hear  thy  soft  control. 

^  Pindaric,  for  so  Pindar  called  his  poetry 
^  Aganippe  and  Hippocrene,  the  fountains  of  the 
Muses  at  the  foot  of  Mt.  Helicon  ^  fields  of  grain 
*  the  lyre 


THE    PROGRESS    OF    POESY 


317 


On  Thracia's  hills  the  Lord  of  War,i 
Has  curb'd  the  fury  of  his  car. 
And  dropp'd  his  thirsty  lance  at  thy  command. 
Perching  on  the  scept'red  hand  20 

Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lidls  the  feather'd  king^ 
With  ruffled  plumes,  and  flagging  wing : 
Quench'd  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 
The  terror  of  his  beak,  and  light 'nings  of  his 
eye. 

The  Epode 

Thee  the  voice,  the  dance,  obey,  25 

Temper'd  to  thy  warbled  lay. 
O'er  Idalia's  ^  velvet-green 
The  rosy-crowned  Loves  are  seen 
On  Cytherea's  day 

With  antic  Sports,  and  blue-eyed  Pleasures,  30 
Fj-isking  light  in  frolic  measures ; 
Now  pursuing,  now  retreating, 
Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet : 
To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating 
Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet.  35 

Slow  melting  strains  their  Queen's  approach 

declare : 
Where'er  she  turns  the  Graces  homage  pay. 
With  arms  sublime,  that  float  upon  the  air, 
In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way : 
O'er  her  warm  cheek,  and  rising  bosom,  move 
The  bloom  of  yoimg  Desire,  and  purple  light 
of  Love.  41 

II 

The  Strophe 

Man's  feeble  race  what  Ills  await, 
Labour,  and  Penury,  the  racks  of  Pain, 
Disease,  and  Sorrow's  weeping  train. 
And  Death,  sad  refuge  from  the  storms  of 

Fate!  45 

The  fond  complaint,  my  Song,  disprove. 
And  justify  the  laws  of  Jove. 
Say,   has    he    giv'n    in    vain    the    heav'nly 

Muse  ? 
Night,  and  all  her  sickly  dews, 
Her  Spectres  wan,  and  Birds  of  boding  cry,  50 
He  gives  to  range  the  dreary  sky : 
Till  down  the  eastern  cliffs"  afar 
Hyperion's^  march  they  spy,   and   glitt'ring 

shafts  of  war. 

'  Mars,  who  was  especially  worshipped  in 
Thrace  ^  Jove's  eagle  ^  a  town  in  Cyprus  con- 
taining a  temple  of  Venus   ^  the  sun's 


The  Antistrophe 

In  climes  beyond  the  solar  road,^ 
Where  shaggy  forms  o'er  ice-built  movmtains 

roam.  55 

The  ]Muse  has  broke  the  twilight -gloom 
To  cheer  the  shiv'ring  Native's  dull  abode. 
And  oft,  beneath  the  od'rous  shade 
Of  Chili's  boundless  forests  laid. 
She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  Youth  repeat 
In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet  61 

Their    feather-cinctured    Chiefs,    and    dusky 

Loves. 
Her  track,  where'er  the  Goddess  roves. 
Glory  pursue,  and  generous  Shame. 
Th'  imconquerable  Mind,  and  Freedom's  holy 

flame.  65 

The  Epode 

Woods,  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep, - 
Isles,  that  cro-yra  th'  ^Egean  deep, 
Fields,  that  cool  Ilissus  laves. 
Or  where  Mieander's  amber  waves 
In  lingering  Lab'rinths  creep,  70 

How  do  your  tuneful  Echoes  languish, 
Mu.te,  but  to  the  voice  of  Anguish  ? 
Where  each  old  poetic  IMountain 
Inspiration  breath'd  around : 
Ev'ry  shade  and  hallow'd  Fountain  75 

INIurmur'd  deep  a  solemn  sound  : 
Till  the  sad  Nine  *  in  Greece's  evil  hour 
Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains.* 
Alike  they  scorn  the  pomp  of  tyrant-Power, 
And  coward  Vice,  that  revels  in  her  chains. 
When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost,  8i 

They  sought,  O  Albion !  ^  next  thy  sea-encircled 
coast. 

Ill 

The  Strophe 

Far  from  the  sim  and  summer-gale. 
In    thv^   green    lap   was   Nature's  Darling^ 

laid, 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  stray'd,  85 

To  Him  the  mighty  jMother  did  unveil 
Her  awful  face  :  The  dauntless  Child 
Stretch'd  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 
This  pencil  take  (she  said)  whose  colours  clear 
Richly  paint  the  vernal  year  :  90 

^  the  path  of  the  sun  -  This  and  the  following 
are  places  celebrated  in  Greek  poetry.  ^  the  Muses 
*  Italy  ^  England  ^  i.e.  England's  ~  Shakespeare 


3i8 


THOMAS    GRAY 


Thine  too  these  golden  keys,  immortal  Boy! 

This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  Joy ; 

Of  Horror  that,  and  thrilUng  Fears, 

Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  Tears. 


The  Antistrophe 


95 


Nor  second  He,^  that  rode  sublime 
Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  Ecstasy, 
The  secrets  of  th'  Abyss  to  spy. 
He  pass'd  the  flaming  bounds  of  Place  and 

Time : 
The  living  Throne,  the  sapphire-blaze, 
Where  Angels  tremble,  while  they  gaze,      loo 
He  saw ;  but  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 
Behold,   where   Dryden's  less  presumptuous 

car. 
Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  Glory  bear 
Two  Coursers^  of  ethereal  race,  105 

With   necks   in   thunder   cloth'd,   and  long- 
resounding  pace. 

The  Epode 

Hark,  his  hands  the  lyre  explore! 
Bright-eyed  Fancy  hovering  o'er 
Scatters  from  her  pictur'd  urn 
Thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  bum. 

But  ah!   'tis  heard  no  more '  iii 

O  Lyre  divine,  what  daring  Spirit 
Wakes  thee  now?  tho'  he  inherit 
Nor  the  pride,  nor  ample  pinion. 
That  the  Theban  Eagle  ^  bear  115 

Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 
Thro'  the  azure  deep  of  air : 
Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 
Such  forms,  as  glitter  in  the  Muse's  ray 
With  orient  hues,  unborrow'd  of  the  Sun  :  120 
Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant  way 
Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate. 
Beneath  the  Good  how  far  —  but  far  above 
the  Great. 

THE   FATAL  SISTERS 

AN   ODE 

(From  the  Norse  Tongue) 

Now  the  storm  begins  to  lower, 
(Haste,  the  loom  of  hell  prepare,) 
Iron-sleet  of  arrowy  shower 
Hurtles  in  the  darken'd  air. 

^  Milton    ^  the  heroic  couplet    '  Pindar 


Glitt'ring  lances  are  the  loom,  5 

Where  the  dusky  warp  we  strain, 
Weaving  many  a  soldier's  doom, 
Orkney's  woe,  and  Randver's  bane.^ 

See  the  griesly  texture  grow, 
('Tis  of  human  entrails  made,)  10 

And  the  weights,-  that  play  below, 
Each  a  gasping  warrior's  head. 

Shafts  for  shuttles,  dipt  in  gore. 
Shoot  the  trembling  cords  along. 
Sword,  that  once  a  monarch  bore,  15' 

Keep  the  tissue -close  and  strong. 

Mista  black,  terrific  maid, 

Sangrida,  and  Hilda  ^  see, 

Join  the  wayward  work  to  aid : 

'Tis  the  woof  of  victory.  20 

Ere  the  ruddy  sun  be  set, 
Pikes  must  shiver,  javelms  sing. 
Blade  with  clattering  buckler  meet, 
Hauberk  crash,  and  helmet  ring. 

(Weave  the  crimson  web  of  war)  25 

Let  us  go,  and  let  us  fly, 
Where  our  friends  the  conflict  share. 
Where  they  triumph,  where  they  die. 

As  the  paths  of  fate  we  tread. 

Wading  thro'  th'  ensanguin'd  field :       30 

Gondula,  and  Geira,*  spread 

O'er  the  youthful  king  your  shield. 

We  the  reins  to  slaughter  give. 

Ours  to  kill,  and  ours  to  spare  : 

Spite  of  danger  he  shall  live.  35 

(Weave  the  crimson  web  of  war.) 

They,  whom  once  the  desert-beach 
Pent  within  its  bleak  domain, 
Soon  their  ample  sway  shall  stretch 
O'er  the  plenty  of  the  plain.  40 

Low  the  dauntless  earl  is  laid, 
Gor'd  with  many  a  gaping  wound : 
Fate  demands  a  nobler  head ; 
Soon  a  king  shall  bite  the  ground. 

*  death  ^  weights  of  the  loom  ^  These  three  are 
Valkyries,  i.e.  goddesses  of  battle.    *  These  two  are 

Valkyries. 


WILLIAM    COLLINS 


319 


Long  his  loss  shall  Eirin^  weep,  45 

Ne'er  again  his  likeness  see  ; 
Long  her  strains  in  sorrow  steep, 
Strams  of  immortality. 

Horror  covers  all  the  heath, 
Clouds  of  carnage  blot  the  sun.  50 

Sisters,  weave  the  web  of  death ; 
Sisters,  cease,  the  work  is  done, 

Hail  the  task,  and  hail  the  hands! 
Songs  of  joy  and  triumph  sing! 
Joy  to  the  victorious  bands ;  55 

Triimiph  to  the  younger  king. 

Mortal,  thou  that  hear'st  the  tale, 
Learn  the  tenor  of  our  song. 
Scotland,  thro'  each  ^\^nding  vale 
Far  and  wide  the  notes  prolong.  60 

Sisters,  hence  with  spurs  of  speed : 
Each  her  thundering  falchion  wield ; 
Each  bestride  her  sable  steed. 
Hurry,  hurry  to  the  field. 

WILLIAM   COLLINS    (1721-1759) 

A      SONG      FROM       SHAKESPEARE'S 
CYMBELYNE 

Sung  by  Giiiderus  and  Arviragus  over  Fidele, 
Supposed  to  be  Dead  ^ 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  op'ning  sweet,  of  earliest  bloom, 

And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear,  5 

To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove ; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  wdther'd  witch  shall  here  be  seen. 

No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew ;  10 

The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green, 
And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew. 

The  redbreast  oft  at  ev'ning  hours 

Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid. 
With  hoary  moss,  and  gather'd  flow'rs,         15 

To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 


When  howling  winds,  and  beating  rain. 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell. 

Or  midst  the  chase  on  ev'ry  plain. 
The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell,   20 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore, 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed : 
Belov'd,  till  life  could  charm  no  more ; 

And  mourn'd,  till  Pity's  self  be  dead. 

ODE 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE 
YEAR    1746 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  aU  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow'd  mold. 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod  5 

Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung. 

By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 

There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  grey. 

To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ;    10 

And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair. 

To  dweU  a  weeping  hermit  there  ! 

ODE   TO  EVENING 

If  ought  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song. 
May  hope,  chaste  Eve,^  to  sooth  thy  modest 
ear, 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs  and  dying  gales, 

O  nymph  reserv'd,  while  now  the  bright- 
hair'd  sun  5 

Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed  : 

Now  air  is  hush'd,  save  where  the  weak-ey'd 

bat. 
With  short  shrill  shriek,  fhts  by  on  leathern 
wing,  10 

Or  where  the  beetle  wmds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path. 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum : 


Ireland        ^  Cf.  Cymbeline,  IV,  ii,  215-29 


Evening 


320 


WILLIAM    COLLINS 


Now  teach  me,  maid  ^  compos'd 
To  breathe  some  soften'd  strain, 


15 


Whose  numbers,  stealing  thro'-  thy  dark'ning 

vale 
May  not  unseenaly  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As,  musing  slow,  I  haU 

Thy  genial  lov'd  return  !  20 

For  when  thy  folding-star  ^  arising  shews 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  elves 

Who  slept  in  flow'rs  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreaths  her  brows 
with  sedge,  25 

And  sheds  the  fresh'ning  dew,  and,  lovelier 
still. 
The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  lead,  calm  vot'ress,  where  some  sheety 

lake 
Cheers  the  lone  heath,  or  some  time-hallow'd 
pile  30 

Or  upland  fallows  grey 
Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

But  when  chill  blust'ring  winds,  or  driving 
rain. 

Forbid  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 
That  from  the  mountain's  side  35 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And    hamlets    brown,     and    dim-discover'd 

spires. 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er 
all 
Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veil.  40 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  show'rs,  as  oft  he 

wont. 
And   bathe   thy   breathing   tresses,    meekest 
Eve; 
While  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  ling'ring  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves  ; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  thro'  the  troublous  air,     46 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes  ; 

*  Evening     ^  ^^g  evening  star,   the  signal   for 
folding  flocks 


So  long,  sure-found  beneath  the  sylvan  shed, 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  rose-lipp'd 

Health,  50 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  hymn  thy  fav'rite  name ! 

THE  PASSIONS 

AN  ODE  TO  MUSIC 

When  Music,  heav'nly  maid,  was  young, 

WhUe  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 

The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell,^ 

Throng'd  around  her  magic  cell, 

Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting,  5 

Possest  beyond  the  Muse's  painting ; 

By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 

Disturb'd,  delighted,  rais'd,  refin'd : 

Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fir'd, 

Fill'd  with  fury,  rapt,  inspir'd,  10 

From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 

They  snatch'd  her  instruments  of  sound ; 

And  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 

Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art. 

Each,  for  madness  rul'd  the  hour,  15 

Would  prove  his  own  expressive  pow'r. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  the  chords  bewilder'd  laid. 

And  back  recoil'd,  he  knew  not  why, 

Ev'n  at  the  sound  himself  had  made.        20 

Next  Anger  rush'd ;   his  eyes,  on  fire. 
In  lightnings  own'd  his  secret  stings ; 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre. 

And  swept  v/ith  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures  wan  Despair  25 

Low  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguil'd ; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air ; 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair. 

What  was  thy  delightful  measure?  30 

Still  it  whisper'd  promis'd  pleasure. 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail ! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong. 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale. 
She  call'd  on  Echo  still  thro'  all  the  song;   35 

And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  ev'ry  close, 
And  Hope  enchanted  smil'd,  and  wav'd  her 
golden  hair. 

^  the  lyre,  cf.  Progress  of  Poesy,  11.  13-15 


THE    PASSIONS 


321 


And    longer    had    she    sung,  —  but   with    a 
frown 
Revenge  impatient  rose ;  40 

He  threw  his  blood-stain'd  sword  in  thunder 
down 
And  with  a  with'ring  look 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
^^'ere  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe.  45 
And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 
The  doubling  drxmi  with  furious  heat ; 
And  tho'  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  be- 
tween, 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side. 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied,  50 

Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unalter'd  mien. 
While  each  strain'd  ball  of  sight  seem'd  burst- 
ing from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealqusy,  to  nought  were  fix'd, 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state ; 
Of   diff'ring    themes    the    veering    song   was 
mix'd, 
And  now  it  courted  Love,  now  raving  call'd 
on  Hate.  56  . 

With  eyes  uprais'd,  as  one  inspir'd, 
Pale  IVIelancholy  sate  retir'd, 
And  from  her  wild  sequester'd  seat, 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet,         60 
Pour'd    thro'    the  mellow  horn  her  pensive 
soul: 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
Bubbling  runnels  join'd  the  sound ; 
Thro'  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure 
stole ; 
Or  o'er  some  haunted  stream   with   fond 
delay  65 

Rovmd  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  peace  and  lonely  musing, 
In  hoUow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  oh,  how  alter'd  was  its  sprightlier  tone, 
WTien   Cheerfulness,   a  nymph  of  healthiest 
hue. 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung,  71 

Her  buskins  ^  gemm'd  with  morning  dew. 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket 
rung, 
The  hunter's  call  to  faun  and  dryad  known  ! 
The  oak-crown'd  sisters,^  and  their  chaste- 
ey'd  queen,  75 

^  boots     ^  nymphs  of  the  "chaste-eyed  queen" 
Diana 


Satyrs,  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen, 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  ; 
Brown  Exercise  rejoic'd  to  hear, 

And  Sport  leapt  up  and  seiz'd  his  beechen 

spear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial.  80 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing. 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest ; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awak'ning  viol, 
WTiose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  lov'd  the 
best. 
They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the 
strain,  85 

They  saw  in  Tempe's  vale^  her  native 

maids 
Amidst  the  vestal  sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kiss'd  the  strings. 
Love  fram'd  with   Mirth  a  gay  fantastic 
round ;  90 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  un- 
bound. 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play. 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook  thousand  odours  from  his  dewy  wings. 

O  Music,  sphere-descended-  maid,  95 

Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid, 

Why,  goddess,  why,  to  us  denied, 

Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside? 

As  in  that  lov'd  Athenian  bow'r 

You  learn'd  an  all-commanding  pow'r,        100 

Thy  mimic  soul,  O  nymph  endear'd, 

Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 

WTiere  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 

Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art  ? 

Arise  as  in  that  elder  time,  105 

Warm,  energic,  chaste,  sublime  ! 

Thy  wonders,  in  that  godlike  age. 

Fill  thy  recording  sister's  ^  page.  — 

'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale, 

Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail,       no 

Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage. 

Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age, 

Ev'n  all  at  once  together  found, 

Caecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound. 

O  bid  our  vain  endeavours  cease,  115 

Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece, 

Return  in  all  thy  simple  state. 

Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate  ! 

^  Cf.,  below,  note  on  Keats'  Ode  on  a  Grecian 
Urn,  1.  7  -  heaven-descended  '  Clio,  the  Muse 
of  history 


322 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


THOMAS   WARTON    (17 2 8-1790) 

SONNET  IV 
WRITTEN  AT   STONEHENGE 

Thou  noblest  monument  of  Albion's  isle  ! 
Whether  by  Merlin's  aid  from  Scythia's  shore, 
To  Amber's  fatal  plain  ^  Pendragon  ^  bore, 
Huge  frame  of  giant-hands,  the  mighty  pile, 
T'entomb   his   Britons   slain   by    Hengist's' 

guUe: 
Or  Druid  priests,  sprinkled  with  human  gore, 
Taught  'mid  thy  massy  maze  their  mystic 

lore : 
Or  Danish  chiefs,  enrich'd  with  savage  spoil. 
To  Victory's  idol  vast,  an  imhewn  shrine, 
P^.ear'd  the  rude  heap:     or,  in  thy  hallow'd 

round,  10 

Repose  the  kings  of  Brutus'  genuine  line ; 
Or  here   those   kings   m   solemn,  state  were 

crown'd : 
Studious  to  trace  thy  wondrous  origine. 
We  muse  on  many  an  ancient  tale  renown'd. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 

(1728-1774) 

LETTERS  FROM  A  CITIZEN  OF  THE 

WORLD  TO  HIS  FRIENDS  IN 

THE   EAST 

LETTER  XXI 

The  Chinese  goes  to  see  a  Play 

The  English  are  as  fond  of  seeing  plays  acted 
as  the  Chinese ;  but  there  is  a  vast  difference 
in  the  manner  of  conducting  them.  We  play 
our  pieces  in  the  open  air,  the  English  theirs 
under  cover ;  we  act  by  daylight,  they  by  the 
blaze  of  torches.  One  of  our  plays  continues 
eight  or  ten  days  successively ;  an  English 
piece  seldom  takes  up  above  four  hours  in 
the  representation; 

My  companion  in  black,  with  whom  I  am 
now  beginning  to  contract  an  intimacy,  intro- 
duced me  a  few  nights  ago  to  the  playhouse, 
where  wc  placed  ourselves  conveniently  at  the 
foot  of  the  stage.     As  the  curtain  was  not 

^  near  Salisbury  ^  Uther  Pendragon,  father  of 
King  Arthur     ^  leader  of  the  Saxons 


drawn  before  my  arrival,  I  had  an  opportunity 
of  observing  the  behaviour  of  the  spectators, 
and  indulging  those  reflections  which  novelty 
generally  inspires. 

The  rich  in  general  were  placed  in  the  lowest 
seats,  and  the  poor  rose  above  them  in  degrees 
proportioned  to  their  poverty.  The  order  of 
precedence  seemed  here  inverted ;  those  who 
were  undermost  all  the  day,  now  enjoyed  a 
temporary  eminence,  and  became  masters  of 
the  ceremonies.  It  was  they  who  called  for 
the  music,  indulging  every  noisy  freedom, 
and  testifying  all  the  insolence  of  beggary  in 
exaltation. 

They  who  held  the  middle  region  seemed  not 
so  riotous  as  those  above  them,  nor  yet  so 
tame  as  those  below :  to  judge  by  their  looks, 
many  of  them  seemed,  strangers  there  as  well 
as  myself.  They  were  chiefly  employed, 
during  this  period  of  expectation,  in  eating 
oranges,  reading  the  story  of  the  play,  or 
making  assignations. 

Those  who  sat  in  the  lowest  rows,  which  are 
called  the  pit,  seemed  to  consider  themselves 
as  judges  of  the  merit  of  the  poet  and  the 
performers ;  they  were  assembled  partly  to  be 
amused,  and  partly  to  show  their  taste ;  ap- 
pearing to  labour  under  that  restraint  which 
an  affectation  of  superior  discernment  gen- 
erally produces.  My  companion,  however, 
informed  me,  that  not  one  in  a  hundred  of 
them  knew  even  the  first  principles  of  criti- 
cism ;  that  they  assumed  the  right  of  being 
censors  because  there  was  none  to  contradict 
their  pretensions;  and  that  every  man  who 
now  called  himself  a  connoisseur,  became  such 
to  all  intents  and  purposes. 

Those  who  sat  in  the  boxes  appeared  in  the 
most  unhappy  situation  of  all.  The  rest  of 
the  audience  came  merely  for  their  own 
amusement;  these,  rather  to  furnish  out  a 
part  of  the  entertainment  themselves.  I 
could  not  avoid  considering  them  as  acting 
parts  in  dumb  show  —  not  a  courtesy  or  nod, 
that  was  not  all  the  result  of  art ;  not  a  look 
nor  a  smile  that  was  not  designed  for  murder. 
Gentlemen  and  ladies  ogled  each  other  through 
spectacles;  for,  my  companion  observed,  that 
Ijlindness  was  of  late  become  fashionable; 
all  affected  indifference  and  ease,  while  their 
hearts  at  the  same  time  burned  for  conquest. 
Upon  the  whole,  the  lights,  the  music,  the 
ladies  in  their  gayest  dresses,  the  men  with 
cheerfulness  and  expectation  in  their  looks, 
all  conspired  to  make  a  most  agreeable  pic' 


LETTERS  FROM  A  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD 


323 


ture,  and  to  fiU  a  heart  that  sympathises  at 
human  happiness  with  inexpressible  serenity. 

The  expected  time  for  the  play  to  begin  at 
last  arrived ;  the  curtain  was  drawn,  and  the 
actors  came  on.  A  woman,  who  personated  a 
queen,  came  in  curtseying  to  tlae  audience, 
who  clapped  their  hands  upon  her  appear- 
ance. Clapping  of  hands  is,  it  seems,  the 
manner  of  applauding  in  England ;  the  man- 
ner is  absurd,  but  every  covmtry,  you  know, 
has  its  pecuUar  absurdities.  I  was  equally 
surprised,  however,  at  the  submission  of  the 
actress,  who  should  have  considered  herself 
as  a  queen,  as  at  the  little  discernment  of  the 
audience  who  gave  her  such  marks  of  applause 
before  she  attempted  to  deserve  them.  Pre- 
liminaries between  her  and  the  audience 
being  thus  adjusted,  the  dialogue  was  sup- 
ported between  her  and  a  most  hopeful  youth, 
who  acted  the  part  of  her  confidant.  They 
both  appeared  in  extreme  distress,  for  it 
seems  the  queen  had  lost  a  child  some  fifteen 
years  before,  and  stiU  kept  its  dear  resem- 
blance next  her  heart,  while  her  kind  compan- 
ion bore  a  part  in  her  sorrows. 

Her  lamentations  grew  loud ;  comfort  is 
offered,  but  she  detests  the  very  soimd :  she 
bids  them  preach  comfort  to  the  winds.  Upon 
this  her  husband  comes  in,  who,  seeing  the 
queen  so  much  afflicted,  can  himself  hardly 
refrain  from  tears,  or  avoid  partaking  in  the 
soft  distress.  After  thus  grieving  through 
three  scenes,  the  curtain  dropped  for  the  first 
act. 

"Truly,"  said  I  to  my  companion,  "these 
kings  and  queens  are  very  much  disturbed  at 
no  very  great  misfortune :  certain  I  am,  were 
people  of  humbler  stations  to  act  in  this  man- 
ner, they  would  be  thought  divested  of  com- 
mon sense."  I  had  scarcely  finished  this 
observation,  when  the  curtain  rose,  and  the 
king  came  on  in  a  violent  passion.  His  wife 
had,  it  seems,  refused  his  proffered  tenderness, 
had  spurned  his  royal  embrace,  and  he  seemed 
resolved  not  to  survive  her  fierce  disdain. 
After  he  had  thus  fretted,  and  the  queen  had 
fretted  through  the  second  act,  the  curtain 
was  let  down  once  more. 

"Now,"  says  my  companion,  "you perceive 
the  king  to  be  a  man  of  spirit ;  he  feels  at  every 
pore :  one  of  your  phlegmatic  sons  of  clay 
would  have  given  the  queen  her  own  way,  and 
let  her  come  to  herself  by.  degrees ;  but  the 
king  is  for  immediate  tenderness,  or  instant 
death :     death    and    tenderness    are    leading 


passions  of  every  modern  buskined  hero; 
this  moment  they  embrace,  and  the  next 
stab,  mixing  daggers  and  kisses  in  every 
period." 

I  was  going  to  second  his  remarks,  when 
my  attention  was  engrossed  by  a  new  object ; 
a  man  came  in  balancing  a  straw  upon  his 
nose,  and  the  audience  were  clapping  their 
hands,  in  all  the  raptures  of  applause.  "To 
what  purpose,"  cried  I,  "does  this  unmeaning 
figure  make  his  appearance?  is  he  a  part 
of  the  plot?"  —  "Unmeaning  do  you  call 
him?"  replied  my  friend  in  black;  "this  is 
one  of  the  most  important  characters  of  the 
whole  play ;  nothing  pleases  the  people  more 
than  seeing  a  straw  balanced :  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  meaning  in  the  straw :  there  is  some- 
thing suited  to  every  apprehension  in  the 
sight ;  and  a  feUow  possessed  of  talents  like 
these  is  sure  of  making  his  fortune." 

The  third  act  now  began  with  an  actor  who 
came  to  inform  us  that  he  was  the  villain  of  the 
play,  and  intended  to  show  strange  things 
before  all  was  over.  He  was  joined  by 
another  who  seemed  as  much  disposed  for 
mischief  as  he:  their  intrigues  continued 
through  this  whole  division.  "If  that  be  a 
villain,"  said  I,  "he  must  be  a  very  stupid  one 
to  teU  his  secrets  without  being  asked ;  such 
soliloquies  of  late  are  never  admitted  in 
China." 

The  noise  of  clapping  interrupted  me  once 
more;  a  child  of  six  years  old  was  learning 
to  dance  on  the  stage,  which  gave  the  ladies 
and  mandarines  infinite  satisfaction.  "I  am 
sorry,"  said  I,  "to  see  the  pretty  creature  so 
early  learning  so  very  bad  a  trade ;  dancing 
being,  I  presume,  as  contemptible  here  as  in 
China."  —  "Quite  the  reverse,"  interrupted 
my  companion ;  "  dancing  is  a  very  reputable 
and  genteel  employment  here;  men  have  a 
greater  chance  for  encouragement  from  the 
merit  of  their  heels  than  their  heads.  One 
who  jumps  up  and  flourishes  his  toes  three 
times  before  he  comes  to  the  ground,  may  have 
three  himdred  a  year ;  he  who  flourishes  them 
four  times,  gets  four  hundred;  but  he  who 
arrives  at  five  is  inestimable,  and  may  demand 
what  salary  he  thinks  proper.  The  fpmale 
dancers,  too,  are  valued  for  this  sort  of  jump-f 
mg  and  crossing;  and  it  is  a  cant  word 
amongst  them,  that  she  deserves  most  who 
shows  highest.  But  the  fourth  act  is  begun ; 
let  us  be  attentive." 

In  the  fourth  act  the  queen  finds  her  long 


324 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


lost  child,  now  grown  up  into  a  youth  of 
smart  parts  and  great  qualifications ;  where- 
fore she  wisely  considers  that  the  crown  will 
fit  his  head  better  than  that  of  her  husband, 
whom  she  knows  to  be  a  driveller.  The  king 
discovers  her  design,  and  here  comes  on  the 
deep  distress :  he  loves  the  queen,  and  he  loves 
the  kingdom  ;  he  resolves,  therefore,  in  order 
to  possess  both,  that  her  son  must  die.  The 
queen  exclaims  at  his  barbarity,  is  frantic 
with  rage,  and  at  length,  overcome  with 
sorrow,  falls  into  a  fit ;  upon  which  the  cur- 
tain drops,  and  the  act  is  concluded. 

"Observe  the  art  of  the  poet,"  cries  my 
companion.  "When  the  queen  can  say  no 
more,  she  falls  into  a  fit.  While  thus  her 
eyes  are  shut,  while  she  is  supported  in  the 
arms  of  Abigail,^  what  horrors  do  we  not 
fancy  !  We  feel  it  in  every  nerve :  take  my 
word  for  it,  that  fits  are  the  true  aposiopesis^ 
of  modern  tragedy." 

The  fifth  act  began,  and  a  busy  piece  it  was. 
Scenes  shifting,  trumpets  sounding,  mobs  hal- 
looing, carpets  spreading,  guards  busthng 
from  one  door  to  another ;  gods,  demons, 
daggers,  racks,  and  ratsbane.  But  whether 
the  king  was  killed,  or  the  queen  was  drowned, 
or  the  son  was  poisoned,  I  have  absolutely 
forgotten. 

When  the  play  was  over,  I  could  not  avoid 
observing,  that  the  persons  of  the  drama  ap- 
peared in  as  much  distress  in  the  first  act  as 
the  last.  "How  is  it  possible,"  said  I,  "to 
sympathise  with  them  through  five  long  acts  ? 
Pity  is  but  a  short  lived  passion.  I  hate  to 
hear  an  actor  mouthing  trifles.  Neither 
startings,  strainings,  nor  attitudes,  affect  me, 
unless  there  be  cause :  after  I  have  been  once 
or  twice  deceived  by  those  unmeaning  alarms, 
my  heart  sleeps  in  peace,  probably  unaffected 
by  the  principal  distress.  There  should  be 
one  great  passion  aimed  at  by  the  actor  as 
well  as  the  poet ;  all  the  rest  should  be  subor- 
dinate, and  only  contribute  to  make  that  the 
greater ;  if  the  actor,  therefore,  exclaims 
upon  every  occasion,  in  the  tones  of  despair, 
he  attempts  to  move  us  too  soon ;  he  antici- 
pates the  blow,  he  ceases  to  affect,  though 
he  gains  our  applause." 

I  scarce  perceived  that  the  audience  were 
almost  all  departed ;  wherefore,  mixing  with 
the  crowd,  my  companion  and  I  got  into  the 

^  her  maid  ^  as  a  figure  of  rhetoric,  a  sudden 
termination  before  a  speech  is  really  completed 


street,  where,  essaying  a  hundred  obstacles 
from  coach-wheels  and  palanquin  poles,  like 
birds  in  their  flight  through  the  branches  of  a 
forest,  after  various  turnings,  we  both  at 
length  got  home  in  safety.     Adieu. 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE 

Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain ; 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labour- 
ing swain. 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid. 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  de- 
layed : 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease,     5 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could 

please. 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 
Where    humble    happiness    endeared     each 

scene ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm,         10 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighbouring 

hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the 

shade 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  ! 
How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day,       15 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free. 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading 

tree, 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade,  19 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed  ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground. 
And  sleights  of  art,  and  feats  of  strength  went 

round. 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired  ; 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ;      26 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face. 
While    secret    laughter    tittered    round    the 

place ; 
The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love. 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks 
reprove:  30 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  !  sports 

like  these. 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to 

please : 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influ- 
ence shed : 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE 


325 


These  were  thy  charms  —  but  all  these  charms 

are  fled. 
Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  with- 
drawn ;  36 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain.  40 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,   choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy 

way ; 
Along  the  glades,  a  solitary  guest,        •  • 
The  hollow  sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies,  45 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  mivaried  cries ; 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all. 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering 

waU ; 
And  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's 

hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  chUdren  leave  the  land.   50 

lU  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey. 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay  : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has 

made :  54 

But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  comitry's  pride. 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 
A  time    there    was,    ere    England's    griefs 

began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its 

man ; 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome 

store, 
Just  gave  what  Ufe  required,  but  gave  no 

more :  60 

His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health ; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 
But  times  are  altered ;    trade's  unfeeling 

train 
Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swain  ;    64 
Along    the   lawn,   where    scattered    hamlets 

rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose, 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied. 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
These  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  httle  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peace- 
ful scene,  •  71 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the 

green ; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 


Sweet  Auburn  !  parent  of  the  bHssful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds  77 

Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn 

grew,  80 

Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to 

pain. 
In  aU  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of 

care, 
In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  given  my 

share  —  84 

I  stifl  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown. 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  hfe's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose : 
I  stiU  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  stiU, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned 

skill,  90 

Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  teU  of  aU  I  felt,  and  aU  I  saw ; 
And,   as  an  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns 

pursue 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she 

flew, 
I  StiU  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past,    95 
Here  to  return  —  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  hfe's  decline. 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine. 
How  happy  he  who  crowns  in  shades  hke  these 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease ;       100 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations 

try. 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep. 
Explore  the  mine  or   tempt   the  dangerous 

deep; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guflty  state,        105 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end. 
Angels  aroimd  befriending  Virtue's  friend ; 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay. 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ;   no 
And,  aU  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last. 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past ! 
Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's 

close 
Up  yonder  hfll  the  vfllage  murmur  rose.     114 
There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung. 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to   meet   their 

young, 


326 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whis- 

permg  wind,  121 

And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  ^ 

mind ;  — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade. 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had 

made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail,       125 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grov/n  foot-way  tread, 
For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  wddowed,  solitary  thing. 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring : 
She,    wretched    matron,    forced    in   age,    for 

bread,  131 

To   strip   the   brook   with   mantling   cresses 

spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn. 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn  ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train,        135 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden 

smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows 

wild ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  dis- 
close. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  aU  the  country  dear,        141 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change 

his  place ; 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power,  145 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train ; 
He  chid  their  wanderings  but  relieved  their 

pain:  150 

The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose    beard    descending    swept    his    aged 

breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims 

allowed ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay,    155 
Sat  by  the  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away. 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch  and  showed  how  fields 


were  won. 


^  unoccupied  by  care 


Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned 

to  glow. 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe;  160 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  Virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call,  165 

He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for 

all; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 
Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,   and  pain  by  turns  dis- 
mayed, 172 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to 

raise,  175 

And    his    last    faltering    accents    whispered 

praise. 
At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to 

pray.  180 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 
Even  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's 

smile.  184 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest ; 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  dis- 

trest : 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were 

given. 
But  aU  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  chff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the 

storm,  1 00 

Tho'  round  its  breast  the  roUing  clouds  are 

spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the 

way, 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay. 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view;   197 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew ; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to 

trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ;     200 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE 


327 


Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 

At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 

Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught,      205 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew : 

'Twas  certain  he  coiild  write,  and  cipher  too  ; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  pre- 
sage, 209 

And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge ; 

Li  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 

For,  even  tho'  vanquished,  he  could  argue 
still; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thunder- 
ing sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder 
grew,  215 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 
But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 

Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  Hfts  its  head  on  high. 

Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing 
eye,  220 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 
inspired. 

Where  graybeard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  re- 
tired, 

Where  yiUage  statesmen  talked  with  looks  pro- 
found, 

And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went 
round. 

Imaguaation  fondly  stoops  to  trace  225 

The  parlour  splendotu-s  of  that  festive  place : 

The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded 
floor, 

The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the 
door; 

The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 

A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use. 

The  twelve  good  rules,  ^  the  ro3'al  game  of 
goose;-  232 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chiU'd  the 
day, 

With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel 
.gay; 

While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show. 

Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 
\'ain  transitory  splendours  !  could  not  all 

Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  faU? 

^  a  card  containing  maxims  of  conduct  attrib- 
uted to  Charles  I  '  a  game  much  like  Parchesi 


Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart. 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair  241 
To  sweet  obUvion  of  his  di^ily  care ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale. 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,   and  lean  to 

hear ;  246 

The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss ^  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  wflling  to  be  prest. 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest.      250 
Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  Nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first  bom 

sway;  256 

Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconiined. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade. 
With   all   the   freaks   of   wanton   wealth  ar- 
rayed—  260 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasvu-e  sickens  mto  pain ; 
And,  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy. 
Ye   friends   to    truth,    ye    statesmen   who 

survey  265 

The  rich  man's  joy  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  an  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted 

ore,  269 

And    shouting    Folly  hails    them    from    her 

shore ; 
Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  coimt  our  gains !     This  wealth  is  but  a 

name  2  74 

That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and 

pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied ; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds. 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds  : 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  Hnibs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half 

their  growth ;  280 

His  seat,^  where  sohtar>^  sports  are  seen. 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green : 

^  i.e.,  foaming  ale        ^  great  house 


328 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  aU  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies ;  ^ 
While  thus  the  land  adorned  for  pleasure  all 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall.  286 

As  some  fair  female  unadorned  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign. 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  sup- 
plies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 
But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms 

are  frail,  291 

\¥hen  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 
Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed :    295 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed, 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise. 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 
While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling 

land  299 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band. 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 

The  country  blooms  —  a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Wliere    then,    ah !    where,    shall    poverty 

reside. 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide. 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  ^  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped  —  what  waits  him  there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ;  310 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind ; 
To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe.     314 
Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade. 
There  the  pale  artist  ^  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 
Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps 

display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight 

reign  319 

Here,  richly  deckt,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  : 
Tumultuous    grandeur    crowds    the    blazing 

square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'en  annoy  ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?  —  Ah,  turn 

thine  eyes  325 

^  i.e.,  useful  products  are  exchanged  for  luxu- 
ries ^  a  field  in  which  all  villagers  were  entitled 
to  pasture  their  cattle  free  '  artisan 


Where   the  poor  houseless   shivering  female 

lies. 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet   as   the   primrose   peeps   beneath   the 

thorn :  330 

Now  lost  to  all ;  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head. 
And,  pinch 'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from 

the  shower. 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town,      335 
She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 
Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  —  thine,  the  love- 
liest train,  — 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread  ! 
Ah,  no  !    To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
WTiere  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they 

go, 
Where  wild  Altama^  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far   different   there   from   all   that   charm'd 

before,  _  345 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore ; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray. 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day ; 
Those  matted  woods,  where  birds  forget  to 

sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ;    350 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance 

crowned. 
Where     the    dark    scorpion    gathers    death 

around ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake ; 
Where    crouching   tigers   wait    their   hapless 

prey,  _        355 

And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than 

they ; 
\Vhile  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling    the    ravaged    landscape   with    the 

skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy  vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove,  361 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 
Good  Heaven  !  what  sorrows  gloom'd  that 

parting  day. 
That   called   them   from   their   native   walks 

away; 

^  the  Altamaha  river,  in  Georgia 


RETALIATION 


329 


When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked 

their  last,  366 

And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main. 
And  shuddering  stUl  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go      371 
To  new  found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave. 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears,  375 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years. 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms. 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints   the   mother   spoke  her 

woes. 
And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose. 
And  kist  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a 

tear  381 

And  claspt  them  close,  in  sorrow  dbubly  dear. 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  luxury !  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  iU  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for 

thee !  386 

How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy. 
Diffuse  their  pleasure  only  to  destroy  ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  groT\Ti, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour,  not  their  own.        390 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they 

grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  imwieldy  woe ; 
Till  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  un- 
sound, 
Down,  dowTi,  they  smk,  and  spread  a  ruin 

round. 
Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun,        395 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
Even  now,   methinks,   as   pondering  here  I 

stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the 

sail. 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale,     400 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band. 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care. 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there ; 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above,  405 

And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid. 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade ; 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame  409 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame ; 


Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried. 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me 

so ;  414 

Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell,  and  oh  !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs,^  or  Pambamarca's  side,- 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow. 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow,  420 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time. 
Redress  the  rigours  of  the  inclement  clime ; 
Aid  shghted  truth  wdth  thy  persuasive  strain ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him,   that   states   of   native   strength 

possest, 
Tho'  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ;     426 
That   trade's  proud  empire  hastes   to   swift 

decay. 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  laboured  mole  away ; 
Wlaile  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy. 
As  rocks  resist  the  biUows  and  the  sky.^     430 

From  RETALIATION 


At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast, 
WTio'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last  ? 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine,  let  me  sit  while  I'm 

able. 
Till  aU  my  companions  sink  under  the  table; 
Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my 

head,  21 

Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the 

dead. 
Here  lies  the  good  Dean,^  reunited  to  earth, 
Who  mLx'd  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom 

with  mirth. 
If  he  had  any  favflts,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt, 
At  least  in  six  weeks  I  could  not  find  them 

out; 
Yet   some   have   declared,    and   it    can't   be 

denied  them. 
That  Slyboots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide 

them. 
Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,^  whose  genius 

was  such,  29 

We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too  much ; 

^  on  the  boundary  between  Russia  and  Sweden 
-  a  mountain  in  Ecuador  ^  Lines  427-30  were 
added  by  Dr.  Johnson.  *  Dr.  Barnard,  Dean  of 
Derry    °  Edmund  Burke 


33° 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrow'd  his 
mind, 

And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for 
mankind : 

Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  strain- 
ing his  throat 

To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  ^  to  lend  him 
a  vote ; 

Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  stUl  went  on 
refining. 

And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they 
thought  of  dining ; 

Tho'  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  \mfit ; 

Too  nice  ^  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 

For  a  patriot  too  cool;  for  a  drudge  diso- 
bedient ; 

And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expe- 
dient. 40 

In  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemploy'd  or  in 
place,  Sir, 

To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a 
razor. 


Here  Cumberland  *  lies,  having   acted   his 

parts, 
The    Terence    of    England,    the    mender    of 

hearts ; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they 

are. 
His    gallants    are    all    faultless,    his    women 

divine. 
And  Comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine ; 
Like  a  tragedy-queen  he  has  dizen'd  her  out, 
Or  rather  like  tragedy  giAdng  a  rout. 
His  fools  have  their  folhes  so  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of    virtues    and    feelings,    that    folly    grows 

proud ;  70 

And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone. 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their 

own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught  ? 
Or    wherefore    his    characters    thus    without 

fault? 
Say,  was  it,  that  vainly  directing  his  \dcw 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them 

few, 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself? 


^  a  member  of  Parliament  -  fastidious  ^  Richard 
Cumberland,  dramatist 


Here  lies  David  Garrick,^  describe  him  who 

can? 
An  abridgment  of  aU  that  was  pleasant  in 

man; 
As  an  actor,  confest  without  rival  to  shine ; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line ; 
Yet  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent 

heart. 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art ; 
Like    an    ill-judging  beauty  his   colours  he 

spread. 
And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his  own  natural 

red.  ICO 

On  the  stage  he  was  natviral,  simple,  affecting, 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  act- 
ing; 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 
He  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day : 
Tho'  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly 

sick 
If  they  wAe  not  his  own  by  finessing  and 

trick ; 
He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a  himtsman  his  pack, 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle 

them  back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swaUow'd  what 

came,  109 

And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 
Till  his  rehsh  grown  callous,  almost  to  disease. 
Who  pepper'd  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind : 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
Ye  Kenricks,  ye  KeUys,  and  Woodfalls  so 

grave,^ 
What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got 

and  you  gave ! 
How  did  Grub  Street  ^  re-echo  the  shouts  that 

you  raised, 
When  he  was  be-Roscius'd,^  and  you  were  be- 

praised ! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 
To  act  as  an  angel,  and  mix  with  the  skies  ! 
Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his 

skill,  121 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will ; 
Old  Shakespeare  receive  him  with  praise  and 

with  love. 
And  Beaumonts   and   Bens''  be   his    Kellys 

above. 


^  the  greatest  actor  of  his  day  ^  dramatists 
and  critics  of  the  time  ^  where  hack-writers  lived 
"*  Roscius  was  the  greatest  comic  actor  of  ancient 
Rome.     ^  Ben  Jonson  and  the  Uke 


EDMUND    BURKE 


331 


Here  Reynolds  ^  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my 

mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind. 
His  pencU  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand ; 
His   manners   were   gentle,    complying,    and 

bland ; 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part,        141 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judged  without  skill  he  was  still  ^ 

hard  of  hearing ; 
When  they  talk'd  of  their  Raphaels,  Correg- 

gios  and  stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,^  and  only  took  snuflE. 


EDMUND    BURKE    (1729-1797) 

From    SPEECH    ON    THE    NABOB    OF 
ARGOT'S  DEBTS 


The  great  fortunes  made  in  India,  in  the 
beginnings  of  conquest,  naturally  excited  an 
emulation  in  all  the  parts  and  through  the 
whole  succession  of  the  Company's  ser\'ice. 
But  in  the  Company  it  gave  rise  to  other  sen- 
timents. They  did  not  find  the  new  channels 
of  acquisition  flow  with  equal  riches  to  them. 
On  the  contrary,  the  high  flood-tide  of  private 
emolument  was  generally  in  the  lowest  ebb  of 
their  affairs.  They  began  also  to  fear  that  the 
fortune  of  war  might  take  away  what  the  for- 
tune of  war  had  given.  W^ars  were  accord- 
ingly discouraged  by  repeated  injunctions  and 
menaces :  and  that  the  servants  might  not  be 
bribed  into  them  by  the  native  princes,  they 
were  strictly  forbidden  to  take  any  money 
whatsoever  from  their  hands.  But  vehement 
passion  is  ingenious  in  resources.  The  Com- 
pany's servants  were  not  only  stimulated,  but 
better  instructed  by  the  prohibition.  They 
soon  fell  upon  a  contrivance  which  answered 
their  purposes  far  better  than  the  methods 
which  were  forbidden:  though  in  this  also 
they  violated  an  ancient,  but  they  thought,  an 
abrogated  order.  They  reversed  their  pro- 
ceedings. Instead  of  receivmg  presents,  they 
made  loans.  Instead  of  carrying  on  wars  in 
their  own  name,  they  contrived  an  authority, 

^  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  the  most  famous  Eng- 
lish painter  of  the  time  ^  alwa)^  ^  ear-trumpet 


at  once  irresistible  and  irresponsible,  in  whose 
name  they  might  ravage  at  pleaisure ;  and 
being  thus  freed  from  all  restraint,  they  in- 
dvdged  themselves  in  the  most  extravagant 
speculations  of  plunder.  The  cabal  ^  of  cred- 
itors who  have  been  the  object  of  the  late 
bountiful  grant  from  his  Majesty's  ministers, 
in  order  to  possess  themselves,  under  the  name 
of  creditors  and  assignees,  of  every  country 
in  India,  as  fast  as  it  should  be  conquered, 
inspired  mto  the  mind  of  the  Nabob  of  Arcot  ^ 
(then  a  dependent  on  the  Company  of  the 
humblest  order)  a  scheme  of  the  most  vvild 
and  desperate  ambition  that  I  beUeve  ever 
was  admitted  into  the  thoughts  of  a  man  so 
situated.  First,  they  persuaded  him  to  con- 
sider him^self  as  a  principal  member  in  the 
political  system  of  Europe.  In  the  next 
place,  they  held  out  to  him,  and  he  readily 
imbibed,  the  idea  of  the  general  empire  of 
Hindostan.  As  a  preliminary  to  this  under- 
taking, they  prevailed  on  him  to  propose  a 
tripartite  division  of  that  vast  country :  one 
part  to  the  Company  ;  another  to  the  Mahrat- 
tas ;  ^  and  the  third  to  himself.  To  himself  he 
reserved  all  the  southern  part  of  the  great 
peninsula,  comprehended  under  the  general 
name  of  the  Deccan. 

On  this  scheme  of  their  servants,  the  Com- 
-pany  was  to  appear  in  the  Carnatic^  in  no  other 
light  than,  as  a  contractor  for  the  provision  of 
armies,  and  the  hire  of  mercenaries  for  his  use 
and  under  his  direction.  This  disposition  was 
to  be  secured  by  the  Nabob's  putting  himself 
vmder  the  guaranty  of  France,  and,  by  the 
means  of  that  rival  nation,  preventing  the 
English  forever  from  assuming  an  equality, 
much  l^s  a  superiority,  in  the  Carnatic.  In 
pursuance  of  this  treasonable  project,  (trea- 
sonable on  the  part  of  the  English,)  they 
extinguished  the  Company  as  a  sovereign 
power  in  that  part  of  India ;  they  withdrew 
the  Company's  garrisons  out  of  aU  the  forts 
and  strongholds  of  the  Carnatic;  they  de- 
clined to  receive  the  ambassadors  from  foreign 
courts,  and  remitted  them  to  the  Nabob  of 
Arcot ;  they  fell  upon,  and  totally  destroyed, 
the  oldest  ally  of  the  Company,  the  king  of 
Tanjore,*  and  plimdered  the  coimtrj^  to  the 

^  conspiracy  ^  a  city  west  and  a  little  south  of 
Madras  *  a  warlike  race  of  western  and  central 
India  *  a  district  on  the  eastern  coast  of  India, 
now  a  part  of  the  province  of  ^Madras  "  a  state 
southwest  of  Madras 


332 


EDMUND    BURKE 


amount  of  near  five  millions  sterling;  one 
after  another,  in  the  Nabob's  name,  but  with 
English  force,  they  brought  into  a  miserable 
servitude  all  the  princes  and  great  independent 
nobihty  of  a  vast  country.  In  proportion  to 
these  treasons  and  violences,  which  ruined  the 
people,  the  fund  of  the  Nabob's  debt  grew  and 
flourished. 

Among  the  victims  to  this  magnificent  plan 
of  universal  plunder,  worthy  of  the  heroic 
avarice  of  the  projectors,  you  have  all  heard 
(and  he  has  made  himself  to  be  well  remem- 
bered) of  an  Indian  chief  called  Hyder  Ali 
Khan.  This  man  possessed  the  western,  as 
the  Company,  under  the  name  of  the  Nabob 
of  Arcot,  does  the  eastern  division  of  the 
Carnatic.  It  was  among  the  leading  measures 
in  the  design  of  this  cabal  (according  to  their 
own  emphatic  language)  to  extirpate  this 
Hyder  Ali.  They  declared  the  Nabob  of 
Arcot  to  be  his  sovereign,  and  himself  to  be  a 
rebel,  and  publicly  invested  their  instrument 
with  the  sovereignty  of  the  kingdom  of  My- 
sore.^ But  their  victim  was  not  of  the  passive 
kind.  They  were  soon  obliged' to  conclude  a 
treaty  of  peace  and  close  alliance  with  this 
rebel,  at  the  gates  of  Madras.  Both  before 
and  since  that  treaty,  every  principle  of  policy 
pointed  out  this  power  as  a  natural  alliance ; 
and  on  his  part  it  was  courted  by  every  sort  of 
amicable  office.  But  the  cabinet  council  of 
English  creditors  would  not  suffer  their  Nabob 
of  Arcot  to  sign  the  treaty,  nor  even  to  give 
to  a  prince  at  least  his  equal  the  ordinary  titles 
of  respect  and  courtesy.  From  that  time  for- 
ward, a  continued  plot  was  carried  on  within 
the  divan,2  black  and  white,  of  the  Nabob  of 
Arcot,  for  the  destruction  of  Hyder  Ali.  As 
to  the  outward  members  of  the  double,  or 
rather  treble  government  of  Madras,  which 
had  signed  the  treaty,  they  were  always  pre- 
vented by  some  overruling  influence  (which 
they  do  not  describe,  but  which  cannot  be 
misunderstood)  from  performing  what  jus- 
tice and  interest  combined  so  evidently  to 
enforce. 

When  at  length  Hyder  Ali  found  that  he  had 
to  do  with  men  who  either  would  sign  no  con- 
vention, or  whom  no  treaty  and  no  signature 
could  bind,  and  who  were  the  determined 
enemies  of  human  intercourse  itself,  he  decreed 
to  make  the  country  possessed  by  these  in- 

'  a  state  west  of  Madras  ^  council  of  govern- 
ment 


corrigible  and  predestinated  criminals  a  mem- 
orable example  to  mankind.  He  resolved,  in 
the  gloomy  recesses  of  a  mind  capacious  of 
such  things,  to  leave  the  whole  Carnatic  an 
everlasting  monument  of  vengeance,  and  to 
put  perpetual  desolation  as  a  barrier  between 
him.  and  those  against  whom  the  faith  which 
holds  the  moral  elements  of  the  world  together 
was  no  protection.  He  became  at  length  so 
confident  of  his  force,  so  coUected  in  his  might, 
that  he  made  no  secret  whatsoever  of  his 
dreadful  resolution.  Having  terminated  his 
disputes  with  every  enemy  and  every  rival, 
who  buried  their  mutual  animosities  in  their 
common  detestation  against  the  creditors  of 
the  Nabob  of  Arcot,  he  drew  from  every 
quarter  whatever  a  savage  ferocity  could  add 
to  his  new  rudiments  in  the  arts  of  destruction  ; 
and  compounding  aU  the  materials  of  fury, 
havoc,  and  desolation  into  one  black  cloud, 
he  hung  for  a  while  on  the  declivities  of  the 
mountains.  Whilst  the  authors  of  all  these 
evils  were  idly  and  stupidly  gazing  on  this 
menacing  meteor,  which  blackened  aU  their 
horizon,  it  suddenly  burst,  and  poured  down 
the  whole  of  its  contents  upon  the  plains  of  the 
Carnatic.  Then  ensued  a  scene'  of  woe,  the 
like  of  which  no  eye  had  seen,  no  heart  con- 
ceived, and  which  no  tongue  can  adequately 
tell.  All  the  horrors  of  war  before  known  or 
heard  of  were  mercy  to  that  new  havoc.  A 
storm  of  universal  fire  blasted  every  field,  con- 
sumed every  house,  destroyed  every  temple. 
The  miserable  inhabitants,  flying  from  their 
flaming  viUages,  in  part  were  slaughtered; 
others,  without  regard  to  sex,  to  age,  to  the 
respect  of  rank  or  sacredness  of  function, 
fathers  torn  from  children,  husbands  from 
wives,  enveloped  in  a  whirlwind  of  cavalry, 
and  amidst  the  goading  spears  of  drivers,  and 
the  trampling  of  pursuing  horses,  were  swept 
into  captivity  in  an  unknown  and  hostile  land. 
Those  who  were  able  to  evade  this  tempest 
fled  to  the  walled  cities;  but  escaping  from 
fire,  sword,  and  exile,  they  fell  into  the  jaws  of 
famine. 

The  alms  of  the  settlement,  in  this  dreadful 
exigency,  were  certainly  liberal ;  and  all  was 
done  by  charity  that  private  charity  could  do  : 
but  it  was  a  people  in  beggary ;  it  was  a  nation 
which  stretched  out  its  hands  for  food.  For 
months  together,  these  creatures  of  sufferance, 
whose  ver}'  excess  and  luxury  in  their  most 
plenteous  days  had  faflcn  short  of  the  allow- 
ance of  our  austerest  fasts,  silent,  patient, 


SPEECH    ON    THE    NABOB    OF    ARGOT'S    DEBTS 


333 


resigned,  without  sedition  or  disturbance, 
almost  without  complaint,  perished  by  an  hun- 
dred a  day  in  the  streets  of  Madras ;  every  day 
seventy  at  least  laid  their  bodies  in  the  streets 
or  on  the  glacis  ^  of  Tanjore,  and  expired  of 
famine  in  the  granary  of  India.  I  was  going 
to  awake  your  justice  towards  this  unhappy 
part  of  our  fellow-citizens,  by  bringing  before 
you  some  of  the  circumstances  of  this  plague 
of  hunger :  of  all  the  calamities  which  beset 
and  waylay  the  life  of  man,  this  comes  the 
nearest  to  our  heart,  and  is  that  wherein  the 
proudest  of  us  all  feels  himself  to  be  nothing 
more  than  he  is :  but  I  find  myself  unable  to 
manage  it  with  decorum  ;  these  details  are  of  a 
species  of  horror  so  nauseous  and  disgusting, 
they  are  so  degrading  to  the  sufferers  and  to 
the  hearers,  they  are  so  hvmiiliating  to  human 
nature  itself,  that,  on  better  thoughts,  I  find 
it  more  advisable  to  throw  a  pall  over  this 
hideous  object,  and  to  leave  it  to  your  general 
conceptions. 

For  eighteen  months,  without  intermission, 
this  destruction  raged  from  the  gates  of 
Madras  to  the  gates  of  Tanjore ;  and  so  com- 
pletely did  these  masters  in  their  art,  Hyder 
Ali  and  his  more  ferocious  son,  absolve  them- 
selves of  their  impious  vow,  that,  when  the 
British  armies  traversed,  as  they  did,  the 
Carnatic  for  hundreds  of  miles  in  all  directions, 
through  the  whole  line  of  their  march  they  did 
not  see  one  man,  not  one  woman,  not  one 
child,  not  one  four-footed  beast  of  any  de- 
scription whatever.  One  dead,  uniform 
silence  reigned  over  the  whole  region.  With 
the  inconsiderable  exceptions  of  the  narrow 
vicinage  of  some  few  forts,  I  wish  to  be 
understood  as  speaking  literally.  I  mean  to 
produce  to  you  more  than  three  witnesses, 
above  all  exception,  who  will  support  this 
assertion  in  its  fuU  extent.  That  hurricane 
of  war  passed  through  every  part  of  the 
central  provinces  of  the  Carnatic.  Six  or 
seven  districts  to  the  north  and  to  the  south 
(and  these  not  wholly  untouched)  escaped  the 
general  ravage. 

The  Carnatic  is  a  country  not  much  infe- 
rior in  extent  to  England.  Figure  to  yourself, 
Mr.  Speaker,  the  land  in  whose  representative 
chair  you  sit ;  figure  to  yourself  the  form  and 
fashion  of  your  sweet  and  cheerful  country 
from  Thames  to  Trent,  north  and  south,  and 
from  the  Irish  to  the  German  Sea,  east  and 


west,  emptied  and  embowelled  (may  God 
avert  the  omen  of  our  crimes  !)  by  so  accom- 
plished a  desolation.  Extend  your  imagina- 
tion a  little  further,  and  then  suppose  your 
ministers  taking  a  survey  of  these  scenes  of 
waste  and  desolation.  What  would  be  your 
thoughts,  if  you  should  be  informed  that  they 
were  computing  how  much  had  been  the 
amount  of  the  excises,  how  much  the  customs, 
how  much  the  land  and  malt  tax,  in  order  that 
they  should  charge  (take  it  in  the  most  favour- 
able light)  for  public  service,  upon  the  relics 
of  the  satiated  vengeance  of  relentless  enemies, 
the  whole  of  what  England  had  yielded  in  the 
most  exuberant  seasons  of  peace  and  abun- 
dance? What  would  you  call  it?  To  call  it 
tyranny  sublimed  into  madness  would  be  too 
faint  an  image;  yet  this  very  madness  is 
the  principle  upon  which  the  ministers  at  your 
right  hand  have  proceeded  in  their  estimate 
of  the  revenues  of  the  Carnatic,  Avhen  they 
were  providing,  not  supply  for  the  establish- 
ments of  its  protection,  but  rewards  for  the 
authors  of  its  ruin. 

Every  day  you  are  fatigued  and  disgusted 
with  this  cant,  "The  Carnatic  is  a  country 
that  will  soon  recover,  and  become  instantly 
as  prosperous  as  ever."  They  think  they  are 
talking  to  innocents,  who  wiU  believe,  that,  by 
sowing  of  dragons'  teeth,  men  may  come  up 
ready  grown  and  ready  armed. '^  They  who 
will  give  themselves  the  trouble  of  considering 
(for  it  requires  no  great  reach  of  thought,  no 
very  profound  knowledge)  the  manner  in 
which  mankind  are  increased,  and  countries 
cultivated,  will  regard  all  this  raving  as  it 
ought  to  be  regarded.  In  order  that  the 
people,  after  a  long  period  of  vexation  and 
plunder,  may  be  in  a  condition  to  maintain 
government,  government  must  begin  by  main- 
taining them.  Here  the  road  to  economy  lies 
not  through  receipt,  but  through  expense ;  I 
and  in  that  country  Nature  has  given  no  I 
short  cut  to  your  object.  Men  must  propa- 
gate, Hke  other  animals,  by  the  mouth. 
Never  did  oppression  light  the  nuptial  torch ; 
never  did  extortion  and  usury  spread  out  the 
genial  bed.  Does  any  of  you  think  that 
England,  so  wasted,  would,  under  such  a 
nursing  attendance,  so  rapidly  and  cheaply 
recover?  But  he  is  meanly  acquainted  with 
either  England  or  India  who  does  not  know 
that  England  w^ould  a  thousand  times  sooner 


*  a  sloping  bank  in  a  fortification 


^  Cf.  footnote  on  p.  210,  above 


334 


EDMUND    BURKE 


resume  population,  fertility,  and  what  ought  to 
be  the  ultimate  secretion  from  both,  revenue, 
than  such  a  country  as  the  Carnatic. 

The  Carnatic  is  not  by  the  boLmty  of  Nature 
a  fertile  soil.  The  general  size  of  its  cattle  is 
proof  enough  that  it  is  much  otherwise.  It  is 
some  days  since  I  moved  that  a  curious  and 
interesting  map,  kept  in  the  India  house, 
should  be  laid  before  you.  The  India  House  is 
not  yet  in  readiness  to  send  it ;  I  have  there- 
fore brought  down  my  own  copy,  and  there  it 
lies  for  the  use  of  any  gentleman  who  may 
think  such  a  matter  worthy  of  his  attention. 
It  is,  indeed,  a  noble  map,  and  of  noble  things  ; 
but  it  is  decisive  against  the  golden  dreams 
and  sanguine  speculations  of  avarice  run  mad. 
In  addition  to  what  you  know  must  be  the 
case  in  every  part  of  the  world,  -(the  necessity 
of  a  previous  provision  of  habitation,  seed, 
stock,  capital,)  that  map  will  show  you  that 
the  uses  of  the  influences  of  Heaven  itself  are 
in  that  country  a  work  of  art.  The  Car- 
natic is  refreshed  by  few  or  no  living  brooks 
or  running  streams,  and  it  has  rain  only  at  a 
season ;  but  its  product  of  rice  exacts  the  use 
of  water  subject  .  to  perpetual  command. 
This  is  the  national  bank  of  the  Carnatic,  on 
which  it  must  have  a  perpetual  credit,  or  it 
perishes  irretrievably.  For  that  reason,  in 
the  happier  times  of  India,  a  number,  almost 
incredible,  of  reservoirs  have  been  made  in 
chosen  places  throughout  the  whole  country : 
they  are  formed,  for  the  greater  part,  of 
moimds  of  earth  and  stones,  with  sluices  of 
solid  masonry ;  the  whole  constructed  with 
admirable  skill  and  labour,  and  maintained  at 
a  mighty  charge.  In  the  territory  contained 
in  that  map  alone,- 1  have  been  at  the  trouble 
of  reckoning  the  reservoirs,  and  they  amount 
to  upwards  of  eleven  hundred,  from  the  extent 
of  two  or  three  acres  to  five  miles  in  circuit. 
From  these  reservoirs  currents  are  occasionally 
drawn  over  the  iields,  and  these  watercourses 
again  call  for  a  considerable  expense  to  keep 
them  properly  scoured  and  duly  levelled.  Tak- 
ing the  district  in  that  map  as  a  measure, 
there  cannot  be  in  the  Carnatic  and  Tanjore 
fewer  than  ten  thousand  of  these  reservoirs 
of  the  larger  and  middling  dimensions,  to  say 
nothing  of  those  for  domestic  services,  and  the 
use  of  religious  purification.  These  are  not 
the  enterprises  of  your  power,  nor  in  a  style  of 
magnificence  suited  to  the  taste  of  your  minis- 
ter. These  are  the  monuments  of  real  kings, 
who  were  the  fathers  of  their  people,  —  testa- 


tors to  a  posterity  which  they  embraced  as 
their  own.  These  are  the  grand  sepulchres 
buUt  by  ambition,  —  but  by  the  ambition  of 
an  insatiable  benevolence,  which,  not  con- 
tented with  reigning  in  the  dispensation  of 
happiness  during  the  contracted  term  of 
human  life,  had  strained,  with  all  the  reach- 
ings  and  graspings  of  a  vivacious  mind,  to 
extend  the  dominion  of  their  bounty  beyond 
the  limits  of  Nature,  and  to  perpetuate  them- 
selves through  generations  of  generations,  the 
guardians,  the  protectors,  the  nourishers  of 
mankind. 

Long  before  the  late  invasion,  the  persons 
who  are  objects  of  the  grant  of  public  money 
now  before  you  had  so  diverted  the  supply 
of  the  pious  funds  of  culture  and  population, 
that  everywhere  the  reservoirs  v/ere  fallen  into 
a  miserable  decay.  But  after  those  domestic 
enemies  had  provoked  the  entry  of  a  cruel 
foreign  foe  into  the  covmtry,  he  did  not  leave 
it,  until  his  revenge  had  completed  the  de- 
struction begun  by  their  avarice.  Few,  very 
few  indeed,  of  these  magazines  of  water  that 
are  not  either  totally  destroyed,  or  cut  through 
with  such  gaps  as  to  require  a  serious  atten- 
tion and  much  cost  to  reestablish  them,  as  the 
means  of  present  subsistence  to  the  people  and 
of  future  revenue  to  the  state. 

What,  Sir,  would  a  virtuous  and  enlightened 
ministry  do,  on  the  view  of  the  ruins  of  such 
works  before  them  ?  —  on  the  view  of  such 
a  chasm  of  desolation  as  that  which  yawned  in 
the  midst  of  those  countries,  to  the  north  and 
south,  which  still  bore  some  vestiges  of  culti- 
vation? They  would  have  reduced  all  their 
most  necessary  establishments;  they  would 
have  suspended  the  justest  payments ;  they 
would  have  employed  every  shilling  derived 
from  the  producing  to  reanimate  the  powers 
of  the  unproductive  parts.  While  they  were 
performing  this  fundamental  duty,  whilst 
they  were  celebrating  these  mysteries  of  jus- 
tice and  humanity,  they  would  have  told  the 
corps  of  fictitious  creditors,  whose  crimes  were 
their  claims,  that  they  must  keep  an  awful  dis- 
tance, —  that  they  must  silence  their  inau- 
spicious tongues,  —  that  they  must  hold  off 
their  profane,  unhaUowed  paws  from  this 
holy  work ;  they  would  have  proclaimed,  with 
a  voice  that  should  make  itself  heard,  that 
on  every  country  the  first  creditor  is  the 
plough,  —  that  this  original,  indefeasible 
claim  supersedes  every  other  demand. 

This  is  what  a  wise  and  virtuous  ministry 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION  IN  FRANCE 


335 


would  have  done  and  said.  This,  therefore, 
is  what  our  minister'  could  never  think  of 
saying  or  doing.  A  ministry  of  another  kind 
would  have  first  improved  the  countn,-,  and 
have  thus  laid  a  solid  foundation  for  future 
opulence  ajid  future  force.  But  on  this  grand 
point  of  the  restoration  of  the  country  there  is 
not  one  syllable  to  be  foimd  in  the  correspon- 
dence of  our  ministers,  from  the  first  to  the 
last ;  they  felt  nothing  for  a  land  desolated  by 
fire,  sword,  and  famine  :  their  s>Tnpathies  took 
another  direction ;  they  were  touched  with 
pity  for  briber}',  so  long  tormented  with  a 
fruitless  itching  of  its  pahns;  their  bowels 
yearned  for  usury,  that  had  long  missed  the 
harvest  of  its  returnmg  months ;  they  felt  for 
peculation,  which  had  been  for  so  many  years 
raking  in  the  dust  of  an  empty  treasury ; 
they  were  melted  into  compassion  for  rapine 
and  oppression,  licking  their  dry,  parched, 
unbloody  jaws.  These  were  the  objects  of 
their  solicitude.  These  were  the  necessities 
for  which  they  were  studious  to  provide.  .  .  . 

From  REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLU- 
TION IN  FRANCE 


It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I 
saw  the  queen  of  France,  then  the  Dauphin- 
ess,"^  at  Versailles ;  and  surely  never  lighted 
on  this  orb,  which  she  hardly  seemed  to 
touch,  a  more  dehghtful  vision.  I  saw  her 
just  above  the  horizon,  decorating  and  cheer- 
ing the  elevated  sphere  she  just  began  to  move 
in,  — ghttering  like  the  morning-star,  fidl  of 
life  and  splendour  and  joy.  Oh  !  what  a  revo- 
Ivition!  and  what  an  heart  must  I  have,  to 
contemplate  without  emotion  that  elevation 
and  that  fall !  Little  did  I  dream,  when  she 
added  titles  of  veneration  to  those  of  enthu- 
siastic, distant,  respectful  love,  that  she  should 
ever  be  obliged  to  carry  the  sharp  antidote 
against,  disgrace  concealed  in  that  bosom ! 
Uttle  did  I  dream  that  I  should  have  lived  to 
see  such  disasters  fallen  upon  her  in  a  nation 
of  gallant  men,  ia  a  nation  of  men  of  honour, 
and  of  cavaUers !  I  thought  ten  thousand 
swords  must  have  leaped  from  their  scab- 
bards to  avenge  even  a  look  that  threatened 
her  with  insult.  But  the  age  of  chivalry  is 
gone.     That   of  sophisters,   economists,   and 

^  wife  of  the  crown  prince 


calculators  has  succeeded ;  and  the  glory  of 
Europe  is  extinguished  forever.  Never,  never 
more,  shall  we  behold  that  generous  loyalty 
to  rank  and  sex,  that  proud  submission,  that 
dignified  obedience,  that  subordination  of 
the  heart,  which  kept  alive,  even  in  servitude 
itself,  the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom !  The 
tmbought  grace  of  Hfe,  the  cheap  defence  of 
nations,  the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and 
heroic  enterprise,  is  gone !  It  is  gone,  that 
sensibility  of  principle,  that  chastity  of 
honour,  which  felt  a  stain  like  a  wound,  which 
inspired  courage  whilst  it  mitigated  ferocity, 
which  ennobled  whatever  it  touched,  and 
under  which  vice  itself  lost  haK  its  evil  by  los- 
ing aU  its  grossness ! 

The  mixed  system  of  opinion  and  sentiment 
had  its  origin  in  the  ancient  chivalry ;  and  the 
principle,  though  varied  in  its  appearance  by 
the  varying  state  of  human  affairs,  subsisted 
and  influenced  through  a  long  succession  of 
generations,  even  to  the  time  we  five  in.  If  it 
should  ever  be  totally  extinguished,  the  loss, 
I  fear,  will  be  great.  It  is  this  which  has  given 
its  character  to  modern  Europe.  It  is  this 
which  has  distinguished  it  under  aU  its  forms 
of  government,  and  distinguished  it  to  its  ad- 
vantage, from  the  states  of  Asia,  and  possibly 
from  those  states  v.hich  flourished  in  the  most 
brilliant  periods  of  the  antique  world.  It  was 
this,  which,  without  confounding  ranks,  had 
produced  a  noble  equahty,  and  handed  it 
do^^^l  through  all  the  gradations  of  social  life. 
It  was  this  opinion  which  mitigated  kings  into 
companions,  and  raised  private  men  to  be 
feUows  with  kings.  Without  force  or  opposi- 
tion, it  subdued  the  fierceness  of  pride  and 
power ;  it  obhged  sovereigns  to  submit  to  the 
soft  collar  of  social  esteem,  compelled  stern 
authority  to  submit  to  elegance,  and  gave  a 
domination,  vanquisher  of  laws,  to  be  sub- 
dued by  manners. 

But  now  ail  is  to  be  changed.  All  the  pleas- 
ing illusions  which  made  power  gentle  and 
obedience  hberal,  which  harmonised  the  dif- 
.ferent  shades  of  life,  and  which  b)'  a  bland 
assimflation  incorporated  into  politics  the 
sentiments  which  beautify  and  soften  private 
society,  are  to  be  dissolved  by  this  new  con- 
quering empire  of  light  and  reason.  AU  the 
decent  drapery  of  life  is  to  be  rudely  torn  oft". 
All  the  superadded  ideas,  furnished  from  the 
wardrobe  of  a  moral  imagination,  which  the 
heart  owns  and  the  understanding  ratifies,  as 
necessary  to  cover  the  defects  of  our  naked. 


33^ 


WILLIAM    COWPER 


shivering  nature,  and  to  raise  it  to  dignity  in 
our  own  estimation,  are  to  be  exploded  as  a 
ridiculous,   absurd,   and  antiquated   fashion. 


WILLIAM    COWPER    (1731-1800) 

THE   TASK 
From  BOOK  I 

There  often  wanders  one,  whom  better  days 
Saw  better  clad,  in  cloak  of  satin  trimmed  535 
With  lace,  and  hat  with  splendid  riband  bound. 
A  serving-maid  was  she,  and  fell  in  love 
With  one  who  left  her,  went  to  sea,  ^nd  died. 
Her  fancy  followed  him  through  foaming  waves 
To  distant  shores,  and  she  would  sit  and  weep 
At  what  a  sailor  suffers  ;   fancy  too,  541 

Delusive  most  where  warmest  wishes  are, 
Would  oft  anticipate  his  glad  return. 
And  dream  of  transports  she  was  not  to  know. 
She  heard  the  doleful  tidings  of  his  death,  545 
And  never  smiled  again.     And  now  she  roams 
The  dreary  waste ;   there  spends  the  livelong 

day. 
And  there,  unless  when  charity  forbids, 
The  livelong  night.     A  tattered  apron  hides. 
Worn  as  a  cloak,  and  hardly  hides,  a  gown  550 
More  tattered  still ;  and  both  but  iU  conceal 
A  bosom  heaved  with  never-ceasing  sighs. 
She  begs  an  idle  pin  of  aU  she  meets. 
And  hoards  them  in  her  sleeve;   but  needful 

food. 
Though  pressed  with  hunger  oft,  or  comelier 

clothes,  555 

Though   pinched   with   cold,   asks   never.  — 

Kate  is  crazed. 
I  see  a  column  of  slow-rising  smoke 
O'ertop  the  lofty  wood  that  skirts  the  wild. 
A  vagabond  and  useless  tribe  there  eat 
Their  miserable  meal.     A  kettle,  slung       560 
Between  two  poles  upon  a  stick  transverse, 
Receives  the  morsel ;  llesh  obscene  of  dog, 
Or  vermin,  or,  at  best,  of  cock  purloined 
From    his    accustomed    perch.     Hard-faring 

race  ! 
They  pick  their  fuel  out  of  every  hedge,     565 
Which,  kindled  with  dry  leaves,  just  saves  un- 

qucnched 
The  spark  of  life.     The  sportive  wind  blows 

wide 
Their  fluttering,  rags,  and  shows  a  tawny  skin. 
The  vellum  of  the  pedigree  they  claim. 


Great  skill  have  they  in  palmistry,  and  more 
To  conjure  clean  away  the  gold  they  touch, 
Conveying  worthless  dross  into  its  place;  572 
Loud  when  they  beg,  dumb  only  when  they 

steal. 
Strange!   that  a  creature  rational,  and  cast 
In  human  mould,  should  brutalize  by  choice 
His  nature,  and,  though  capable  of  arts     576 
By  which  the  world  might  profit  and  himself, 
Self  banished  from  society,  prefer 
Such  squalid  sloth  to  honourable  toil! 
Yet  even  these,  though,  feigning  sickness  oft, 
They  swathe  the  forehead,  drag  the  limping 
Hmb,  581 

And  vex  their  flesh  with  artificial  sores. 
Can  change  their  whine  into  a  mirthful  note 
When  safe  occasion  offers;   and  with  dance, 
And  music  of  the  bladder  and  the  bag,^    585 
Beguile  their  woes,  and  make  the  woods  re- 
sound. 
Such  health  and  gaiety  of  heart  enjoy 
The  houseless  rovers  of  the  sylvan  world ; 
And  breathing  wholesome  air,  and  wandering 

much. 
Need  other  physic  none  to  heal  the  effects  590 
Of  loathsome  diet,  penury,  and  cold. 


From  BOOK  II 

Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, ^ 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade. 
Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit, 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war. 
Might   never   reach   me   more  1     My   ear   is 

.  pained,  5 

My  soul  is  sick  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  filled. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart. 
It  does  not  feel  for  man ;   the  natural  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  flax  10 

That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not  coloured  like  his  own,  and,  having  power 
To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey,  i  s 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations  who  had  else 
Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys; 
And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored. 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot,     22 

'  bagpipe        ^  Cf.  Jeremiah,  ix :  2 


THE    TASK 


337 


Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his 

sweat 
With   stripes   that   Mercy,   with   a   bleeding 

heart. 
Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast.   25 
Then  what  is  man  ?     And  what  man  seeing 

this. 
And  having  human  feelmgs,  does  not  blush 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man? 
I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  tiU  my  ground. 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep,  30 

And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned. 
No :   dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 
I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave         35 
And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home.  —  Then   why 

abroad  ? 
And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the 

wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England ;  ^  if  their 

lungs  40 

Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free. 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles 

faU. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then, 
And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein 
Of   all   your   empire;    that   where   Britain's 

power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too.     47 


From  BOOK  V 

'Tis  morning ;   and  the  sun  with  ruddy  orb 
Ascending,  fires  the  horizon  :  while  the  clouds 
That  crowd  away  before  the  driving  wind. 
More  ardent  as  the  disk  emerges  more. 
Resemble  most  some  city  in  a  blaze,  5 

Seen  through  the  leafless  wood.     His  slanting 

ray 
Slides  ineffectual  down  the  snowy  vale, 
And  tinging  aU  with  his  own  rosy  hue, 
From  every  herb  and  every  spiry  blade 
Stretches  a  length  of  shadow  o'er  the  field.  10 
Mine,  spindling  into  longitude  immense, 
In  spite  of  gravity,  and  sage  remark 
That  I  myself  am  but  a  fleeting  shade, 

^  the  decision  of  Chief  Justice  Lord  Mansfield, 
June  22,  1772 


Provokes  me  to  a  smile.     With  eye  askance 
I  view  the  muscular  proportioned  limb        15 
Transformed  to  a  lean  shank.     The  shapeless 

pair. 
As  they  designed  to  mock  me,  at  my  side 
Take  step  for  step ;   and  as  I  near  approach 
The  cottage,  walk  along  the  plastered  wall. 
Preposterous  sight !  the  legs  without  the  man. 
The  verdure  of  the  plain  lies  buried  deep     21 
Beneath  the  dazzling  deluge;   and  the  bents ^ 
And  coarser  grass,  upspearing  o'er  the  rest, 
Of  late  unsightly  and  unseen,  now  shine 
Conspicuous,  and  in  bright  apparel  clad,     25- 
And  fledged  with  icy  feathers,  nod  superb. 
The  cattle  mourn  in  corners  where  the  fence 
Screens  them,  and  seem  half-petrified  to  sleep 
In  unrecumbent  sadness.     There  they  wait 
Their  wonted  fodder,  not  like  himgering  man, 
Fretfid  if  unsuppHed,  but  silent,  meek,         31 
And  patient  of  the  slow-paced  swain's  delay. 
He  from  the  stack  carves  out  the  accustomed 

load. 
Deep-plunging,  and  again  deep-plunging  oft. 
His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  solid  mass;  35 
Smooth  as  a  waU  the  upright  remnant  stands, 
With  such  undeviating  and  even  force 
He  severs  it  away :  no  needless  care 
Lest  storms  shoiild  overset  the  leaning  pile 
Deciduous,  or  its  own  unbalanced  weight.    40 
Forth  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcerned 
The  cheerful  haunts  of  man,  to  wield  the  axe 
And  drive  the  wedge  in  yonder  forest  drear. 
From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 
Shaggy,  and  lean,  and  shrewd,  with  pointed 

ears  45 

And  tail  cropped  short,  half  lurcher  ^  and  half 

cur, 
His  dog  attends  him.     Close  behind  his  heel 
Now  creeps  he  slow;   and  now  with  many  a 

frisk 
Wide  scampering,  snatches  up  the  drifted  snow 
With  ivory  teeth,  or  ploughs  it  with  his  snout ; 
Then  shakes  his  powdered  coat,  and  barks  for 

joy.  SI 

Heedless  of  all  his  pranks,  the  sturdy  churl 
Moves  right  toward  the  mark ;   nor  stops  for 

aught. 
But  now  and  then  with  pressure  of  his  thumb 
To  adjust  the  fragrant  charge  of  a  short  tube 
That  fumes  beneath  his  nose:    the  trailing 

cloud  56 

Streams  far  behind  him,  scenting  all  the  air. 

^  wiry    grass      ^  a    cross    between    greyhound 
and  sheep-dog,  keen  both  of  sight  and  of  scent 


338 


WILLIAM    COWPER 


Now  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighbouruig 

pale, 
Where,  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 
Of  smiling  day,  they  gossiped  side  by  side,  60 
Come  trooping  at  the  housewife's  well-known 

call 
The  feathered  tribes  domestic.     Half  on  wing, 
And  half  on  foot,  they  brush  the  fleecy  flood, 
Conscious,  and  fearful  of  too  deep  a  plunge. 
The  sparrows  peep,  and  quit  the  sheltering 

eaves  65 

To  seize  the  fair  occasion.     Well  they  eye 
The  scattered  grain,  and  thievishly  resolved 
To  escape  the  impending  famine,  often  scared 
As  oft  return,  a  pert  voracious  kind.  69 

Clean  riddance  quickly  made,  one  only  care 
Remains  to  each,  the  search  of  sunny  nook. 
Or  shed  impervious  to  the  blast.     Resigned 
To  sad  necessity,  the  cock  foregoes 
His  wonted  strut,  and  wading  at  their  head 
With  weU-considered  steps,  seems  to  resent  75 
His  altered  gait  and  stateliness  retrenched. 


His  sword  was  in  its  sheath ; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen. 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up,  25 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes  ! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tears  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  are  yet  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again  30 

Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 


But  Kempenfelt  is  gone. 

His  victories  are  o'er ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  himdred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


35 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER'S 
PICTURE 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL 
GEORGE 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more  ! 
AH  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

Fast  by  their  native  shore  ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave. 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel. 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt '  is  gone; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought ; 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

^  rear-admiral  of  the  fleet 


IS 


Oh  that  those  lips  had  language !    Life  has 

passed 
With  me  but  roughly  smce  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine  —  thy  own  sweet  smile  I 

see. 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears 

away  !" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Bless'd  be  the  art  that  can  immortalise, 
The  art  that  bafiles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  stiU  the  same. 
Faithf id  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear,      1 1 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  ! 
Who  bidst  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long,^ 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone. 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own : 
And,  whUe  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she.       20 
My  mother  !   when  I  learnt  that  thou  wast 
dead  ^ 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 

'  fifty-two  years     ^  He  was  only  six  when  she 
died. 


ON   THE    RECEIPT    OF    MY    MOTHER'S    PICTURE 


339 


Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss : 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bhss  — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile  !     It  answers  —  Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  sav/  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  !     31 
But  was  it  such  ?  —  It  was.  —  Where  thou  art 

gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  ! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  con- 
cern , 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  beUeved, 
And,  disappointed  stiU,  was  stiU  deceived. 
By  expectation  ever>^  day  beguiled,  40 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
TiU;  all  my  stock  of  mfant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot ; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 
Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no 
more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor ; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day. 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  pubUc  way. 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capped, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  Httle  known,       52 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  ^  our 

own. 
Short-Hved  possession  !   but  the  record  fair 
That  memory  keeps,  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made. 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly 

laid ; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home,  60 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum  ; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  tiU  fresh  they  shone  and 

glowed ; 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall. 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  brakes 
That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes ; 
AU  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay     70 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  mimbers  may ; 

^  the  rectory 


Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed 

here. 
Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the 

hours. 
When,    playing   with    thy    vesture's    tissued 

flowers, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jassamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and 

smile), 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them 

here?  81 

I  would  not  trust  my  heart  —  the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might.  — 
But  no  — •  what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  iU  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The   storms   all  weathered   and   the   ocean 

crossed) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle,  90 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons 

smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !    hast  reached 

the  shore, 
"  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar." 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest,  100 
Always    from    port   withheld,    always    dis- 
tressed — 
Me  howHng  blasts 'drive  devious,  tempest  tost. 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  com- 
pass lost,' 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting 

force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet,  oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and 

he! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned  and  rulers  of  the  earth ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise  — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies  !  in 
And  now,  farewell  —  Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted    course,   yet  what   I  wished   is 

done. 


34° 


JAMES    MACPHERSON 


By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again  ; 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were 

mine. 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine : 
And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free. 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee,     119 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft  — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left: 

JAMES   MACPHERSON    (?) 

(1736-1796) 

THE   POEMS   OF  OSSIAN 

From  CATH-LODAi 

DUAN  III 

Whence  is  the  stream  of  years?  Whither 
do  they  roll  along?  Where  have  they  hid,  in 
mist,  their  many  coloured  sides? 

I  look  unto  the  times  of  old,  but  they  seem 
dim  to  Ossian's  eyes,  like  reflected  moonbeams 
on  a  distant  lake.  Here  rise  the  red  beams 
of  wa'r  !  There,  silent,  dwells  a  feeble  race  ! 
They  mark  no  years  with  their  deeds,  as  slow 
they  pass  along.  Dweller  between  the 
shields  !  thou  that  awakest  the  failing  soul ! 
descend  from  thy  wall,  harp  of  Cona,-  with  thy 
voices  three  !  Come  with  that  which  kindles 
the  past :  rear  the  forms  of  old,  on  their  own 
dark-brown  years  ! 

U-thorno,  hill  of  storms,  I  behold  my  race 
on  thy  side.  Fingal  is  bending  in  night  over 
Duth-maruno's  tomb.  Near  him  are  the  steps 
of  his  heroes,  hunters  of  the  boar.  By  Tur- 
thor's  stream  the  host  of  Lochlin  ^  is  deep  in 
shades.  The  wrathful  kin'gs'*  stood  on  two 
hills :  they  looked  forward  from  their  bossy 
shields.  They  looked  forward'  to  the  stars 
of  night,  red  wandering  in  the  west.  Cruth- 
loda^  bends  from  high,  like  a  formless  meteor 
in  clouds.  He  sends  abroad  the  winds,  and 
marks  them  with  his  signs.  Starno  foresaw 
that  Morven's  king*^  was  not  to  yield  in  war. 

He  twice  struck  the  tree  in  wrath.  He 
rushed  before  his  son.  He  hummed  a  surly 
song,  and  heard  his  hair  in  wind.     Turned 

^  the  Battle  of  Loda  ^  the  home  of  Ossian 
'  Norway  "*  Starno,  king  of  Lochlin,  or  Norway, 
and  Swaran,  his  son  and  heir  ^  Odin,  chief  god 
of  the  Norsemen     ''  Fingal  (of  Scotland) 


from  one  another,  they  stood,  like  two  oaks, 
which  different  winds  had  bent ;  each  hangs 
over  his  own  loud  rill,  and  shakes  his  boughs 
in  the  course  of  blasts. 

"Annir,"!  said  Starno  of  lakes,  "was  a  fire 
that  consumed  of  old.  He  poured  death  from 
his  eyes  along  the  striving  fields.  His  joy  was 
in  the  fall  of  men.  Blood  to  him  was  a  sum- 
mer stream,  that  brings  joy  to  the  withered 
vales,  from  its  own  mossy  rock.  He  came 
forth  to  the  lake  Luth-cormo,  to  meet  the  tall 
Corman-trunar,  he  from  Urlor  of  streams, 
dweller  of  battle's  wing. 

"  The  chief  of  Urlor  had  come  to  Gormal 
with  his  dark-bosomed  ships.  He  saw  the 
daughter  of  Annir,  white-armed  Foina-bragal. 
He  saw  her  !  Nor  careless  rolled  her  eyes  on 
the  rider  of  stormy  waves.  She  fled  to  his 
ship  in  darkness,  like  a  moonbeam  through  a 
nightly  veil.  Annir  pursued  along  the  deep ; 
he  called  the  winds  of  heaven.  Nor  alone  was 
the  king !  Starno  was  by  his  side.  Like 
U-thorno's  young  eagle,  I  turned  my  eyes  on 
my  father. 

"  We  rushed  into  roaring  ^  Urlor.  With  his 
people  came  tall  Corman-trunar.  We  fought ; 
but  the  foe  prevailed.  In  his  wrath  my 
father  stood.  He  lopped  the  young  trees  with 
his  sword.  His  eyes  rolled  red  in  his  rage. 
I  marked  the  soul  of  the  king,  and  I  retired 
in  night.  From  the  field  I  took  a  broken  hel- 
met ;  a  shield  that  was  pierced  with  steel ; 
pointless  was  the  spear  in  my  hand.  I  went 
to  find  the  foe. 

"  On  a  rock  sat  tall  Corman-trunar  beside 
his  burning  oak  ;  and  near  him  beneath  a  tree, 
sat  deep-bosomed  Foina-bragal.  I  threw  my 
broken  shield  before  her.  I  spoke  the  words 
of  peace.  '  Beside  his  rolling  sea  lies  Annir  of 
many  lakes.  The  king  was  pierced  in  battle ; 
and  Starno  is  to  raise  his  tomb.^  Me,  a  son  of 
Loda,''  he  sends  to  white-handed  Foina,  to  bid 
her  send  a  lock  from  her  hair,  to  rest  with  her 
father  in  earth.  And  thou,  king  of  roaring 
Urlor,  let  the  battle  cease,  till  Annir  receive 
the  shell  ^  from  fiery-eyed  Cruth-loda.' ^ 

"  Bursting  into  tears,  she  rose,  and  tore  a  lock 
from  her  hair ;  a  lock,  which  wandered  in  the 
blast,  along  her  heaving  breast.  Corman- 
trunar  gave  the  shell,''  and  bade  me  rejoice 

'  father  of  Starno  '  because  of  its  many 
streams  ^  This  was  untrue.  ""He  was  disguised. 
*  Shells  were  used  as  drinking-cups.  ^  i.e.,  in  Val- 
halla, the  heaven  of  heroes    ^  offered  drink 


JAMES    BOSWELL 


341 


before  him.  I  rested  in  the  shade  of  night,  and 
hid  my  face  in  my  helmet  deep.  Sleep  de- 
scended on  the  foe.  I  rose,  like  a  stalking 
ghost.  I  pierced  the  side  of  Corman-trunar. 
Nor  did  Foina-brugal  escape.  She  rolled  her 
white  bosom  in  blood. 

"  Why,  then,  daughter  of  heroes,  didst  thou 
wake  my  rage? 

"  Morning  rose.  The  foe  were  fled,  like  the 
departure  of  mist.  Annir  struck  his  bossy 
shield.  He  called  his  dark-haired  son.  I 
came,  streaked  with  wandering  blood  :  thrice 
rose  the  shout  of  the  king,  like  the  bursting 
forth  of  a  squall  of  wind  from  a  cloud  by 
night.  We  rejoiced  three  days  above  the 
dead,  and  called  the  hawks  of  heaven.  They 
came  from  all  their  winds  to  feast  on  Annir's 
foes. 

"  Swaran,  Fingal  is  alone  in  his  hill  of  night. 
Let  thy  spear  pierce  the  king  in  secret ;  like 
Annir,  my  soul  shall  rejoice." 

"Son  of  Annir,"  said  Swaran,  "I  shall  not 
slay  in  shades :  I  move  forth  in  light :  the 
hawks  rush  from  all  their  winds.  They  are 
wont  to  trace  my  course :  it  is  not  harmless 
through  war." 

Burning  rose  the  rage  of  the  king.^  He 
thrice  raised  his  gleaming  spear.  But,  start- 
ing, he  spared  his  son,  and  rushed  into  the 
night.  By  Turthor's  stream,  a  cave  is  dark, 
the  dwelling  of  Corban-cargla.^  There  he  laid 
the  helmet  of  kings,  and  called  the  maid  of 
Lulan ;  but  she  was  distant  far  in  Loda's  re- 
sounding hall.^ 

Swelling  in  his  rage,  he  strode  to  where 
Fingal  lay  alone.  The  king  was  laid  on  his 
shield,  on  his  own  secret  hill. 

Stern  hunter  of  shaggy  boars !  no  feeble 
maid  is  laid  before  thee.  No  boy  on  his  ferny 
bed,  by  Turthor's  murmuring  stream.  Here 
is  spread  the  couch  of  the  mighty,  from  which 
they  rise  to  deeds  of  death  !  Hunter  of  shaggy 
boars,  awaken  not  the  terrible  ! 

Starno  came  murmuring  on.  Fingal  ^rose 
in  arms.  "WTio  art  thou,  son  of  night!" 
Silent  he  threw  the  spear.  They  mixed  their 
gloomy  strife.  The  shield  of  Starno  fell,  cleft 
in  twain.  He  is  bound  to  an  oak.  The  early 
beam  arose.  It  was  then  Fingal  beheld  the 
king.  He  rolled  awhile  his  silent  eyes.  He 
thought  of  other  days,  when  white-bosomed 

*  Starno  ^  the  maid  of  Lulan,  beloved  by 
Starno,  but  in  love  with  Swaran  ^  i.e.,  she  was 
dead 

AE 


Agandecca^  moved  like  the  music  of  songs. 
He  loosed  the  thong  from  his  hands.  "  Son  of 
Annir,"  he  said,  "retire.  Retire  to  Gormal  of 
shells ;  ^  a  beam  that  was  set  returns.  I  re- 
member thy  white-bosomed  daughter ;  dread- 
ful king,  away  !  Go  to  thy  troubled  dwelling, 
cloudy  foe  of  the  lovely.  Let  the  stranger 
shun  thee,  thou  gloomy  in  the  hall ! " 
A  tale  of  the  times  of  old  ! 

JAMES   BOSWELL    (i 740-1 795) 

THE     LIFE     OF     SAMUEL    JOHNSON, 
LL.D. 

FROM   CHAPTER  XIII  (1763) 


He  talked  very  contemptuously  of  Church- 
ill's^ poetry,  observing,  that  "it  had  a  tem- 
porary currency,  only  from  its  audacity  of 
abuse,  and  being  filled  with  living  names, 
and  that  it  would  sink  into  oblivion."  I  ven- 
tured to  hint  that  he  was  not  quite  a  fair  judge, 
as  Churchill  had  attacked  him  violently.* 
Johnson :  "Nay,  Sir,  I  am  a  very  fair  judge. 
He  did  not  attack  me  violently  till  he  found 
I  did  not  like  his  poetry ;  and  his  attack  on 
me  shall  not  prevent  me  from  continuing  to 
say  what  I  think  of  him,  from  an  apprehen- 
sion that  it  may  be  ascribed  to  resentment. 
No,  Sir,  I  called  the  fellow  a  blockhead  at 
first,  and  I  will  call  him  a  blockhead  still. 
However,  I  will  acknowledge  that  I  have  a 
better  opinion  of  him  now  than  I  once  had; 
for  he  has  shown  more  fertility  than  I  ex- 
pected. To  be  sure,  he  is  a  tree  that  cannot 
produce  good  fruit :  he  only  bears  crabs. 
But,  Sir,  a  tree  that  produces  a  great  many 
crabs,  is  better  than  a  tree  which  produces 
only  a  few." 

In  this  depreciation  of  Churchill's  poetry, 

1  could  not  agree  with  him.  It  is  very  true 
that  the  greatest  part  of  it  is  upon  the  topics 
of  the  day,  on  which  account,  as  it  brought 
him  great  fame  and  profit  at  the  time,  it  must 

1  daughter  of  Starno  and  sweetheart  of  Fingal, 
killed  long  before  by  her  father  for  revealing  to 
Fingal  a  plot  against  his  life  ^  the  castle  of 
Starno,     where    drink    was    dispensed    liberally 

2  Charles  Churchill  (1731-64),  then  in  consider- 
able repute  as  a  poet  '*He  satirized  Johnson  as 
credulous  in  his  poem  The   Ghost. 


342 


JAMES    BOSWELL 


proportionably  slide  out  of  the  public  atten- 
tion, as  other  occasional  objects  succeed.  But 
Churchill  had  extraordinary  vigour  both  of 
thought  and  expression.  His  portraits  of  the 
players  will  ever  be  valuable  to  the  true  lovers 
of  the  drama;  and  his  strong  caricatures  of 
several  eminent  men  of  his  age,  will  not  be 
forgotten  by  the  curious.  Let  me  add,  that 
there  are  in  his  works  many  passages  which  are 
of  a  general  nature;  and  his  "Prophecy  of 
Famine"  is  a  poem  of  no  ordinary  merit.  It 
is,  indeed,  falsely  injurious  to  Scotland ;  but 
therefore,  may  be  allowed  a  greater  share  of 
invention. 

Bonnell  Thornton  had  just  published  a  bur- 
lesque "Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  day,"  ^  adapted 
to  the  ancient  British  music,  viz.,  the  salt- 
box,  the  Jew's-harp,  the  marrow-bones  and 
cleaver,  the  hum-strum,  or  hurdy-gurdy,  etc. 
Johnson  praised  its  humour,  and  seemed  much 
diverted  with  it.  He  repeated  the  following 
passage : 

"In  strains  more  exalted  the  salt-box  shall  join, 
And  clattering  and  battering  and  clapping  com- 
bine; 
With  a  rap  and  a  tap,  while  the  hollow  side  sounds. 
Up  and  down  leaps  the  flap,  and  with  rattling 
rebounds." 


On  Tuesday,  the  5th  of  July,  I  again  visited 
Johnson.  He  told  me  he  had  looked  into  the 
poems  of  a  pretty  voluminous  writer,  Mr. 
(now  Dr.)  John  Ogilvie,  one  of  the  Presby- 
terian ministers  of  Scotland,  which  had  lately 
come  out,  but  coidd  find  no  thinking  in  them. 
Boswell :  "Is  there  not  imagination  in  them, 
Sir?"  Johnson  :  "Why,  Sir,  there  is  in  them 
what  was  imagination,  but  it  is  no  more  im- 
agination in  him,  than  sound  is  sound  in  the 
echo.  And  his  diction  too  is  not  his  own. 
We  have  long  ago  seen  white-robed  innocence 
and  flower-bespafigled  meads." 

Talking  of  London,  he  observed,  "Sir,  if 
you  wish  to  have  a  just  notion  of  the  magni- 
tude of  this  city,  you  must  not  be  satisfied 
with  seeing  its  great  streets  and  squares,  but 
must  survey  the  innumerable  little  lanes  and 
courts.  It  is  not  in  the  showy  evolutions  of 
buildings,  but  in  the  multiplicity  of  human 
habitations  which  are  crowded  together,  that 

^  It  was  set  to  music  by  Dr.  Burney,  and  per- 
formed at  Ranelagh  in  masks. 


the  wonderful  immensity  of  London  consists." 
—  I  have  often  amused  myself  with  thinking 
how  different  a  place  London  is  to  different 
people.  They,  whose  narrow  minds  are  con- 
tracted to  the  consideration  of  some  one  par- 
ticular pursuit,  view  it  only  through  that 
medium.  A  politician  thinks  of  it  merely  as 
the  seat  of  government  in  its  different  depart- 
ments ;  a  grazier,  as  a  vast  market  for  cattle ; 
a  mercantile  man,  as  a  place  where  a  pro- 
digious deal  of  business  is  done  upon  'Change ; 
a  dramatic  enthusiast,  as  the  grand  scene  of 
theatrical  entertainments  ;  a  man  of  pleasure, 
as  an  assemblage  of  taverns,  and  the  great 
emporium,  for  ladies  of  easy  virtue.  But  the 
intellectual  man  is  struck  with  it,  as  compre- 
hending the  whole  of  human  life  in  all  its 
variety,  the  contemplation  of  which  is  inex- 
haustible. 

On  Wednesday,  July  6,  he  was  engaged  to 
sup  with  me  at  my  lodgings  in  Downing-street, 
Westminster.  But  on  the  preceding  night  my 
landlord  having  behaved  very  rudely  to  me 
and  some  company  who  were  with  me,  I  had 
resolved  not  to  remain  another  night  in  his 
house.  I  was  exceedingly  uneasy  at  the  awk- 
ward appearance  I  supposed  I  should  make  to 
Johnson  and  the  other  gentlemen  whom  I  had 
invited,  not  being  able  to  receive  them  at 
home,  and  being  obliged  to  order  supper  at 
the  Mitre.  I  went  to  Johnson  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  talked  of  it  as  of  a  serious  distress. 
He  laughed,  and  said,  "Consider,  Sir,  how 
insignificant  this  will  appear  a  twelvemonth 
hence."  Were  this  consideration  to  be  applied 
to  most  of  the  little  vexatious  incidents  of  life, 
by  which  our  quiet  is  too  often  disturbed,  it 
would  prevent  many  painful  sensations.  I 
have  tried  it  frequently  with  good  effect. 
"There  is  nothing,"  continued  he,  "in  this 
mighty  misfortune  ;  nay,  we  shall  be  better  at 
the  Mitre."  I  told  him  that  I  had  been  at 
Sir  John  Fielding's  office,  complaining  of  my 
landlord,  and  had  been  informed  that  though 
I  had  taken  my  lodgings  for  a  year,  I  might, 
upon  proof  of  his  bad  behaviour,  quit  them 
when  I  pleased,  without  being  under  an  obliga- 
tion to  pay  rent  for  any  longer  time  than  while 
I  possessed  them.  The  fertility  of  Johnson's 
mind  could  show  itself  even  upon  so  small  a 
matter  as  this.  "Why,  Sir,"  said  he,  "I  sup- 
pose this  must  be  the  law,  since  you  have  been 
told  so  in  Bow-street.^     But  if  your  landlord 

^  police  headquarters 


THE    LIFE    OF    SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


343 


could  hold  you  to  your  bargain,  and  the 
lodgings  should  be  yours  for  a  year,  you  may 
certainly  use  them  as  you  think  lit.  So,  Sir, 
you  may  quarter  two  life-guardsmen  upon 
him ;  or  you  may  send  the  greatest  scoundrel 
you  can  find  into  your  apartments ;  or  you 
may  say  that  you  want  to  make  some  experi- 
ments in  natural  philosophy,  and  may  burn  a 
large  quantity  of  asafoetida  in  his  house." 

I  had  as  my  guests  this  evening  at  the 
Mitre  Tavern,  Dr.  Johnson,  Dr.  Goldsmith, 
Mr.  Thomas  Da\des,  Mr.  Eccles,  an  Irish 
gentleman,  for  whose  agreeable  company  I 
was  obliged  to  Mr.  Davies,  and  the  Rev.  %lv. 
John  Ogilvie,  who  was  desirous  of  being  in 
company  with  my  illustrious  friend,  while  I, 
in  my  turn,  was  proud  to  have  the  honour  of 
showing  one  of  my  countrymen  upon  what 
easy  terms  Johnson  permitted  me  to  live  with 
him. 

Goldsmith,  as  usual,  endeavoured  with  too 
much  eagerness  to  shine  and  disputed  very 
warmly  with  Johnson  against  the  well-known 
maxim  of  the  British  constitution,  "the  king 
can  do  no  wrong ;"  affirming,  that  "what  was 
morally  false  could  not  be  politically  true; 
and  as  the  king  might,  in  the  exercise  of  his 
regal  power,  command  and  cause  the  doing  of 
what  was  wrong,  it  certainly  might  be  said, 
in  sense  and  in  reason,  that  he  could  do  wrong." 
Johnson  :  "  Sir,  you  are  to  consider  that  in  our 
constitution,  according  to  its  true  principles, 
the  king  is  the  head,  he  is  supreme ;  he  is 
above  everything,  and  there  is  no  power  by 
which  he  can  be  tried.  Therefore,  it  is,  Sir, 
that  we  hold  the  king  can  do  no  wrong ;  that 
whatever  may  happen  to  be  wrong  in  govern- 
ment may  not  be  above  our  reach  by  being 
ascribed  to  majesty.  Redress  is  always  to 
be  had  against  oppression  by  punishing  the 
immediate  agents.  The  king,  though  he 
should  command,  cannot  force  a  judge  to 
condemn  a  man  unjustly ;  therefore  it  is  the 
judge  whom  we  prosecute  and  punish.  Po- 
litical mstitutions  are  formed  upon  the  con- 
sideration of  what  will  most  frequently  tend 
to  the  good  of  the  whole,  although  now  and 
then  exceptions  may  occur.  Thus  it  is  better 
in  general  that  a  nation  should  have  a  supreme 
legislative  power,  although  it  may  at  times  be 
abused.  And  then,  Sir,  there  is  this  considera- 
tion, that  if  the  abuse  be  enormous,  nature  will 
rise  up,  aiid  claiming  her  original  rights,  over- 
turn a  corrupt  political  system."  I  mark  this 
animated  sentence  with  peculiar  pleasure,  as 


a  noble  instance  of  that  truly  dignified  spirit 
of  freedom  which  ever  glowed  in  his  heart, 
though  he  was  charged  \dih.  slavish  tenets  by 
superficial  observers,  because  he  was  at  all 
times  indignant  against  that  false  patriotism, 
that  pretended  love  of  freedom,  that  unruly 
restlessness  which  is  inconsistent  with  the 
stable  authority  of  any  good  government. 

This  generous  sentiment,  which  he  uttered 
with  great  fervour,  struck  me  exceedingly,  and 
stirred  my  blood  to  that  pitch  of  fancied  re- 
sistance, the  possibility  of  which  I  am  glad  to 
keep  in  mind,  but  to  which  I  trust  I  never 
shall  be  forced. 

"  Great  abilities."  said  he,  "  are  not  requisite 
for  an  historian  ;  for  in  historical  composition 
all  the  greatest  powers  of  the  human  mind  are 
quiescent.  He  has  facts  ready  to  his  hand, 
so  there  is  no  exercise  of  invention.  Imagina- 
tion is  not  required  in  any  high  degree ;  only 
about  as  much  as  is  used  in  the  lower  kinds 
of  poetry.  Some  penetration,  acciuracy,  and 
colouring,  will  fit  a  man  for  the  task,  if  he  can 
give  the  application  which  is  necessary." 

" '  Bayle's  Dictionary '  ^s  a  very  useful  work 
for  thosCjto  consult  who  love  the  biographical 
part  of  hterature,  which  is  what  I  love  most." 

Talking  of  the  eminent  writers  in  Queen 
Anne's  reign,  he  observed,  "I  think  Dr.  Ar- 
buthnot  ^  the  first  man  among  them.  He  was 
the  most  universal  genius,  being  an  excellent 
physician,  a  man  of  deep  learning,  and  a  man 
of  much  humour.  Mr.  Addison  was,  to  be 
sure,  a  great  man ;  his  learning  was  not  pro- 
found, but  his  morality,  his  humour,  and  his 
elegance  of  writing  set  him  very  high." 

Mr.  Ogilvie  was  unlucky  enough  to  choose 
for  the  topic  of  his  conversation  the  praises  of 
his  native  country.  He  began  with  saying, 
that  there  was  very  rich  land  around  Edin- 
burgh. Goldsmith,  who  had  studied  physic 
there,  contradicted  this,  ver>'  untruly,  with  a 
sneering  laugh.  Disconcerted  a  little  by  this, 
Mr.  Ogilvie  then  took  a  new  ground,  where, 
I  suppose,  he  thought  himself  perfectly  safe ; 
for  he  observed,  that  Scotland  had  a  great 
many  noble  wild  prospects.  Johnson:  "I 
believe.  Sir,  you  have  a  great  many.     Norway, 

1  Dictionnaire  historique  et  critique  (1696)  by 
Pierre  Baj'le,  a  French  philosopher  and  critic; 
especially  through  the  English  translation  of  the 
Dictionary  his  sceptical  views  had  great  influence 
in  England  in  the  eighteenth  century.  ^  Cf. 
Pope's £p/stle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  p.  288,  above 


344 


JAMES    BOSWELL 


too,  has  noble  wild  prospects ;  and  Lapland 
is  remarkable  for  prodigious  noble  wild  pros- 
pects. But,  Sir,  let  me  tell  you,  the  noblest 
prospect  which  a  Scotchman  ever  sees,  is  the 
high-road  that  leads  him  to  England  !"  This 
unexpected  and  pointed  sally  produced  a  roar 
of  applause.  After  all,  however,  those  who 
admire  the  rude  grandeur  of  nature  cannot 
deny  it  to  Caledonia. 

On  Saturday,  July  o,  I  found  Johnson  sur- 
rounded with  a  numerous  levee,  but  have  not 
preserved  any  part  of  his  conversation.  On 
the  14th  we  had  another  evening  by  ourselves 
at  the  Mitre.  It  happened  to  be  a  very  rainy 
night ;  I  made  some  commonplace  observa- 
tions on  the  relaxation  of  nerves  and  depres- 
sion of  spirits  which  such  weather  occasioned ; 
adding,  however,  that  it  was  good  for  the 
vegetable  creation.  Johnson,  who,  as  we  have 
already  seen,  denied  that  the  temperature  of 
the  air  had  any  influence  on  the  human  frame, 
answered,  with  a  smile  of  ridicule,  "Why,  yes. 
Sir,  it  is  good  for  vegetables,  and  for  the 
animals  who  eat  those  vegetables,  and  for 
the  animals  who  eat  those  animals."  This 
observation  of  his,  aptly  enough  ijjtroduced 
a  good  supper  and  I  soon  forgot,  in  John- 
son's company,  the  influence  of  a  moist 
atmosphere. 

Feeling  myself  now  quite  at  ease  as  his  com- 
panion, though  I  had  all  possible  reverence 
for  him,  I  expressed  a  regret  that  I  could  not 
be  so  easy  with  my  father,  though  he  was  not 
much  older  than  Johnson,  and  certainly,  how- 
ever respectable,  had  not  more  learning  and 
greater  abilities  to  depress  me.  I  asked  him 
the  reason  of  this.  Johnson:  "Why,  Sir,  I 
am  a  man  of  the  world.  I  live  in  the  world, 
and  I  take,  in  some  degree,  the  colour  of 
the  world  as  it  moves  along.  Your  father  is  a 
judge  in  a  remote  part  of  the  island,  and  all 
his  notions  are  taken  from  the  old  world. 
Besides,  Sir,  there  must  always  be  a  struggle 
between  a  father  and  son,  while  one  aims  at 
power  and  the  other  at  independence."  I 
said,  I  was  afraid  my  father  would  force  me 
to  be  a  lawyer.  Johnson  :  "  Sir,  you  need  not 
be  afraid  of  his  forcing  you  to  be  a  laborious 
practising  lawyer ;  that  is  not  in  his  power. 
For,  as  the  proverb  says,  'One  man  may  lead 
a  horse  to  the  water,  but  twenty  cannot  make 
him  drink.'  He  may  be  displeased  that  you 
are  not  what  he  wishes  you  to  be ;  but  that 
displeasure  will  not  go  far.  If  he  insists  only 
on  your  having  as  much  law  as  is  necessary 


for  a  man  of  property,  and  then  endeavours 
to  get  you  into  parliament,  he  is  quite  in  the 
right." 

He  enlarged  very  convincingly  upon  the 
excellence  of  rhyme  over  blank  verse  in  Eng- 
lish poetry.  I  mentioned  to  him  that  Dr. 
Adam  Smith, ^  in  his  lectures  upon  composition, 
when  I  studied  under  him  in  the  College  of 
Glasgow,  had  maintained  the  same  opinion 
strenuously,  and  I  repeated  some  of  his  argu- 
ments. Johnson:  "Sir,  I  was  once  in  com- 
pany with  Smith,  and  we  did  not  take  to  each 
other ;  but  had  I  known  that  he  loved  rhyme 
as  much  as  you  tell  me  he  does,  I  should  have 
hugged  him." 

Talking  of  those  who  denied  the  truth  of 
Christianity,  he  said,  "It  is  always  easy  to  be 
on  the  negative  side.  If  a  man  were  now  to 
deny  that  there  is  salt  upon  the  table,  you 
could  not  reduce  him  to  an  absurdity.  Come, 
let  us  try  this  a  little  further.  I  deny  that 
Canada  is  taken,  and  I  can  support  my  denial 
by  pretty  good  arguments.  The  French  are  a 
much  more  numerous  people  than  we ;  and  it 
is  not  likely  that  they  would  allow  us  to  take 
it.  *  But  the  ministry  have  assured  us,  in  aU 
the  formality  of  the  Gazette,  that  it  is  taken.' 
—  Very  true.  But  the  ministry  have  put  us 
to  an  enormous  expense  by  the  war  in  America, 
and  it  is  their  interest  to  persuade  us  that  we 
have  got  something  for  our  money.  — '  But 
the  fact  is  confirmed  by  thousands  of  men 
who  were  at  the  taking  of  it.'  —  Ay,  but  these 
men  have  still  more  interest  in  deceiving  us. 
They  don't  want  that  you  should  think  the 
French  have  beat  them,  but  that  they  have 
beat  the  French.  Now  suppose  you  should 
go  over  and  find  that  it  really  is  taken,  that 
would  only  satisfy  yourself ;  for  when  you 
come  home  we  will  not  believe  you.  We  will 
say,  you  have  been  bribed.  —  Yet,  Sir,  not- 
withstanding all  these  plausible  objections,  we 
have  no  doubt  that  Canada  is  really  ours. 
Such  is  the  weight  of  common  testimony. 
How  much  stronger  are  the  evidences  of  the 
Christian  religion?" 

"Idleness  is  a  disease  which  must  be  com- 
bated ;  but  I  would  not-  advise  a  rigid  ad- 
herence to  a  particular  plan  of  study.  I  my- 
self have  never  persisted  in  any  plan  for  two 
days  together.  A  man  ought  to  read  just  as 
inclination  leads  him ;  for  what  he  reads  as  a 
task  will  do  him  little  good.     A  young  man 

1  author  of  the  famous  Wealth  of  Nations 


THE    LIFE    OF    SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


345 


should  read  five  hours  in  a  day,  and  so  may 
acquire  a  great  deal  of  knowledge." 

To  a  man  of  vigorous  intellect  and  ardent 
curiosity  like  his  own,  reading  without  a  regu- 
lar plan  may  be  beneficial ;  though  even  such 
a  man  must  submit  to  it,  if  he  would  attain  a 
full  understanding  of  any  of  the  sciences. 

To  such  a  degree  of  unrestrained  frankness 
had  he  now  accustomed  me  that  in  the  course 
of  this  evening  I  talked  of  the  numerous  re- 
flections which  had  been  thrown  out  against 
him,  on  account  of  his  having  accepted  a  pen- 
sion from  his  present  IMajesty.  "WTiy,  Sir," 
said  he,  with  a  hearty  laugh,  "it  is  a  mighty 
foolish  noise  that  they  make.  I  have  accepted 
of  a  pension  as  a  reward  which  has  been 
thought  due  to  my  literary  merit ;  and  now 
that  I  have  this  pension,  I  am  the  same  man 
in  every  respect  that  I  have  ever  been ;  I  re- 
tain the  same  principles.  It  is  true,  that  I 
cannot  now  curse  (smiling)  the  house  of  Han- 
over ;  nor  would  it  be  decent  for  me  to  drink 
King  James's  health  in  the  wine  that  King 
George  gives  me  money  to  pay  for.  But,  Sir, 
I  think  that  the  pleasure  of  cursing  the  house 
of  Hanover,  and  drinking  King  James's 
health,  are  amply  overbalanced  by  three 
hundred  pounds  a  year." 


It  will  be  observed,  that  when  giving  me 
advice  as  to  my  travels,  Dr.  Johnson  did  not 
dwell  upon  cities,  and  palaces,  and  pictures, 
and  shows,  and  Arcadian  scenes.  He  was  of 
Lord  Essex's  opinion,  who  advises  his  kins- 
man, Roger  Earl  of  Rutland,  "rather  to  go  a 
hundred  miles  to  speak  with  one  wise  man, 
then  five  miles  to  see  a  fair  town."  ^ 

I  described  to  him  an  impudent  fellow  from 
Scotland,  who  affected  to  be  a  savage,  and 
railed  at  all  established  systems.  Johnson : 
"There  is  nothing  surprising  in  this.  Sir.  He 
wants  to  make  himself  conspicuous.  He 
would  tumble  in  a  hog-sty,  as  long  as  you 
looked  at  him  and  called  to  him  to  come  out. 
But  let  him  alone,  never  mind  him,  and  he'll 
soon  give  it  over." 

I  added  that  the  same  person  maintained 
that  there  was  no  distinction  between  virtue 
and  vice.  Johnson:  "Why,  Sir,  if  the  fellow 
does  not  think  as  he  speaks,  he  is  lying ;  and 
I  see  not  what  honour  he  can  propose  to  him- 
self from  having  the  character  of  a  liar.     But 

^  in  a  letter  dated  Jan.  4,  1596 


if  he  does  really  think  that  there  is  no  distinc- 
tion between  virtue  and  vice,  why,  Sir,  when 
he  leaves  our  houses  let  us  count  our  spoons." 
Sir  David  Dalrymple,  now  one  of  the  judges 
of  Scotland  by  the  title  of  Lord  Hailes,  had 
contributed  much  to  increase  my  high  opinion 
of  Johnson,  on  account  of  his  writings,  long 
before  I  attained  to  a  personal  acquaintance 
with  him ;  I,  in  return,  had  informed  Johnson 
of  Sir  David's  eminent  character  for  learn- 
ing and  religion;  and  Johnson  was  so  much 
pleased,  that  at  one  of  our  evening  meetings 
he  gave  him  for  his  toast.  I  at  this  time  kept 
up  a  very  frequent  correspondence  with  Sir 
David;  and  I  read  to  Dr.  Johnson  to-night 
the  following  passage  from  the  letter  which  I 
had  last  received  from  him : 

It  gives  me  pleasure  to  think  that  you  have 
obtained  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Samuel  Johnson. 
He  is  one  of  the  best  moral  writers  which  England 
has  produced.  At  the  same  time,  I  envy  you  the 
free  and  undisguised  converse  with  such  a  man. 
May  I  beg  you  to  present  my  best  respects  to 
him,  and  to  assure  him  of  the  veneration  which  I 
entertain  for  the  author  of  the  'Rambler'  and  of 
'Rasselas'?  Let  me  recommend  this  last  work 
to  you ;  with  the  '  Rambler '  you  certainly  are 
acquainted.  In  'Rasselas'  you  will  see  a  tender- 
hearted operator,  who  probes  the  wound  only  to 
heal  it.  Swift,  on  the  contrary,  mangles  human 
nature.  He  cuts  and  slashes  as  if  he  took  pleasure 
in  the  operation,  Uke  the  tyrant  who  said,  Ita  feri 
ut  se  sentiat  emori} 

Johnson  seemed  to  be  much  gratified  by 
this  just  and  well-turned  compliment. 

He  recommended  to  me  to  keep  a  journal 
of  my  Ufe,  full  and  unreserved.  He  said  it 
would  be  a  very  good  exercise,  and  would 
yield  me  great  satisfaction  when  the  particu- 
lars were  faded  from  my  remembrance.  I 
was  uncommonly  fortunate  in  having  had  a 
previous  coincidence  of  opinion  with  him  upon 
this  subject,  for  I  had  kept  such  a  journal  for 
some  time;  and  it  was  no  small  pleasure  to 
me  to  have  this  to  tell  him,  and  to  receive  his 
approbation.  He  counselled  me  to  keep  it 
private,  and  said  I  might  surely  have  a  friend 
who  would  burn  it  in  case  of  my  death. 
From  this  habit  I  have  been  enabled  to  give 
the  world  so  many  anecdotes,  which  would 
otherwise  have  been  lost  to  posterity.  I  men- 
tioned that  I  was  afraid  I  put  into  my  journal 

^  Strike  in  such  a  way  that  he  may  feel  the 
pangs  of  death 


346 


JAMES    BOSWELL 


too  many  little  incidents.  Johnson:  "There 
is  nothing,  Sir,  too  little  for  so  little  a  creature 
as  man.  It  is  by  studying  little  things  that 
we  attain  the  great  art  of  having  as  little 
misery  and  as  much  happiness  as  possible." 

Next  morning  Mr.  Dempster  happened  to 
caU  on  me,  and  was  so  much  struck  even  with 
the  imperfect  account  which  I  gave  him  of 
Dr.  Johnson's  conversation,  that  to  his  honour 
be  it  recorded,  when  1  complained  that  drink- 
ing port  and  sitting  up  late  with  him  affected 
my  nerves  for  some  time  after,  he  said,  "One 
had  better  be  palsied  at  eighteen  than  not 
keep  company  with  such  a  man." 

On  Tuesday,  July  i8,  I  found  tall  Sir 
Thomas  Robinson  sitting  with  Johnson.  Sir 
Thomas  said,  that  the  King  of  Prussia  valued 
himself  upon  three  things ;  upon  being  a  hero, 
a  musician,  and  an  author.  Johnson : 
"Pretty  well.  Sir,  for  one  man.  As  to  his 
being  an  author,  I  have  not  looked  at  his 
poetry;  but  his  prose  is  poor  stuff.  He  writes 
just  as  you  may  suppose  Voltaire's  footboy  to 
do,  who  has  been  his  amanuensis.  He  has 
such  parts  as  the  valet  might  have,  and  about 
as  much  of  the  colouring  of  the  style  as  might 
be  got  by  transcribing  his  works."  When  I 
was  at  Ferney,  I  repeated  this  to  Voltaire,  in 
order  to  reconcile  him  somewhat  to  Johnson, 
whom  he,  in  affecting  the  English  mode  of 
expression,  had  previously  characterised  as 
"a  superstitious  dog"  ;  but  after  hearing  such 
a  criticism  on  Frederick  the  Great,  with  whom 
he  was  then  on  bad  terms,  he  exclaimed,  "An 
honest  fellow !" 

But  I  think  the  criticism  much  too  severe ; 
for  the  "Memoirs  of  the  House  of  Branden- 
burgh"  are  written  as  well  as  many  works  of 
that  kind.  His  poetry,  for  the  style  of  which 
he  himself  makes  a  frank  apology,  '^jargonnant 
un  Francois  barhare,"^  though  fraught  with 
pernicious  ravings  of  infidelity,  has  in  many 
places,  great  animation,  and  in  some  a  pa- 
thetic tenderness. 

Upon  this  contemptuous  animadversion  on 
the  King  of  Prussia,  I  observed  to  Johnson, 
"It  would  seem  then,  Sir,  that  much  less  parts 
are  necessary  to  make  a  king,  than  to  make 
an  author:  for  the  King  of  Prussia  is  con- 
fessedly the  greatest  king  now  in  Europe,  yet 
you  think  he  makes  a  very  poor  figure  as  an 
author." 

Mr.  Levett  this  day  showed  me  Dr.  John- 

^  using  a  barbarous  kind  of  French 


son's  Hbrary,  which  was  contained  in  two 
garrets  over  his  chambers,  where  Lintot,  son 
of  the  celebrated  bookseller  of  that  name,  had 
formerly  his  warehouse.  I  found  a  number 
of  good  books,  but  very  dusty  and  in  great 
confusion.  The  floor  was  strewed  with  manu- 
script leaves,  in  Johnson's  own  handwriting, 
which  I  beheld  with  a  degree  of  veneration, 
supposing  they  perhaps  might  contain  por- 
tions of  the  "Rambler,"  or  of  "Rasselas."  I 
observed  an  apparatus  for  chemical  experi- 
ments, of  which  Johnson  was  aU  his  life  very 
fond.  The  place  seemed  to  be  very  favour- 
able for  retirement  and  meditation.  Johnson 
told  me,  that  he  went  up  thither  without  men- 
tioning it  to  his  servant  when  he  wanted  to 
study,  secure  from  interrruption ;  for  he  would 
not  allow  his  servant  to  say  he  was  not  at 
home  when  he  really  was.  "A  servant's  strict 
regard  for  truth,"  said  he,  "must  be  weakened 
by  such  a  practice.  A  philosopher  may  know 
that  it  is  merely  a  form  of  denial ;  but  few 
servants  are  such  nice  distinguishers.  If  I 
accustom  a  servant  to  tell  a  lie  for  me,  have  I 
not  reason  to  apprehend  that  he  will  tell  many 
lies  for  hhnselfi^"  I  am,  however,  satisfied 
that  every  servant,  of  any  degree  of  intelli- 
gence, understands  saying  his  master  is  not  at 
home,  not  at  aU  as  the  affirmation  of  a  fact, 
but  as  customary  words,  intimating  that  his 
master  wishes  not  to  be  seen ;  so  that  there 
can  be  no  bad  effect  from  it. 

Mr.  Temple,  now  vicar  of  St.  Gluvias, 
Cornwall,  who  had  been  my  intimate  friend 
for  many  years,  had  at  this  time  chambers  in 
Farrar's-buUdings,  at  the  bottom  of  Inner 
Temple-lane,  which  he  kindly  lent  me  upon 
my  quilting  my  lodgings,  he  being  to  return 
to  Trinity  Hall,  Cambridge.  I  found  them 
particularly  convenient  for  me,  as  they  were 
so  near  Dr.  Johnson's. 

On  Wednesday,  July  20,  Dr.  Johnson,  Mr. 
Dempster,  and  my  imcle.  Dr.  Boswell,  who 
happened  to  be  now  in  London,  supped  with 
me  at  these  chambers.  Johnson:  "Pity  is 
not  natural  to  man.  Children  are  always 
cruel.  Savages  are  always  cruel.  Pity  is 
acquired  and  improved  by  the  cultivation  of 
reason.  We  may  have  uneasy  sensations  from 
seeing  a  creature  in  distress,  without  pity :  for 
we  have  not  pity  unless  we  wish  to  relieve 
them.  When  I  am  on  my  way  to  dine  with 
a  friend,  and  finding  it  late,  have  bid  the  coach- 
man make  haste,  if  I  happen  to  attend  when 
he  whips  his  horses,  I  may  feel  unpleasantly 


THE    LIFE    OF    SAMUEL   JOHNSON 


347 


that  the  animals  are  put  to  pain,  but  I  do  not 
wish  him  to  desist.  No,  Sir,  I  wish  him  to 
drive  on." 

Mr.  Alexander  Donaldson,  bookseller  of 
Edinburgh,  had  for  some  time  opened  a  shop 
in  London,  and  sold  his  cheap  editions  of  the 
most  popular  English  books,  in  defiance  of 
the  supposed  common-law  right  of  Literary 
Property.  Johnson,  though  he  concurred  in 
the  opinion  which  was  afterwards  sanctioned 
by  a  judgment  of  the  House  of  Lords,  that 
there  was  no  such  right,  was  at  this  time  very 
angry  that  the  booksellers  of  London,  for 
whom  he  uniformly  professed  much  regard, 
should  suffer  from  an  invasion  of  what  they 
had  ever  considered  to  be  secure ;  and  he 
was  loud  and  violent  against  Mr.  Donaldson. 
"He  is  a  feUow  who  takes  advantage  of  the 
law  to  injure  his  brethren  ;  for,  notwithstand- 
ing that  the  statute  secures  only  fourteen 
years  of  exclusive  right,  it  has  always  been 
understood  by  the  trade,  that  he  who  buys 
the  copyright  of  a  book  from  the  author  ob- 
tains a  perpetual  property ;  and  upon  that 
belief,  numberless  bargains  are  made  to  trans- 
fer that  property  after  the  expiration  of  the 
statutory  term.  Now,  Donaldson,  I  say, 
takes  advantage  here,  of  people  who  have 
reaUy  an  equitable  title  from  usage ;  and  if 
we  consider  how  few  of  the  books,  of  which 
they  buy  the  property,  succeed  so  well  as  to 
bring  profit,  we  should  be  of  opinion  that  the 
term  of  fourteen  years  is  too  short ;  it  should 
be  sixty  years."  Dempster:  "Donaldson, 
Sir,  is  anxious  for  the  encouragement  of  litera- 
ture. He  reduces  the  price  of  books,  so  that 
poor  students  may  buy  them."  Johnson 
(laughing):  "Well,  Sir,  allowing  that  to  be 
his  motive,  he  is  no  better  than  Robin  Hood, 
who  robbed  the  rich  in  order  to  give  to  the 
poor." 

It  is  remarkable,  that  when  the  great  ques- 
tion concerning  Literary  Property  came  to  be 
ultimately  tried  before  the  supreme  tribunal 
of  this  coimtiy,  in  consequence  of  the  very 
spirited  exertions  of  IMr.  Donaldson,  Dr. 
Johnson  was  zealous  against  a  perpetuity ; 
but  he  thought  that  the  term  of  the  exclusive 
right  of  authors  should  be  considerably  en- 
larged. He  was  then  for  granting  a  hundred 
years. 

The  conversation  now  turned  upon  Mr. 
David  Hume's^  style.     Johnson:  ''Why,'Sir, 


his  style  is  not  English ;  the  structure  of  his 
sentences  is  French.  Now  the  French  struc- 
ture and  the  English  structure  may,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  be  equally  good.  But  if  you 
allow  that  the  English  language  is  estabUshed, 
he  is  wrong.  My  name  might  originally  have 
been  Nicholson,  as  well  as  Johnson  ;  but  were 
you  to  call  me  Nicholson  now,  you  would  call 
me  very  absurdly." 

Rousseau's  treatise  on  the  inequality  of 
mankind  was  at  this  time  a  fashionable  topic. 
It  gave  rise  to  an  observ^ation  by  Mr.  Demp- 
ster, that  the  advantages  of  fortune  and  rank 
were  nothing  to  a  wise  man,  who  ought  to 
value  only  merit.  Johnson  :  "If  man  were  a 
savage,  living  in  the  woods  by  himself,  this 
might  be  true ;  but  in  civUised  society  we  all 
depend  upon  each  other  and  our  happiness  is 
very  much  owing  to  the  good  opinion  of  man- 
kind. Now,  Sir,  in  civilised  society,  external 
advantages  make  us  more  respected.  A  man 
with  a  good  coat  upon  his  back  meets  with  a 
better  reception  than  he  who  has  a  bad  one. 
Sir,  you  may  analyse  this  and  say  what  is  there 
in  it?  But  that  will  avail  you  nothing,  for  it 
is  part  of  a  general  system.  Pound  St.  Paul's 
church  into  atoms,  and  consider  any  single 
atom  ;  it  is,  to  be  sure,  good  for  nothing ;  but 
put  all  these  atoms  together  and  you  have  St. 
Paul's  church.  So  it  is  with  human  felicity, 
which  is  made  up  of  many  ingredients,  each 
of  which  may  be  shown  to  be  very  insignifi- 
cant. In  civilised  society  personal  merit  wiU 
not  serve  you  so  much  as  money  wUl.  Sir, 
you  may  make  the  experiment.  Go  into  the 
street  and  give  one  man  a  lecture  on  morality 
and  another  a  shilling,  and  see  which  will 
respect  you  most.  If  you  wish  only  to  support 
nature,  Sir  William  Petty  ^  fixes  your  allow- 
ance at  three  poimds  a  year ;  but  as  times  are 
much  altered,  let  us  call  it  six  pounds.  This 
sum,  will  fill  your  belly,  shelter  you  from  the 
weather,  and  even  get  you  a  strong  lasting 
coat,  supposing  it  to  be  made  of  good  bull's 
hide.  Now,  Sir,  all  beyond  this  is  artificial, 
and  is  desired  in  order  to  obtain  a  greater 
degree  of  respect  from  our  fellow-creatures. 
And,  Sir,  if  six  hundred  pounds  a  year  procure 
a  man  more  consequence,  and,  of  course,  more 
happiness  than  six  pounds  a  year,  the  same 
proportion  will  hold  as  to  six  thousand,  and 
so  on,  as  far  as  opulence  can  be  carried.  Per- 
haps he  who  has  a  large  fortune  may  not  be 


^  the  Scottish  philosopher  and  historian 


1  an  English  writer  on  economics  (1623-S7) 


348 


JAMES    BOSWELL 


so  happy  as  he  who  has  a  small  one ;  but  that 
must  proceed  from  other  causes  than  from  his 
having  the  large  fortune :  for,  caeteris  paribus,^ 
he  who  is  rich  in  a  civilised  society  must  be 
happier  than  he  who  is  poor ;  as  riches,  if 
properly  used,  (and  it  is  a  man's  own  fault  if 
they  are  not,)  must  be  productive  of  the 
highest  advantages.  Money,  to  be  sure,  of 
itself  is  of  no  use :  for  its  only  use  is  to  part 
with  it.  Rousseau,  and  all  those  who  deal  in 
paradoxes,  are  led  away  by  a  childish  desire 
of  novelty.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  used  always 
to  choose  the  wrong  side  of  a  debate,  because 
most  ingenious  things,  that  is  to  say,  most  new 
things,  could  be  said  upon  it.  Sir,  there  is 
nothing  for  which  you  may  not  muster  up 
more  plausible  arguments  than  those  which 
are  urged  against  wealth  and  other  external 
advantages.  Why,  now,  there  is  stealing : 
why  should  it  be  thought  a  crime?  When 
we  consider  by  what  unjust  methods  property 
has  been  often  acquired,  and  that  what  was 
unjustly  got  it  must  be  mijust  to  keep,  where 
is  the  harm  in  one  man's  taking  the  property 
of  another  from  him?  Besides,  Sir,  when  we 
consider  the  bad  use  that  many  people  make 
of  their  property,  and  how  much  better  use 
the  thief  may  make  of  it,  it  may  be  defended 
as  a  very  allowable  practice.  Yet,  Sir,  the  ex- 
perience of  mankind  has  discovered  stealing 
to  be  so  very  bad  a  thing  that  they  make  no 
scruple  to  hang  a  man  for  it.  When  I  was 
running  about  this  town  a  very  poor  fellow,  I 
was  a  great  arguer  for  the  advantages  of 
poverty;  but  I  was,  at  the  same  time,  very 
sorry  to  be  poor.  Sir,  all  the  arguments 
which  are  brought  to  represent  poverty  as  no 
evil,  show  it  to  be  evidently  a  great  evil.  You 
never  find  people  labouring  to  convince  you 
that  you  may  live  very  happily  upon  a  plenti- 
ful fortune.  — •  So  you  hear  people  talking  how 
miserable  a  king  must  be,  and  yet  they  all 
wish  to  be  in  his  place." 

It  was  suggested  that  kings  must  be  un- 
happy, because  they  are  deprived  of  the 
greatest  of  all  satisfactions,  easy  and  unre- 
served society.  Johnson:  "This  is  an  ill- 
founded  notion.  Being  a  king  does  not  ex- 
clude a  man  from  such  society.  Great  kings 
have  always  been  social.  The  King  of  Prus- 
sia,^ the  only  great  king  at  present,  is  very 
social.  Charles  the  Second,  the  last  king  of 
England  who  was  a  man  of  parts,  was  social ; 

'  other  things  being  equal 


and  our  Henrys  and  Edwards  were  all 
social." 

Mr.  Dempster  having  endeavoured  to  main- 
tain that  intrinsic  merit  ought  to  make  the 
only  distinction  among  mankind,  Johnson : 
"Why,  Sir,  mankind  have  found  that  this 
cannot  be.  How  shall  we  determine  the  pro- 
portion of  intrinsic  merit?  Were  that  to  be 
the  only  distinction  amongst  mankind,  we 
should  soon  quarrel  about  the  degrees  of  it. 
Were  all  distinctions  abolished,  the  strongest 
would  not  long  acquiesce,  but  would  endeav- 
our to  obtain  a  superiority  by  their  bodily 
strength.  But,  Sir,  as  subordination  is  very 
necessary  for  society,  and  contentions  for  su- 
periority very  dangerous,  mankind,  that  is  to 
say,  all  civilised  nations,  have  settled  it  upon 
a  plain  invariable  principle.  A  man  is  born 
to  hereditary  rank;  or  his  being  appointed 
to  certain  offices  gives  him  a  certain  rank. 
Subordination  tends  greatly  to  human  happi- 
ness. Were  we  all  upon  an  equality,  we  should 
have  no  other  enjoyment  than  mere  animal 
pleasure." 

I  said,  I  considered  distinction  or  rank  to 
be  of  so  much  importance  in  civilised  society, 
that  if  I  were  asked  on  the  same  day  to  dine 
with  the  first  duke  in  England,  and  with  the 
first  man  in  Britain  for  genius,  I  should  hesi- 
tate which  to  prefer.  Johnson  :  "  To  be  sure, 
Sir,  if  you  were  to  dine  only  once,  and  it  were 
never  to  be  known  where  you  dined,  you 
would  choose  rather  to  dine  with  the  first 
man  for  genius ;  but  to  gain  most  respect, 
you  should  dine  with  the  first  duke  in  Eng- 
land. For  nine  people  in  ten  that  you  meet 
with,  would  have  a  higher  opinion  of  you  for 
having  dined  with  a  duke;  and  the  great 
genius  himself  would  receive  you  better,  be- 
cause you  had  been  with  the  great  duke." 

He  took  care  to  guard  himself  against  any 
possible  suspicion  that  his  settled  principles 
of  reverence  for  rank  and  respect  for  wealth 
were  at  all  owing  to  mean  or  interested  mo- 
tives ;  for  he  asserted  his  own  independence 
as  a  literary  man.  "No  man,"  said  he,  "who 
ever  lived  by  literature,  has  lived  more  inde- 
pendently than  I  have  done."  He  said  he 
had  taken  longer  time  than  he  needed  to  have 
done  in  composing  his  Dictionary.'  He  re- 
ceived our  compliments  upon  that  great  work 
with  complacency,  and  told  us  that  the  Acad- 

*  published  in  1755;  it  soon  became  and  long 
remained  the  standard  for  English 


THE    LIFE    OF    SAMUEL   JOHNSON 


emy  dclla  Crusca^  could  scarcely  believe  that 
it  was  done  by  one  man. 


At  night,  Mr.  Johnson  and  I  supped  in  a 
private  room  at  the  Turk's  Head  coffee-house, 
in  the  Strand.  "  I  encourage  this  house,"  said 
he,  "for  the  mistress  of  it  is  a  good  civil 
woman,  and  has  not  much  business." 

"Sir,  I  love  the  acquaintance  of  young 
people;  because,  in  the  first  place,  I  don't 
like  to  think  myself  growing  old.  In  the  next 
place,  young  acquaintances  must  last  longest, 
if  they  do  last ;  and  then,  Sir,  young  men  have 
more  virtue  than  old  men ;  they  have  more 
generous  sentiments  in  every  respect.  I  love 
the  young  dogs  of  this  a:ge ;  they  have  more 
wit  and  humour  and  knowledge  of  life  than 
we  had ;  but  then  the  dogs  are  not  so  good 
scholars.  Sir,  in  my  early  years  I  read  very 
hard.  It  is  a  sad  reflection,  but  a  true  one, 
that  I  knew  almost  as  much  at  eighteen  as  I 
do  now.  My  judgment,  to  be  sure,  was  not 
so  good,  but  I  had  all  the  facts.  I  remember 
very  well  when  I  was  at  Oxford,  an  old  gentle- 
man said  to  me,  'Young  man,  ply  your  book 
diligently  now,  and  acquire  a  stock  of  knowl- 
edge ;  for  when  years  come  upon  you,  you 
will  find  that  poring  upon  books  will  be  but 
an  irksome  task.'  " 

This  account  of  his  reading,  given  by  him- 
self in  plain  words,  sufficiently  confirms  what 
I  have  already  advanced  upon  the  disputed 
question  as  to  his  application.  It  reconciles 
any  seeming  inconsistency  in  his  way  of  talk- 
ing upon  it  at  different  times  ;  and  shows  that 
idleness  and  reading  hard  were  with  him  rela- 
tive terms,  the  import  of  which,  as  used  by 
him,  must  be  gathered  from  a  comparison  with 
v.hat  scholars  of  different  degrees  of  ardour 
and  assiduity  have  been  known  to  do.  And 
let  if  be  remembered  that  he  was  now  talking 
spontaneously,  and  expressing  his  genuine  sen- 
timents ;  whereas  at  other  times  he  might  be 
induced  from  his  spirit  of  contradiction,  or 
more  properly  from  his  love  of  argumentative 
contest,  to  speak  lightly  of  his  own  application 
to  study.  It  is  pleasing  to  consider  that  the 
old  gentleman's  gloomy  prophecy  as  to  the 
irksomeness  of  books  to  men  of  an  advanced 
age,  which  is  too  often  fulfilled,  was  so  far 
from  being  verified  in  Johnson,  that  his  ardour 

^  a  Florentine  literary  society,  which  published 
a  large  dictionary  of  the  Italian  language 


349 

for  literature  never  failed,  and  his  last  writings 
had  more  ease  and  vivacity  than  any  of  his 
earUer  productions. 

He  mentioned  to  me  now,  for  the  first  time, 
that  he  had  been  distressed  by  melancholy, 
and  for  that  reason  had  been  obliged  to  fly 
from  study  and  meditation,  to  the  dissipating 
variety  of  life.  Against  melancholy  he  recom- 
mended constant  occupation  of  mind,  a  great 
deal  of  exercise,  moderation  in  eating  and 
drinking,  and  especially  to  shun  drinking  at 
night.  He  said  melancholy  people  were  apt 
to  fly  to  intemperance  for  relief,  but  that  it 
sunk  them  much  deeper  in  misery.  He  ob- 
served, that  labouring  men  who  work  hard, 
and  live  sparingly,  are  seldom  or  never 
troubled  with  low  spirits. 


He  said  Dr.  Joseph  Warton  was  a  very  agree- 
able man,  and  his  "Essay  on  the  Genius  and 
Writings  of  Pope"  a  very  pleasing  book.  I 
wondered  that  he  delayed  so  long  to  give  us 
the  continuation  of  it.  Johnson  :  "Why,  Sir, 
I  suppose  he  finds  himself  a  little  disappointed 
in  not  having  been  able  to  persuade  the  world 
to  be  of  his  opinion  as  to  Pope." 

We  have  now  been  favoured  with  the  con- 
cluding volume,  in  which,  to  use  a  parlia- 
mentary expression,  he  has  explained,  so 
as  not  to  appear  quite  so  adverse  to  the 
opinion  of  the  world,  concerning  Pope,  as 
was  at  first  thought ;  and  we  must  all  agree 
that  his  work  is  a  most  valuable  accession  to 
English  literature. 

A  writer  of  deserved  eminence  being  men- 
tioned, Johnson  said,  "Why,  Sir,  he  is  a  man 
of  good  parts,  but  being  originally  poor,  he  has 
got  a  love  of  mean  company  and  low  jocu- 
larity; a  very  bad  thing.  Sir.  To  laugh  is 
good,  and  to  talk  is  good.  But  you  ought  no 
more  to  think  it  enough  if  you  laugh,  than 
you  are  to  think  it  enough  if  you  talk.  You 
may  laugh  in  as  many  ways  as  you  talk ;  and 
surely  every  way  of  talking  that  is  practised 
cannot  be  esteemed." 

I  spoke  of  Sir  James  Macdonald  as  a  young 
man  of  most  distinguished  merit,  w^ho  united 
the  highest  reputation  at  Eton  and  Oxford, 
with  the  patriarchal  spirit  of  a  great  Highland 
chieftain.  I  mentioned  that  Sir  James  had 
said  to  me,  that  he  had  never  seen  Mr.  John- 
son, but  he  had  a  great  respect  for  him,  though 
at  the  same  time  it  was  mixed  with  some 
degree  of  terror.     Johnson;    "Sir,  if  he  were 


350 


JAMES.  BOS  WELL 


to  be  acquainted  with  me,  it  might  lessen 
both." 


He  maintained  that  a  boy  at  school  was 
the  happiest  of  human  beings.  I  supported  a 
different  opinion,  from  which  I  have  never  yet 
varied,  that  a  man  is  happier  ;  and  I  enlarged 
upon  the  anxiety  and  sufferings  which  are 
endured  at  school.  Johnson:  "Ah,  Sir,  a 
boy's  being  flogged  is  not  so  severe  as  a  man's 
having  the  hiss  of  the  world  against  him. 
Men  have  a  solicitude  about  fame ;  and  the 
greater  share  they  have  of  it,  the  more  afraid 
they  are  of  losing  it."  I  silently  asked  my- 
self, "Is  it  possible  that  the  great  Samuel 
Johnson  really  entertains  any  such  apprehen- 
sion, and  is  not  confident  that  his  exalted 
fame  is  established  upon  a  foundation  never 
to  be  shaken?" 

He  this  evening  drank  a  bumper  to  Sir 
David  Dalrymple,  "as  a  man  of  worth,  a 
scholar,  and  a  wit."  "I  have,"  said  he, 
"  never  heard  of  him,  except  from  you ;  but 
let  him  know  my  opinion  of  him :  for  as  he 
does  not  show  himself  much  in  the  world,  he 
should  have  the  praise  of  the  few  who  hear  of 
him." 

On  Tuesday,  July  26,  I  found  Mr.  Johnson 
alone.  It  was  a  very  wet  day,  and  I  again 
complained  of  the  disagreeable  effects  of  such 
weather.  Johnson  :  "Sir,  this  is  all  imagina- 
tion, which  physicians  encourage ;  for  man 
lives  in  air  as  a  fish  lives  in  water ;  so  that  if 
the  atmosphere  press  heavy  from  above,  there 
is  an  equal  resistance  from  below.  To  be  sure, 
bad  weather  is  hard  upon  people  who  are 
obliged  to  be  abroad  ;  and  men  cannot  labour 
so  well  in  the  open  air  in  bad  weather  as  in 
good;  but,  Sir,  a  smith,  or  a  tailor,  whose 
work  is  within  doors,  will  surely  do  as  much 
in  rainy  weather  as  in  fair.  Some  very  deli- 
cate frames,  indeed,  may  be  affected  by  wet 
weather;   but  not  common  constitutions." 

We  talked  of  the  education  of  children  ;  and 
I  asked  him  what  he  thought  was  best  to  teach 
them  first.  Johnson:  "Sir,  it  is  no  matter 
what  you  teach  them  first,  any  more  than 
what  leg  you  shall  put  into  your  breeches  first. 
Sir,  you  may  stand  disputing  which  is  best  to 
put  in  first,  but  in  the  meantime  your  breech 
is  bare.  Sir,  while  you  are  considering  which 
of  two  things  you  should  teach  your  child 
first,  another  boy  has  learned  them  both." 

On  Thursday,  July  28,  we  again  supped  in 


private  at  the  Turk's  Head  coffee-house. 
Johnson  :  "  Swift  has  a  higher  reputation  than 
he  deserves.  His  excellence  is  strong  sense ; 
for  his  humour,  though  very  well,  is  not  re- 
markably good.  I  doubt  whether  the  'Tale 
of  a  Tub'  be  his ;  for  he  never  owned  it,  and 
it  is  much  above  his  usual  manner." 

"Thomson,!  I  think,  had  as  much  of  the  poet 
about  him  as  most  writers.  Everything  ap- 
peared to  him  through  the  medium  of  his 
favourite  pursuit.  He  could  not  have  viev/ed 
those  two  candles  burning  but  with  a  poetical 
eye." 

"Has  not a  great  deal  of  wit.  Sir?" 

Johnson  :  "I  do  not  think  so.  Sir.  He  is,  in- 
deed, continually  attempting  wit,  but  he  fails. 
And  I  have  no  more  pleasure  in  hearing  a 
man  attempting  wit  and  failing,  than  in  see- 
ing a  man  trying  to  leap  over  a  ditch  and 
tumbling  into  it." 

He  laughed  heartily  when  I  mentioned  to 
him  a  saying  of  his  concerning  Mr.  Thomas 
Sheridan,^  which  Foote '  took  a  wicked  pleas- 
ure to  circulate.  "Why,  Sir,  Sherry  is  dull, 
naturally  dull ;  but  it  must  have  taken  him  a 
great  deal  of  pains  to  become  what  we  now 
see  him.  Such  an  excess  of  stupidity,  Sir,  is 
not  in  Nature."  —  "So,"  said  he,  "I  allowed 
him  aU  his  own  merit." 

He  now  added,  "Sheridan  cannot  bear  me. 
I  bring  his  declaniation  to  a  point.  I  ask  him 
a  plain  question,  'What  do  you  mean  to 
teach  ? '  Besides,  Sir,  what  influence  can  Mr. 
Sheridan  have  upon  the  language  of  this  great 
country,  by  his  narrow  ex'ertions?  Sir,  it  is 
burning  a  farthing  candle  at  Dover,  to  show 
light  at  Calais." 


Next  day,  Sunday,  July  3, 1  told  him  I  had 
been  that  morning  at  a  meeting  of  the  people 
called  Quakers,  where  I  had  heard  a  woman 
preach.  Johnson  :  "  Sir,  a  woman's  preach- 
ing is  like  a  dog's  walking  on  his  hind  legs. 
It  is  not  done  well ;  but  you  are  surprised  to 
find  it  done  at  all." 

On  Tuesday,  August  2,  (the  day  of  my  de- 
parture from  London  having  been  fixed  for 

'  author  of  The  Seasons,  etc.  ^  an  Irishman 
who  acted,  taught  elocution,  and  published  a 
pronouncing  dictionary  of  the  English  language 
—  father  of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  the 
brilliant  orator  and  dramatist  '  Samuel  Foote 
(1720-77),  a  popular  actor  and  dramatist 


JUNIUS 


351 


the  5th.)  Dr.  Johnson  did  me  the  honour  to 
pass  a  part  of  the  morning  with  me  at  my 
chambers.  He  said,  "that  he  always  felt  an 
incKnation  to  do  nothing."  I  observed,  that 
it  was  strange  to  think  that  the  most  indolent 
man  in  Britain  had  written  the  most  laborious 
work,  "The  English  Dictionary." 


JUNIUS 

LETTER  XV 

TO  HIS  GR.\CE  THE  DUKE  OF  GRAFTON 

July  8,  1769. 
My  Lord, 

If  nature  had  given  you  an  understanding 
qualitied  to  keep  pace  with  the  wishes  and 
principles  of  your  heart,  she  would  have  made 
you,  perhaps,  the  most  formidable  minisber 
that  ever  was  employed  under  a  limited  mon- 
arch to  accomplish  the  ruin  of  a  free  people. 
When  neither  the  feelings  of  shame,  the  re- 
proaches of  conscience,  nor  the  dread  of  punish- 
ment, form  any  bar  to  the  designs  of  a  minis- 
ter, the  people  would  have  too  much  reason  to 
lament  their  condition,  if  they  did  not  find 
some  resource  in  the  weakness  of  his  under- 
standing. We  owe  it  to  the  bounty  of  Provi- 
dence, that  the  completest  depravity  of  the 
heart  is  sometimes  strangely  united  w-ith  a 
confusion  of  the  mind  which  counteracts  the 
most  favourite  principles,  and  makes  the  same 
man  treacherous  without  art,  and  a  hypocrite 
without  deceiving.  The  measures,  for  in- 
stance, in  which  your  Grace's  activity  has 
been  chiefly  exerted,  as  they  were  adopted 
without  skill,  should  have  been  conducted 
with  more  than  common  dexterity.  But 
truly,  my  Lord,  the  execution  has  been  as 
gross  as  the  design.  By  one  decisive  step  you 
have  defeated  all  the  arts  of  writing.  You 
have  fairly  confounded  the  intrigues  of  opposi- 
tion, and  silenced  the  clamours  of  faction.  A 
dark,  ambiguous  system  might  require  and 
furnish  the  materials  of  ingenious  illustration  ; 
and,  in  doubtful  measures,  the  virulent  exag- 
geration of  party  must  be  employed  to  rouse 
and  engage  the  passions  of  the  people.  You 
have  now  brought  the  merits  of  your  adminis- 
tration to  an  issue  on  which  every  Englishman 
of  the  narrowest  capacity  may  determine  for 
himself.     It  is  not  an  alarm  to  the  passions, 


but  a  calm  appeal  to  the  judgment  of  the 
people  upon  their  own  most  essential  interests. 
A  more  experienced  minister  would  not  have 
hazarded  a  direct  invasion  of  the  first  principles 
of  the  constitution  before  he  had  made  some 
progress  in  subduing  the  spirit  of  the  people. 
With  such  a  cause  as  yours,  my  Lord,  it  is 
not  sufficient  that  you  have  the  court  at  your 
devotion  unless  you  can  find  means  to  corrupt 
or  intimidate  the  jury.  The  collective  body 
of  the  people  form  that  jur\',  and  from  their 
decision  there  is  but  one  appeal. 

Whether  you  have  talents  to  support  you  at 
a  crisis  of  such  difficulty  and  danger  should 
long  since  have  been  considered.  Judging 
truly  of  your  disposition,  you  have,  perhaps, 
mistaken  the  extent  of  your  capacity.  Good 
faith  and  folly  have  so  long  been  received  for 
synonymous  terms,  that  the  reverse  of  the 
proposition  has  grown  into  credit,  and  every 
villain  fancies  himself  a  man  of  abihties.  It  is 
the  apprehension  of  your  friends,  my  Lord, 
that  you  have  drawn  some  hasty  conclusion 
of  this  sort,  and  that  a  partial  reliance  upon 
your  moral  character  has  betrayed  you  beyond 
the  depth  of  your  understanding.  You  have 
now  carried  things  too  far  to  retreat.  You 
have  plainly  declared  to  the  people  what  they 
are  to  expect  from  the  continuance  of  your 
administration.  It  is  time  for  your  Grace  to 
consider  what  you  also  may  expect  in  retiurn 
from  their  spirit  and  their  resentment. 

Since  the  accession  of  our  most  gracious 
sovereign  to  the  throne  we  have  seen  a  system 
of  government  which  may  well  be  called  a 
reign  of  experiments.  Parties  of  all  denomi- 
nations have  been  employed  and  dismissed. 
The  advice  of  the  ablest  men  m  this  country 
has  been  repeatedly  called  for  and  rejected; 
and  when  the  royal  displeasure  has  been  sig- 
nified to  a  minister,  the  marks  of  it  have 
usually  been  proportioned  to  his  abilities  and 
integrity.  The  spirit  of  the  favourite^  had 
some  apparent  influence  upon  every  adminis- 
tration :  and  every  set  of  ministers  preserved 
an  appearance  of  duration,  as  long  as  they 
submitted  to  that  influence.  But  there  were 
certain  services  to  be  performed  for  the 
favourite's  security,  or  to  gratify  his  resent- 
ments, which  yoiu-  predecessors  in  office  had 
the  wisdom  or  the  virtue  not  to  undertake. 
The  moment  this  refractory  spirit  was  dis- 
covered their  disgrace  was  determined.     Lord 

1  the  Earl  of  Bute 


352 


JUNIUS 


Chatham,  Mr.  Grenville,  and  Lord  Rocking- 
ham have  successively  had  the  honour  to  be 
dismissed  for  preferring  their  duty  as  servants 
of  the  pubhc  to  those  comphances  which  were 
expected  from  their  station.  A  submissive 
administration  was  at  last  gradually  collected 
from  the  deserters  of  all  parties,  interests,  and 
connections;  and  nothing  remained  but  to 
find  a  leader  for  these  gallant  well-disciplined 
troops.  Stand  forth,  my  Lord,  for  thou  art 
the  man.  Lord  Bute  found  no  resource  of 
dependence  or  security  in  the  proud,  imposing 
superiority  of  Lord  Chatham's  abilities,  the 
shrewd,  inflexible  judgment  of  Mr.  Grenville, 
nor  in  the  mild  but  determined  integrity  of 
Lord  Rockingham.  His  views  and  situation 
required  a  creature  void  of  all  these  properties  ; 
and  he  was  forced  to  go  through  every  divi- 
sion, resolution,  composition,  and  refinement 
of  political  chemistry,  before  he  happily 
arrived  at  the  caput  mortnum  ^  of  vitriol  in  your 
Grace.  Flat  and  insipid  in  your  retired  state, 
but,  brought  into  action,  you  become  vitriol 
again.  Such  are  the  extremes  of  alternate  in- 
dolence or  fury  which  have  governed  your 
whole  administration.  Your  circumstances 
with  regard  to  the  people  soon  becoming 
desperate,  like  other  honest  servants  you  de- 
termined to  involve  the  best  of  masters  in  the 
same  difficulties  with  yourself.  We  owe  it 
to  your  Grace's  well-directed  labours,  that 
your  sovereign  has  been  persuaded  to  doubt 
of  the  affections  of  his  subjects,  and  the  people 
to  suspect  the  virtues  of  their  sovereign,  at  a 
time  when  both  were  unquestionable.  You 
have  degraded  the  royal  dignity  into  a  base, 
dishonourable  competition  with  Mr.  WUkes,^ 
nor  had  you  abilities  to  carry  even  this  last 
contemptible  triumph  over  a  private  man, 
without  the  grossest  violation  of  the  funda- 
mental laws  of  the  constitution  and  rights  of 
the  people.  But  these  are  rights,  my  Lord, 
which  you  can  no  more  annihilate  than  you 
can  the  soil  to  which  they  are  annexed. 
The  question  no  longer  turns  upon  points  of 
national  honour  and  security  abroad,  or  on 
the  flcgrees  of  expedience  and  propriety  of 
measures  at  home.  It  was  not  inconsistent 
that  you  should  abandon  the  cause  of  liberty 
in  another  country,''  which  you  had  persecuted 

^  lilerally,  dead  head ;  here,  lifeless  residue 
^  John  Wilkes,  a  worthless  profligate,  but  a  vigor- 
ous champion  of  popular  rights  and  constitu- 
tional methods    *  America 


in  your  own ;  and  in  the  common  arts  of 
domestic  corruption,  we  miss  no  part  of  Sir 
Robert  Walpole's  system  except  his  abilities. 
In  this  humble  imitative  line  you  might  long 
have  proceeded,  safe  and  contemptible.  You 
might,  probably,  never  have  risen  to  the  dig- 
nity of  being  hated,  and  even  have  been  de- 
spised with  moderation.  But  it  seems  you 
meant  to  be  distinguished,  and,  to  a  mind  like 
yours,  there  was  no  other  road  to  fame  but  by 
the  destruction  of  a  noble  fabric,  which  you 
thought  had  been  too  long  the  admiration  of 
mankind.  The  use  you  have  made  of  the 
military  force  introduced  an  alarming  change 
in  the  mode  of  executing  the  laws.  The  arbi- 
trary appointment  of  Mr.  Luttrell  ^  invades  the 
foundation  of  the  laws  themselves,  as  it  mani- 
festly transfers  the  right  of  legislation  from 
those  whom  the  people  have  chosen  to  those 
whom  they  have  rejected.  With  a  succession 
of  such  appointments  we  may  soon  see  a  House 
of  Commons  collected,  in  the  choice  of  which 
the  other  towns  and  counties  of  England  will 
have  as  little  share  as  the  devoted  county  of 
Middlesex. 

Yet,  I  trust,  your  Grace  will  find  that  the 
people  of  this  country  are  neither  to  be  intimi- 
dated by  violent  measures,  nor  deceived  by 
refinements.  When  they  see  JMr.  Luttrell 
seated  in  the  House  of  Commons  by  mere  dint 
of  power,  and  in  direct  opposition  to  the  choice 
of  a  whole  county,  they  will  not  listen  to  those 
subtleties  by  which  every  arbitrary  exertion 
of  authority  is  explained  into  the  law  and  priv- 
ilege of  parliament.  It  requires  no  persua- 
sion of  argument,  but  simply  the  evidence  of 
the  senses,  to  convince  them  that  to  transfer 
the  right  of  election  from  the  collective  to  the 
representative  body  of  the  people  contradicts 
all  those  ideas  of  a  House  of  Commons  which 
they  have  received  from  their  forefathers,  and 
which  they  have  already,  though  vainly  per- 
haps, delivered  to  their  children.  The  prin- 
ciples on  which  this  violent  measure  has  been 
defended,  have  added  scorn  to  injury,  and 
forced  us  to  feel  that  we  are  not  only  op- 
pressed but  insulted. 

With  what  force,  rhy  Lord,  with  what  pro- 
tection, are  you  prepared  to  meet  the  united 
detestation  of  the  people  of  England?  The 
city  of  London  has  given  a  generous  example 

^  Appointed  by  the  House  of  Commons  to  the 
seat  to  which  Wilkes  had  been  elected  by  the 
County  of  Middlesex. 


THOMAS    CHATTERTON 


3sa 


to  the  kingdom  in  what  manner  a  king  of  this 
country  ought  to  be  addressed ;  and  I  fancy, 
my  Lord,  it  is  not  yet  in  your  courage  to  stand 
between  your  sovereign  and  the  addresses  of 
his  subjects.  The  injuries  you  have  done  this 
country  are  such  as  demand  not  only  redress 
but  vengeance.  In  vain  shall  you  look  for 
protection  to  that  venal  vote  which  you  have 
already  paid  for  —  another  must  be  pur- 
chased ;  and  to  save  a  minister,  the  House  of 
Commons  must  declare  themselves  not  only 
independent  of  their  constituents,  but  the 
determined  enemies  of  the  constitution.  Con- 
sider, my  Lord,  whether  this  be  an  extremity 
to  which  their  fears  will  permit  them  to  ad- 
vance, or,  if  their  protection  should  fail  you, 
how  far  you  are  authorised  to  rely  upon  the 
sincerity  of  those  smiles  which  a  pious  court 
lavishes  without  reluctance  upon  a  libertine 
by  profession.  It  is  not,  indeed,  the  least  of 
the  thousand  contradictions  which  attend  you, 
that  a  man,  marked  to  the  world  by  the 
grossest  violation  of  all  ceremonj^  and  deco- 
rum, should  be  the  first  servant  of  a  court  in 
which  prayers  are  morality  and  kneeling  is 
religion.  Trust  not  too  far  to  appearances 
by  which  your  predecessors  have  been  de- 
ceived, though  they  have  not  been  injured. 
Even  th»  best  of  princes  may  at  last  discover 
that  this  is  a  contention  in  which  everything 
may  be  lost  but  nothing  can  be  gained ;  and, 
as  you  became  minister  by  accident,  were 
adopted  without  choice,  trusted  without  con- 
fidence, and  continued  without  favour,  be 
assured  that,  whenever  an  occasion  presses, 
you  will  be  discarded  without  even  the  forms 
of  regret.  You  will  then  have  reason  to  be 
thankful  if  you  are  permitted  to  retire  to  that 
seat  of  learning  1  which,  in  contemplation  of 
the  system  of  your  life,  the  comparative  purity 
of  your  manners  with  those  of  their  high 
steward,  and  a  thousand  other  recommending 
circumstances,  has  chosen  you  to  encourage 
the  growing  virtue  of  their  youth,  and  to  pre- 
side over  their  education.  Whenever  the 
spirit  of  distributing  prebends  and  bishop- 
rics shall  have  departed  from  you,  you  will 
find  that  learned  seminary  perfectly  recovered 
from  the  delirium  of  an  installation,  and,  what 
in  truth  it  ought  to  be,  once  more  a  peaceful 
scene  of  slumber  and  thoughtless  meditation. 
The  venerable  tutors  of  the  university  will  no 

'  Grafton  was  elected  Chancellor  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Cambridge  in  1768. 


longer  distress  your  modesty  by  proposing 
you  for  a  pattern  to  their  pupils.  The  learned 
dulness  of  declamation  will  be  silent ;  and 
even  the  venal  muse,  though  happiest  in 
fiction,  will  forget  your  virtues.  Yet,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  succeeding  age,  I  could  wish  that 
your  retreat  might  be  deferred  until  your 
morals  shall  happily  be  ripened  to  that  ma- 
turity of  corruption  at  which  the  worst  ex- 
amples cease  to  be  contagious. 

Junius. 


THOMAS   CHATTERTON 

(  1752-1770) 

BRISTOWE  TRAGEDIE; 

OR,   THE   DETHE   OF   SYR    CHARLES 

BAWDIN 

The  feathered  songster  chaunticleer 

Han  wounde  ^  hys  bugle  home, 
And  tolde  the  earlie  villager 

The  commynge  of  the  morne :  ,     4 

Kynge  Edwarde  ^  sawe  the  ruddie  streakes 

Of  lyghte  eclypse  the  greie ; 
And  herde  the  raven's  crokynge  throte 

Proclayme  the  fated  dale.  8 

"Thou'rt    ryghte,"    quod   he,    "for,    by  the 
Godde 

That  syttes  enthron'd  on  hyghe  ! 
Charles  Bawdin,  and  hys  fellowes  twaine, 

To-daie  shall  surelie  die."  12 

Thenne  wythe  a  jugge  of  nappy  ale 
Hys  knyghtes  dydd  onne  hymm  waite ; 

"Goe  tell  the  traytour,  thatt  to-daie 

Hee  leaves  thys  mortall  state."  16 

Sir  Canterlone  thenne  bendedd  lowe, 
With  harte  brymm-fulle  of  woe ; 

Hee  journey'd  to  the  castle-gate. 

And  to  Syr  Charles  dydd  goe.  20 

Butt  whenne  hee  came,  hys  children  twaine. 

And  eke  hys  lovynge  ■ftyfe, 
Wythe  brinie  tears  dydd  wett  the  floore. 

For  goode  Syr  Charleses  lyfe.  24 

^  has  sounded        '-'  Edward  IV 


354 


THOMAS    CHATTERTON 


"O  goode  Syr  Charles  !  "  sayd  Canterlone, 

"Badde  tydyngs  I  doe  brynge." 
"Speke    boldlie,    manne,"    sayd    brave    Syr 
Charles, 

"Whatte  says  the  traytor  kynge?"  28  ' 

"I  greeve  to  telle ;  before  yonne  Sonne 

Does  fromme  the  welkinn  flye, 
Hee  hathe  uppon  hys  honour  sworne, 

Thatt  thou  shalt  surelie  die."  32 

"Wee  all  must  die,"  quod  brave  Syr  Charles; 

"Of  thatte  I'm  not  affearde; 
Whatte  bootes  to  lyve  a  httle  space? 

Thanke  Jesu,  I'm  prepar'd :  36 

"Butt  telle  thye  kynge,  for  myne  hee's  not, 

I'de  sooner  die  to-daie 
Thanne  lyve  hys  slave,  as  manie  are, 

Though  I  shoulde  lyve  for  aie."  40 

Thenne  Canterlone  hee  dydd  goe  out, 

To  telle  the  maior^  straite 
To  gett  all  thynges  ynne  redyness 

For  goode  Syr  Charleses  fate.  44 

Thenne  Maisterr  Canynge  saughte  the  kynge. 

And  felle  down  onne  hys  knee ; 
"I'm  come,"  quod  hee,  "unto  your  grace 

To  move  your  clemencye."  48 

Thenne  quod  the  kynge,  "Youre  tale  speke 
out, 

You  have  been  much  oure  f riende ; 
Whatever  youre  request  may  bee, 

Wee  wylle  to  ytte  attende."  52 

"My  nobile  leige  !   alle  my  request 

Ys  for  a  nobile  knyghte. 
Who,    though    may    hap    hee    has     donne 
wrongc, 

Hee  thoughte  ytte  stylle  was  ryghte :        56 

■"He  has  a  spouse  and  children  twaine, 

Alle  rewyn'd  are  for  aie ; 
Y'ff  that  you  are  resolved  to  lett 

Charles  Bawdin  die  to-dai."  60 

"Speke  not  of  such  a  traytour  vile," 

The  kynge  ynn  furie  sayde ; 
"Before  the  evening  starre  doth  sheene,^ 

Bawdin  shall  loose  hys  hedde :  64 

*  William  Canynge,  mayor  of  Bristol  in  1461 
^  shine  ' 


"Justice  does  loudlie  for  hym  calle, 

And  hee  shalle  have  hys  meede : 
Speke,  maister  Canynge  !   Whatte  thynge  else 

Att  present  doe  you  neede?"  68 

"My  nobile  leige  !"  goode  Canynge  sayde, 

"Leave  justice  to  our  Godde, 
And  laye  the  yronne  rule  asyde; 

Be  thyne  the  olyve  rodde.  72 

"Was  Godde  to  serche  our  hertes  and  reines, 

The  best  were  synners  grete ; 
Christ's  vicarr  only  knowes  ne  ^  synne, 

Ynne  alle  thys  mortall  state.  76 

"Lett  mercie  rule  thyne  infante  reigne, 
'Twylle  faste  ^  thye  crowne  fuUe  sure ; 

From  race  to  race  thye  familie 

Alle  sov 'reigns  shall  endure :  .        80 

"But  yff  wythe  bloode  and  slaughter  thou 

Beginne  thy  infante  reigne,    ■ 
Thy  crowne  upponne  thy  childrennes  brows 

Wylle  never  long  remayne."  84 

"  Canynge,  awaie  !  thys  traytour  vile 
Has  scorn'd  my  power  and  mee ; 

.  Howe  canst  thou  then  for  such  a  manne 
Entreate  my  clemencye?"  88 

"  My  nobile  leige  !  the  trulie  brave 

Wylle  val'rous  actions  prize ; 
Respect  a  brave  and  nobUe  mynde, 

Although  ynne  enemies."  92 

"  Canynge,  awaie  !     By  Godde  ynne  Heav'n 

That  dydd  mee  beinge  gyve, 
I  wylle  nott  taste  a  bitt  of  breade 

Whilst  thys  Syr  Charles  dothe  lyve.  96 

"By  Marie,  and  alle  Seinctes  ynne  Heav'n, 

Thys  sunne  shall  be  hys  laste," 
Thenne  Canynge  dropt  a  brinie  teare, 

And  from  the  presence  paste.  1 00 

With  herte  brymm-fuUe  of  gnawynge  grief, 

Hee  to  Syr  Charles  dydd  goe. 
And  sat  hymm  downe  uponne  a  stoole, 

And  teares  beganne  to  flowe.  104 

"Wee  all  must  die,"  quod  brave  Syr  Charles; 

"Whatte  bootes  ytte  howe  or  whenne; 
Dethe  ys  the  sure,  the  certaine  fate 

Of  aU  wee  morlall  menne.  108 

^  no  "  fasten 


THE    BRISTOWE    TRAGEDIE 


355 


"Saye  why,  my  friende,  thie  honest  soul 

Runns  overr  att  thyne  eye  ; 
Is  ytte  for  my  most  welcome  doome 

Thatt  thou  dost  child-lyke  crye?"  112 

Quod  godlie  Canynge,  "I  doe  weepe, 

Thatt  thou  soe  soone  must  dye, 
And  leave  thy  sonnes  and  helpless  wyfe ; 

'Tys  thys  thatt  wettes  myne  eye."  116 

"Thenne  drie  the  tears  thatt  out  thyne  eye 
From  godlie  fountaines  sprynge  ; 

Dethe  I  despise,  and  alle  the  power 

Of  Edwarde,  traytour  kynge.  1 20 

"Whan  through  the  tyrant's  welcom  means 

I  shall  resigne  my  lyfe, 
The  Godde  I  serve  ^^yUe  soone  provyde 

For  bothe  mye  sonnes  and  wyfe.  1 24 

"Before  I  sawe  the  lyghtsome  sunne, 

Thys  was  appointed  mee  ; 
Shall  mortall  manne  repyne  or  grudge 

What  Godde  ordeynes  to  bee?  128 

"  Howe  oft  ynne  battaile  have  I  stoode, 

Whan  thousands  dy'd  arounde  ; 
Whan  smokynge  streemes  of  crimson  bloode 

Imbrew'd  the  fatten'd  grounde  :  132 

"  Howe  dydd  I  knowe  thatt  ev'r>'  dart. 

That  cutte  the  airie  waie, 
Myghte  nott  fynde  passage  toe  my  harte. 

And  close  myne  eyes  for  aie?  136 

"  And  shall  I  nowe,  forr  f eere  of  dethe, 
Looke  wanne  and  bee  dysmayde  ? 

Ne  !   fromm  my  herte  flie  childyshe  feere, 
Bee  aUe  the  manne  display 'd.  140 

"  Ah  !   goddelyke  Henrie  !  ^   Godde  foref ende,^ 
And  guarde  thee  and  thye  sonne, 

Yff  'tis  hys  wylle ;  but  yf?  'tis  nott, 
Why  thenne  hys  w^dle  bee  donne.  144 

"My  honest  friende,  my  faulte  has  beene 
To  serve  Godde  and  mye  prynce ; 

And  thatt  I  no  tyme-server  am. 

My  dethe  wylle  soone  convynce.  148 

"Ynne  Londonne  citye  was  I  borne, 

Of  parents  of  grete  note ; 
My  fadre  dydd  a  nobile  armes 

Emblazon  onne  hys  cote :  152 

^  Henry  VI,  imprisoned  by  Edward  IV  -  defend 


"I  make  ne^  doubte  butt  hee  ys  gone 
Where  soone  I  hope  to  goe ; 

Where  wee  for  ever  shall  bee  blest, 
From  oute  the  reech  of  woe. 


156 


"Hee  taughte  mee  justice  and  the  laws 

Wyth  pitie  to  unite ; 
And  eke  hee  taughte  mee  howe  to  knowe 

The  wronge  cause  fromm  the  ryghte  :      160 

"Hee  taughte  mee  wyth  a  prudent  hande 

To  feede  the  hungrie  poore, 
Ne  lett  mye  sarvants  dryve  awaie 

The  hungrie  fromme  my  doore  :  1 64 

"And  none  can  saye  butt  alle  mye  lyfe 

I  have  hys  wordyes  kept ; 
And  summ'd  the  actyonns  of  the  dale 

Eche  nyghte  before  I  slept.  168 

"I  have  a  spouse,  goe  aske  of  her 

Yff  Idefyl'dherbedde? 
I  have  a  kynge,  and  none  can  laie 

Black  treason  onne  my  hedde.  172 

"Ynne  Lent,  and  onne  the  holie  eve, 

Fromm  fleshe  I  dydd  refrayne ; 
Whie  should  I  thenne  appeare  dismay'd 

To  leave  thys  worlde  of  payne  ?  176 

"Ne,  hapless  Henrie  !     I  rejoyce, 

I  shall  ne  -  see  thye  dethe ; 
]\Io3te  willynghe  ynne  thye  just  cause 

Doe  I  resign  my  brethe.  180 

"Oh,  fickle  people  !   rewyn'd  ^  londe  ! 

Thou  wylt  kenne  peace  ne  moe ; 
Whyle  Richard's  sonnes  ■*  exalt  themselves, 

Thye  brookes  \vythe  bloude  wylle  tlowe.  184 

"Saie,  were  ye  tyr'd  of  godlie  peace, 

And  godlie  Henrie's  reigne, 
Thatt  you  dyd  choppe  ^  your  easie  dales 

For  those  of  bloude  and  peyne  ?  188 

"Whatte  though  I  onne  a  sledde  be  drawne. 

And  mangled  by  a  hynde, 
I  doe  defye  the  traytor's  pow'r, 

Hee  can  ne  harm  my  mynd  ;  192 

1  no  ^  not  ^  ruined  ■*  Edward  IV  and  Richard, 
Duke  of  Gloucester  (later  Richard  III)  ^ex- 
change 


356 


THOMAS    CHATTERTON 


"Whatte  though,  viphoisted  onne  a  pole, 
Mye  lymbes  shall  rotte  ynne  ayre, 

And  ne  ryche  monument  of  brasse 

Charles  Bawdin's  name  shall  bear ;  196 

"Yett  ynne  the  holie  booke  above, 

Whyche  tyme  can't  eate  awaie, 
There  wythe  the  sarvants  of  the  Lord 

Mye  name  shall  lyve  for  aie.  200 

"Thenne  welcome  dethe  !   for  lyfe  eterne 

I  leave  thys  mortall  lyfe : 
Farewell  vayne  world,  and  alle  that's  deare, 

Mye  sonnes  and  lovynge  wyfe  !  204 

"Nowe  dethe  as  welcome  to  mee  comes, 

As  e'er  the  moneth  of  Male ; 
Nor  woulde  I  even  wyshe  to  lyve, 

Wyth  my  dere  wyfe  to  stale."  208 

Quod  Canynge,  "  'Tys  a  goodlie  thynge 

To  bee  prepar'd  to  die ; 
And  from  thys  world  of  peyne  and  grefe 

To  Godde  ynne  heav'n  to  tlie."  212 

And  nowe  the  belle  began  to  toUe, 

And  claryonnes  to  sound  ; 
Syr  Charles  hee  herde  the  horses  feete 

A  prauncyng  onne  the  grounde :  216 

And  just  before  the  officers 

His  lovynge  wyfe  came  ynne, 
Weepynge  unfeigned  teeres  of  woe, 

Wythe  loude  and  dysmalle  dynne.  220 

"Sweet  Florence  !   nowe  I  praie  forbere, 

Ynn  quiet  lett  mee  die ; 
Praie  Godde  thatt  ev'ry  Christain  soule 

Maye  looke  onne  dethe  as  I.  224 

"Sweet  Florence  !   why  these  brinie  teers? 

Theye  washe  my  soule  awaie. 
And  almost  make  mee  wyshe  for  lyfe, 

Wyth  thee,  sweete  dame,  to  stale.  228 

"  'Tys  butt  a  journie  I  shalle  goe 

Untoc  the  lande  of  blyssc ; 
Nowe,  as  a  proofe  of  husbande's  love, 

Receive  thys  holie  kysse."  232 

Thenne  Florence,  fault'ring  ynne  her  saie,^ 
Tremblyngc  these  wordyes  spoke, 

"Ah,  crude  Edwarde  !   bloudie  kynge  ! 
Mye  herte  ys  welle  nyghe  broke :  236 

*  speech 


"Ah,  sweete   Syr   Charles!    why  wylt   thou 
goe, 

Wy thoute  thye  lovynge  wyfe  ? 
The  crueUe  axe  thatt  cuttes  thy  necke, 

Ytte  eke  shall  ende  mye  lyfe."  240 

And  nowe  the  officers  came  ynne 

To  brynge  Syr  Charles  awaie, 
Whoe  lurnedd  toe  hys  lovynge  wyfe, 

And  thus  to  her  dydd  saie :  244 

"I  goe  to  lyfe,  and  nott  to  dethe ; 

Truste  thou  ynne  Godde  above, 
And  teache  thy  sonnes  to  feare  the  Lorde, 

And  ynne  theyre  hertes  hym  love  :  248 

"Teache  them  to'runne  the  nobile  race 

Thatt  I  theyre  fader  runne ; 
Florence  !   shou'd  dethe  thee  take  —  adieu  ! 

Yee  officers  leade  onne."  252 

Thenne  Florence  rav'd  as  anie  madde, 

And  dydd  her  tresses  tere  ; 
"Oh  stale,  mye  husbande,  lorde,  and  lyfe  !" 

Syr  Charles  thenne  dropt  a  teare.  256 

'Tyll  tyredd  ^  oute  wythe  ravynge  loude, 

Shee  feUen  onne  the  flore ; 
Syr  Charles  exerted  aUe  hys  myghte, 

And  march'd  fromm  oute  the  dore.  260 

Uponne  a  sledde  hee  mounted  thenne, 
Wythe  lookes  full  brave  and  swete ; 

Lookes  thatt  enshone  ~  ne  more  concern 
Thanne  anie  ynne  the  strete.  264 

Before  hym  went  the  council-menne, 

Ynne  scarlett  robes  and  golde. 
And  tassils  spanglynge  ynne  the  sunne, 

Muche  glorious  to  beholde :  268 

The  Freers  of  Seincte  Augustyne  next 

Appeared  to  the  syghte, 
Alle  cladd  ynne  homehe  russett  weedes. 

Of  godlie  monkysh  plyghte :  *  272 

Ynne  diffraunt  partes  a  godlie  psaume 
Moste  sweethe  theye  dydd  chaunt ; 

Behynde     theyre    backes    syx    mynstrelles 
came, 
Who  tun'd  the  strunge  bataunt.-"  270 

^  tired  ^  showed  '  style  ^  a  mythical  instru- 
ment (due  to  Chatterton's  misunderstanding  of 
an  ancient  word) 


THE    BRISTOWE    TRAGEDIE 


357 


Thenne  fyve-and-twentye  archers  came; 

Echone  the  bowe  dydd  bende, 
From  rescue  of  Kynge  Henries  friends 

Syr  Charles  forr  to  defend.  280 

Bolde  as  a  lyon  came  Syr  Charles, 
Drawne  onne  a  cloth-layde  sledde, 

Bye  two  blacke  stedes  ynne  trappynges  white, 
Wyth  plumes  uponne  they  re  hedde:        284 

Eehynde  hym  tive-and-twenty  moe 

Of  archers  stronge  and  stoute, 
Wyth  bended  bowe  echone  ynne  hande, 

Marched  ynne  goodlie  route  ;  288 

Seincte  Jameses  Freers  marched  next, 

Echone  hys  parte  dydd  chaunt ; 
Behynde  theyre  backes  syx  mynstrelles  came. 

Who  tun'd  the  strunge  bataunt :  292 

Thenne  came  the  maior  and  eldermenne, 

Ynne  clothe  of  scarlett  deck't ; 
And  theyre  attendynge  menne  echone, 

Lyke  easterne  princes  trickt :  296 

And  after  them,  a  multitude 

Of  citizens  dydd  thronge  ; 
The  wyndowes  were  alle  fulle  of  heddes. 

As  hee  dydd  passe  alonge.  300 

And  whenne  hee  came  to  the  hyghe  crosse, 
Syr  Charles  dydd  turne  and  sale, 

"O  thou,  thatt  savest  manne  fromme  synne, 
Washe  mye  soule  clean  thys  dale  ! "        304 

Att  the  grete  mynster  wyndowe  sat 

The  kynge  ynne  myckJe  ^  state, 
To  see  Charles  Baw'din  goe  alonge 

To  hys  most  welcom  fate.  308 

Soone  as  the  sledde  drewe  nyghe  enowe, 
Thatt  Edwarde  hee  myghte  heare, 

The  brave  Syr  Charles  hee  dydd  standeuppe. 
And  thus  hys  wordes  declare :  312 

"Thou  seest  me,  Edwarde  !   traytour  vile  ! 

Expos 'd  to  infamie  ; 
Butt  bee  assur'd,  disloyall  manne  ! 

I'm  greaterr  nowe  thanne  thee.  316 

"Bye  foule  proceedyngs,  murdre,  bloude, 

Thou  wearest  nowe  a  crowne  ; 
And  hast  appoynted  mee  to  die, 

By  power  nott  thyne  owne.  320 

^  great 


"Thou  thynkest  I  shall  die  to-daie ; 

I  have  beene  dede  'till  nowe, 
And  soone  shall  lyve  to  weare  a  crowne 

For  aie  uponne  my  browe :  324 

"Whylst  thou,  perhapps,  for  som  few  yeares, 

Shalt  rule  thys  fickle  lande. 
To  lett  them  knowe  howe  wyde  the  rule 

'Twixt  kynge  and  tyrant  hande  :  328 

"Thye  pow'r  unjust,  thou  traytour  slave  ! 

Shall  falle  onne  thye  owne  hedde"  — 
Fromm  out  of  hearyng  of  the  kynge 

Departed  thenne  the  sledde.  332 

Kynge  Edwarde's  soule  rush'd  to  hys  face, 

Hee  turn'd  hys  hedde  awaie, 
And  to  hys  broder  Gloucester 

Hee  thus  dydd  speke  and  sale :  336 

"To  hym  that  soe  much  dreaded  dethe 

Ne  ghastlie  terrors  brynge, 
Beholde  the  manne  !  hee  spake  the  truthe. 


Hee's  greater  thanne  a  kynge 


340 


"Soe  let  hym  die  !"  Duke  Richarde  sayde; 

"And  maye  echone  oure  foes 
Bende  downe  theyre  neckes  to  bloudie  axe 

And  feede  the  carryon  crowes."  344 

And  nowe  the  horses  gentlie  drewe 
Syr  Charles  uppe  the  hyghe  hylle ; 

The  axe  dydd  glysterr  ynne  the  sunne, 

His  pretious  bloude  to  spylle.  348 

Syrr  Charles  dydd  uppe  the  scaffold  goe, 

As  uppe  a  gilded  carre 
Of  victorye,  bye  val'rous  chiefs 

Gayn'd  ynne  the  bloudie  warre :  352 

And  to  the  people  hee  dyd  sale, 

"Beholde  you  see  mee  dye. 
For  servynge  loyally  mye  kynge, 

Mye  kynge  most  ryghtfullie.  356 

"As  longe  as  Edwarde  rules  thys  land, 

Ne  quiet  you  wylle  knowe : 
Your     sonnes     and     husbandes     shalle    bee 
slayne 

And  brookes  wythe  bloude  shall  flowe.   360 

"You  leave  youre  goode  and  lawfulle  kynge, 

Whenne  ynne  adversitye ; 
Lyke  mee,  untoe  the  true  cause  stycke, 

And  for  the  true  cause  dye."  364 


358 


GEORGE    CRABBE 


Thenne  hee,  wyth  preestes,  uponne  hys  knees, 

A  prayer  to  Godde  dyd  make, 
Beseechynge  hym  unto  hymselfe 

Hys  partynge  soule  to  take.  368 

Thenne,  kneelynge  downe,  hee  layd  hys  hedde 

Most  seemlie  onne  the  blocke  ; 
Whyche  fromme  hys  bodie  fayre  at  once 

The  able  heddes-manne  stroke  :  372 

And  oute  the  blonde  beganne  to  flowe, 
And  rounde  the  scaffolde  twyne ; 

And  teares,  enow  to  washe  't  awaie, 

Dydd  flowe  fromme  each  mann's  eyne.  376 

The  bloudie  axe  hys  bodie  fayre 

Ynnto  foure  partes  cutte  ;    , 
And  ev'rye  parte,  and  eke  hys  hedde, 

Uponne  a  pole  was  putte.  380 

One  parte  dydd  rotte  onne  Kynwulph-hylle, 

One  onne  the  mynster-tower, 
And  one  from  off  the  castle-gate 

The  crowen  ^  dydd  devoure  ;  384 

The  other  onne  Seyncte  Powle's  goode  gate, 

A  dreery  spectacle ; 
Hys  hedde  was  plac'd  onne  the  hyghe  crosse, 

Ynne  hyghe-streete  most  nobile.  3S8 

Thus  was  the  ende  of  Bawdin's  fate : 
Godde  prosper  longe  oure  kynge, 

And  grante  hee  maye,  M^th  Bawdin's  soule, 
Ynne  heav'n  Godd's  mercie  synge  !         392 

THE  ACCOUNTE  OF  W.  CANYNGES 
FEAST  2 

Thorowc  the  halle  the  belle  han  sounde ; 
Byelecoyle  doe  the  grave  beseeme  ; 
The  ealdermenne  doe  sytte  arounde, 
Ande  snoffelle  oppe  the  cheorte  steeme 
Lyche  asses  wylde  ynne  desartc  waste  5 

Swotclye  the  morneynge  ayre  doe  taste. 

Syche  coyne  thie  ate  ;   the  minstrels  plaie. 
The  dynne  of  angclles  doe  theie  keepe  ; 
Heie  styllc ;   the  guestes  ha  ne  to  saie, 
Butte  nodde  ycr  thankes  ande  falle  aslape   10 
Thos  cchone  daie  bee  I  to  deene, 
Gyf  Rowley,  Iscamm,  or  Tyb  Gorges  be  ne 
scene. 

*  crows  ^  For  a  translation  of  this  absurd  jargon 
see  the  Notes. 


GEORGE    CRABBE    (1754-1832) 

From  TALES 
TALE  X  — THE  LOVER'S  JOURNEY 

On  either  side 
Is  level  fen,  a  prospect  wild  and  wide. 
With  dikes  on  either    hand   by  ocean's  self 

supplied : 
Far  on  the  right  the  distant  sea  is  seen, 
And   salt   the   springs   that   feed   the   marsh 

between. 
Beneath  an  ancient  bridge  the  straitened  flood 
Rolls  through  its  sloping  banks  of  slimy  mud  ; 
Near  it  a  sunken  boat  resists  the  tide,        1 1 1 
That  frets  and  hurries  to  th'  opposing  side ; 
The  rushes  sharp,  that  on  the  borders  grow. 
Bend   their   brown   flow'rets   to   the   stream 

below, 
Impure  in  all  its  course,  in  all  its  progress 

slow : 
Here  a  grave  Flora  scarcely  deigns  to  bloom, 
Nor  wears  a  rosy  blush,  nor  sheds  perfume : 
The  few  dull  flowers  that  o'er  the  place  are 

spread 
Partake  the  nature  of  their  fenny  bed ; 
Here  on  its  wiry  stem,  in  rigid  bloom,         120 
Grows  the  salt  lavender  that  lacks  perfume : 
Here   the   dvv'arf   sallows   creep,   the   septfoil 

harsh, 
And  the  soft  slimy  mallow  of  the  marsh ; 
Low  on  the  ear  the  distant  billows  sound. 
And  just  in  view  appears  their  stony  bound ; 
No  hedge  nor  tree  conceals  the  glowing  sun ; 
Birds,  save  a  wat'ry  tribe,  the  district  shun, 
Nor  chirp  among  the  reeds  where  bitter  waters 


Again,  the  country  was  enclosed,  a  wide 
And  sandy  road  has  banks  on  either  side ; 
Where,  lo  !   a  hollow  on  the  left  appeared. 
And  there  a  gipsy  tribe  their  tent  had  reared ; 
'Twas  open  spread,  to  catch  the  morning  sim, 
And  they  had  now  their  early  meal  begun. 
When  two  brown  boys  just  left  their  grassy 

seat. 
The  early  traveller  with  their  prayers  to  greet : 
While  yet  Orlando  held  his  pence  in  hand. 
He  saw  their  sister  on  her  duty  stand  ;        1 50 
Some  twelve  years  old,  demure,  affected,  sly, 
Prepared  the  force  of  early  powers  to  try; 
Sudden  a  look  of  languor  he  descries. 
And  well-feigned  apprehension  in  her  eyes ; 


WILLIAM    BLAKE 


359 


Trained  but  yet  savage,  in  her  speaking  face 
He  marked  the  features  of  her  vagrant  race ; 
W'Tien  a   Hght   laugh    and    roguish   leer   ex- 
pressed 
The  vice  implanted  in  her  youthful  breast : 
Forth  from  the  tent  her  elder  brother  came, 
Who  seemed  offended,  yet  forbore  to  blame 
The  young  designer,  but  could  only  trace  i6i 
The  looks  of  pity  in  the  traveller's  face : 
Within,  the  father,  who  from  fences  nigh 
Had  brought  the  fuel  for  the  tire's  supply, 
Watched  now  the  feeble  blaze,  and  stood  de- 
jected by. 
On  ragged  rug,  just  borrowed  from  the  bed, 
And  by  the  hand  of  coarse  indulgence  fed, 
In  dirty  patchwork  negligently  dressed. 
Reclined  the  wife,  an  infant  at  her  breast ; 
In    her   wild  face  some  touch  of    grace  re- 
mained, 
Of  vigour  palsied  and  of  beauty  stained  ;     171 
Her  bloodshot  eyes  on  her  unheeding  mate 
Were  wrathful  turned,  and  seemed  her  wants 

to  state, 
Cursing  his  tardy  aid  —  her  mother  there 
With  gipsy-state  engrossed  the  only  chair ; 
Solemn   and   dull   her   look ;     with   such   she 

stands. 
And   reads   the   milk-maid's   fortune   in   her 

hands, 
Tracing  the  lines  of  life ;    assumed  through 

years. 
Each  feature  now  the  steady  falsehood  wears ; 
With  hard  and   savage  eye   she   views    the 

food, 
And  grudging  pinches  their  intruding  brood ; 
Last   in   the   group,   the  worn-out  grandsire 

sits 
Neglected,  lost,  and  living  but  by  fits  :         183 
Useless,  despised,  his  worthless  labours  done, 
And  half  protected  by  the  vicious  son,         • 
Who    half    supports    him ;     he    with    hea\'y 

glance 
Mews  the  young  ruffians  who  around  him 

dance ; 
And,  by  the  sadness  in  his  face,  appears 
To  trace  the  progress  of  their  future  years : 
Through  what  strange  course  of  misery,  vice, 
deceit,  190 

INIust  wildly  wander  each  unpractised  cheat! 
What  shame  and  grief,  what  punishment  and 

pain, 
Sport  of  fierce  passions,  must  each  child  sus- 
tain — ■ 
Ere  they  like  him  approach  their  latter  end, 
Without  a  hope,  a  comfort,  or  a  friend! 


WILLIAM   BLAKE    (i757-i'827) 

From   SONGS  OF  INNOCENCE 

INTRODUCTION 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 

On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he  laughing  said  to  me :  4 

"Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb!" 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 

"Piper,  pipe  that  song  again;" 

So  I  piped  :  he  wept  to  hear.  8 

"Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe  ; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer!" 
So  I  sung  the  same  again, 

^^^lLIe  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear.     12 

"Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read." 

So  he  vanished  from  my  sight ; 

And  I  plucked  a  hoUow  reed,  16 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen. 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear. 

And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 

Every  child  may  joy  to  hear.  20 

From   SONGS  OF  EXPERIENCE 
THE   CLOD   AND   THE   PEBBLE 

"Love  seeketh  not  itself  to  please, 

Nor  for  itself  hath  any  care, 
But  for  another  gives  its  ease. 

And  builds  a  heaven  in  hell's  despair."       4 

So  sung  a  little  clod  of  clay. 

Trodden  with  the  cattle's  feet. 
But  a  pebble  of  the  brook 

Warbled  out  these  metres  meet :  8 


"Love  seeketh  only  Self  to  please, 
To  bind  another  to  its  delight, 

Joys  in  another's  loss  of  ease. 

And  builds  a  hell  in  heaven's  despite. 


360 


WILLIAM    BLAKE 


THE   SICK   ROSE 

O  Rose,  thou  art  sick! 

The  invisible  worm, 
That  flies  in  the  night, 

In  the  howling  storm, 

Has  found  out  thy  bed 

Of  crimson  joy, 
And  his  dark  secret  love 

Does  thy  life  destroy. 


THE   TIGER 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night. 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder  and  what  art 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart  ? 
And,  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  and  what  dread  feet  ? 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 


16 


When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee  ?  20 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 

In  the  forests  of  the  night. 

What  immortal  hand  or  eye 

Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ?  24 

A   POISON   TREE 

I  was  angry  with  my  friend : 

I  told  my  wrath,  my  wrath  did  end. 

I  was  angry  with  my  foe : 

I  told  it  not,  my  wrath  did  grow.  4 

And  I  watered  it  in  fears 

Night  and  morning  with  my  tears, 

And  I  sunned  it  with  smiles 

And  with  soft  deceitful  wiles.  8 


And  it  grew  both  day  and  night, 
Till  it  bore  an  apple  bright. 
And  my  foe  beheld  it  shine. 
And  he  knew  that  it  was  mine,  — 


And  into  my  garden  stole 

When  the  night  had  veiled  the  pole ; 

In  the  morning,  glad,  I  see 

My  foe  outstretched  beneath  the  tree. 


16 


From  IDEAS   OF   GOOD   AND   EVIL 
AUGURIES  OF  INNOCENCE 

To  see  the  world  in  a  grain  of  sand, 

And  a  heaven  in  a  wild  flower ; 
Hold  infinity  in  the  palm  of  your  hand, 

And  eternity  in  an  hour.  4 

TWO   KINDS   OF   RICHES 

Since  all  the  riches  of  all  this  world 

May  be  gifts  from  the  devil  and  earthly 
kings, 

I  should  suspect  that  I  worshipped  the  devil 
If  I  thanked  God  for  worldly  things.         4 

The  countless  gold  of  a  merry  heart, 
The  rubies  and  pearls  of  a  loving  eye, 

The  idle  man  never  can  bring  to  the  mart. 
Nor  the  cunning  hoard  up  in  his  treasury.  8 

LOVE'S   SECRET 

Never  seek  to  tell  thy  love. 
Love  that  never  told  shall  be ; 
•    For  the  gentle  wind  does  move 

Silently,  invisibly.  4 

I  told  my  love,  I  told  my  love, 

I  told  her  all  my  heart, 
Trembling,  cold,  in  ghastly  fears. 

Ah !  she  did  depart !  8 

Soon  after  she  was  gone  from  me, 

A  traveller  came  by. 
Silently,  invisibly : 

He  took  her  with  a  sigh.  12 


MINOR    SCOTTISH    POETS 


361 


MINOR   SCOTTISH   POETS 

THERE'S     NAE     LUCK     ABOUT     THE 
HOUSE  ' 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  of  wark  ? 

Ye  jauds,2  fling  by  your  wheel.  4 

Is  this  the  time  to  think  of  wark, 

When  Cohn's  at  the  door? 
Gi'e  me  my  cloak  !  I'll  to  the  quay 

And  see  him  come  ashore.  8 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  ava  ;  ^ 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house. 

When  our  gudem.an's  awa'.  12 

Rise  up  and  mak'  a  clean  fireside ; 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gi'e  little  Kate  her  cotton  gown, 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat :  16 

And  mak'  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes,* 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw ; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  long  awa'.  20 

There's  twa  fat  hens  upon  the  bauk,^ 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair ; 
Mak'  haste  and  thraw  ''  their  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare ;  24 

And  mak'  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

Gar  ^  ilka  thmg  look  braw ; 
It's  a'  for  love  of  my  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  long  a^a'.  28 

O  gi'e  me  do\\Ti  my  bigonet,^ 

My  bishop  satin  gown. 
For  I  maun  tell  the  bailie's  wife 

That  Colin's  come  to  town. 
My  Sunday's  shoon  they  maun  ^  gae  on, 

jNIy  hose  o'  pearl  blue  ; 
'Tis  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman. 

For  he's  baith  leal  and  true.  36 

Sae  true  his  words,  sae  smooth  liis  speech, 

His  breath's  like  caller  ^'^  air! 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't. 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair.  40 

*  This  poem  is  often  wrongly  ascribed  to  Jean 
Adams.  ^  jades  ^  at  all  *  sloes  ^  cross-beam 
•^  twist  ^  make   *  bonnet   ^  must   ^^  fresh 


32 


And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  with  the  thought,  — 

In  troth,  I'm  like  to  greet. ^ 

The  cauld  blasts  o'  the  winter  wind. 

That  thrilled  through  my  heart, 
They're  a'  blawn  by;  I  ha'e  him  safe, 

Till  death  we'll  never  part : 
But  what  puts  parting  in  my  head  ? 

It  may  be  far  awa' ; 
The  present  moment  is  our  ain, 

The  neist  ^  we  never  saw. 


44 


48 


52 


Since  Colin's  weel,  I'm  weel  content, 

I  ha'e  nae  more  to  crave ; 
Could  I  but  live  to  mak'  him  blest, 

I'm  blest  above  the  lave  :  ^  56 

And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought,  — 

In  troth,  I'm  like  to  greet.  60 

—  WiLLL-VM  Julius  IMickle  (1735-1788) 

THE   FLOWERS   OF   THE   FOREST 

I've  heard  them  lilting,^  at  our  ewe-milking, 
Lasses  a-lilting,  before  the  dawn  of  day ; 
But   now  they  are  moaning,   on  ilka  green 

loaning ;  ^ 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  ®  away. 

At  bughts  "  in  the  morning  nae  blythe  lads  are 

scorning ;  ^ 
The  lasses  are  lanely,  and  dowie,^  and  wae ; 
Nae  dafhng,!"  nae  gabbing,  but  sighing  and 

sabbing. 
Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglin.^^  and  hies  her  away.  8 

In  hairst,^^  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now  are 
jeering. 

The  bandsters  "  are  lyart,"  and  runkled  and 
grey ; 

At  fair  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae  Seech- 
ing 15  — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away.  1 2 

At  e'en,  in  the  gloaming,  nae  swankies  ^^  are 

roaming 
'Bout  stacks  wi'  the  lasses  at  bogle  ^~  to  play ; 

1  weep  ^  next  ^  rest  *  singing  ^  meadow  path 
*  vanished  "  sheep-pens  ^  bantering  ®  dull  ^^  jest- 
ing '^  pail  ^  harvest  ^^  binders  "  old  ^^  coaxing 
1*  young  men   ^'  bugbear 


362 


ROBERT    BURNS 


But  ilk  ane  sits  eerie,  lamenting  her  dearie  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away.  16 

Dool  and  wae  for  the  order  sent  our  lads  to 

the  Border! 
The  English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan  the  day ; 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  fought  aye  the 

foremost. 
The  prime  of  our  land,  lie  cauld  in  the  clay.  20 

We'll  hear  nae  more  lilting  at  our  e^^^e-milking, 
Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae ; 
Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning, 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away.  24 
— ^Jane  Elliot  (1727-1805) 

From  CALLER  WATER 

WTian  father  Adie  first  pat  ^  spade  in 
The  bonny  yeard  of  antient  Eden 
His  amry  -  had  nae  liquor  laid  in, 

To  fire  his  mou',' 
Nor  did  he  thole  ■*  his  wife's  upbraidin' 

For  being  fou.^  6 

A  caller  ^  burn  o'  siller  sheen 

Ran  cannily  out  o'er  the  green. 

And  whan  our  gutcher's  ^  drouth  had  been 

To  bide  right  sair,* 
He  loutit  ^  down  and  drank  bedeen^" 

A  dainty  skair."  12 


His  bairns  a'  before  the  flood 

Had  danger  tack  ^"  o'  flesh  and  blood, 

And  on  mair  pithy  shanks  they  stood 

Than  Noah's  line, 
Wha  still  hae  been  a  feckless  brood 

Wi'  drinking  wine. 


18 


24 


The  fuddlin'  Bardies  now-a-days 
Rin  maukin-mad  '•'  in  Bacchus'  praise, 
And  limp  and  stoiter  thro'  their  lays 

Anacreontic, 
While  each  his  sea  of  wine  displays 

As  big's  the  Pontic. 

My  muse  will  no  gang  far  frae  hame. 
Or  scour  a'  airths  ^*  to  hound  for  fame ; 
In  troth,  the  jillet  ^^  ye  might  blame 
For  thinking  on't, 

^  put  ^  cupboard  ^  mouth  *  endure  ^  full 
^  fresh  ^  grandfather's  *  right  sore  to  endure 
*  bent  ^^  quickly  ^^  share  ^^  lease  ^'  mad  as  a  hare 
"  regions  ^^  huzzy 


Whan  eithly  ^  she  can  find  the  theme 

Of  aqua  font }  30 

This  is  the  name  that  doctors  use 

Their  patients'  noodles  to  confuse  ;  • 

Wi'  simples  clad  in  terms  abstruse,  " 

They  labour  still. 
In  kittle  ^  words  to  gar  ■*  you  roose  ^ 

Their  want  o'  skill.  36 

But  we'll  hae  nae  sick  ^  clitter-clatter, 
And  briefly  to  expound  the  matter, 
It  shall  be  ca'd  good  Caller  Water, 

Than  whilk,^  I  trow. 
Few  drogs  in  doctors'  shops  are  better 

For  me  or  you.  42 

— Robert  Fergusson  (1750-1774) 

ROBERT   BURNS   (i 759-1 796) 

SONG,  —  GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES 

Chorus.  —  Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ! 

The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O. 

There's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  han',       5 

In  every  hour  that  passes,  O  : 
What  signifies  the  life  o'  man. 

An  'twere  na  for  the  lasses,  O? 

The  war'ly  *  race  may  riches  chase, 

An'  riches  still  may  fly  them,  0 ;  lo 

An'  tho'  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  crfn  ne'er  enjoy  them,  O. 

But  gie  me  a  cannie  ^  hour  at  e'en, 
My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O ; 

An'  war'ly  cares,  an'  war'ly  men,  15 

May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,^"  0. 

For  you  sae  douce,|'-  ye  sneer  at  this ; 

Ye're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O : 
The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw. 

He  dearly  lov'd  the  lasses,  O.  20 

Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
I  ler  noblest  work  she  classes,  O : 

Her  prentice  han'  she  try'd  on  man, 
An'  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 

^easily  ^  aqua  fontis=  water  from  the  spring 
'  ticklish  *  make  ^  praise  ''  such  ^  which  **  worldly 
*  quiet  ^^  topsy-turvy  ^^  solemn 


ADDRESS    TO    THE    DEIL 


363 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL 

O  Prince  !      O  Chief  of  many  throned  pow'rs ! 
That  led  th'  embattled  seraphim  to  war.  — 

—  Milton. 

O  thou  !  whatever  title  suit  thee,  — 
Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie  ! 
Wha  in  yon  cavern,  grim  an'  sootie, 

Clos'd  under  hatches, 
Spairges  ^  about  the  brunstane  cootie  ^  S 

To  scaud  ^  poor  wretches  ! 

Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee, 
An'  let  poor  damned  bodies  be ; 
I'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie, 

E'en  to  a  deil,  10 

To  skelp  *  an'  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me, 

An'  hear  us  squeel ! 

Great  is  thy  pow'r,  an'  great  thy  fame ; 

Far  ken'd  '"  an'  noted  is  thy  name ; 

An'  tho'  yon  lowin  heugh's  ^  thy  hame,''       15 

Thou  travels  far ; 
An'  faith  1  thou's  neither  lag  ^  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate  ^  nor  scaur.^° 

Whyles,^^  rangin  like  a  roarin  lion, 

For  prey  a'  holes  an'  corners  tryin ;  20 

Whyles,  on  the  strong-wing'd  tempest  flyin, 

Tirlin'  ^  the  kirks  ;  i^ 
Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  pryin, 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 


Wi'  you  mysel  I  gat  a  fright 
Ayont  ^  the  lough ;  * 

Ye  like  a  rash-buss  ^  stood  in  sight 
Wi'  waving  sough. 


40 


I've  heard  my  rev'rend  grannie  say, 
In  lanely  ^'*  glens  ye  like  to  stray ; 
Or  whare  auld  ruin'd  castles  gray 

Nod  to  the  moon, 
Ye  fright  the  nightly  wand'rer's  way 

Wi'  eldritch  ^^  croon. 


25 


30 


When  twilight  did  my  grannie  summon 
To  say  her  pray'rs,  douce  ^®  honest  woman 
Aft  yont  ^"  the  dike  she's  heard  you  bummin, 

Wi'  eerie  drone ; 
Or,  rusthn,  thro'  the  boortrees  ^*  comin,        35 

Wi'  heavy  groan. 

Ac  "  dreary,  -vidndy,  winter  night, 

The  stars  shot  down  wi'  sklentin  ^  light, 

^  splashes  ^  brimstone  tub  ^  scald  *  slap 
^  known  ®  flaming  ravine  ^  home  *  sluggish  ^  shy 
^^  timid  ^^  sometimes  ^  unroofing  ^^  churches 
"  lonely  *^  tmearthly  ^^  grave  ^'  often  beyond 
'*  elders  ^^  one   ^  slanting 


The  cudgel  in  my  nievc  *  did  shake, 
Each  bristl'd  hair  stood  like  a  stake, 
When    wi'    an     eldritch,*    stoor  ^    "Quaick, 
quaick,"  45 

Amang  the  springs, 
Awa  ye  squatter'd  like  a  drake, 

On  whistlin  wings. 

Let  warlocks  ^  grim  an'  wither'd  hags 

Tell  how  wi'  you  on  ragweed  nags  50 

They  skim  the  muirs  an'  dizzy  crags 

Wi'  wicked  speed ; 
And  in  kirk-yards  ^  renew  their  leagues, 

Ov.Te  howket  ^  dead. 

Thence,  cotmtra  wives  wi'  toil  an'  pain        55 
May  plunge  an'  plunge  the  kirn  "  in  vain  ; 
For  oh  !  the  yellow  treasure's  taen 

By  -^dtchin  skill ; 
An'  dawtet,^^  twal-pint  hawkie's  ^^  gaen 

As  yell's  ^^  the  bill."  60 


When  thowes  ^^  dissolve  the  snavsy  hoord,i® 
An'  float  the  jinglin  icy-boord, 
Then  water-kelpies  ^'  haunt  the  foord 

By  your  direction,  70 

An'  nighted  trav'lers  are  allur'd 

To  their  destruction. 

And  aft  ^*  your  moss-traversing  spunkies  ^^ 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  and  drunk  is : 
The  bleezing,-*^  curst,  mischievous  monkeys  75 

Delude  his  eyes,  ' 

Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is. 

Ne'er  mair  to  rise. 

\\Tien  masons'  mystic  word  and  grip 

In  storms  an'  tempests  raise  you  up,  80 

Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 

Or,  strange  to  tell. 
The  youngest  brither  -^  ye  wad  whip 

Aff  22  straught  to  hell ! 

^  beyond  ^  lake  *  rush-bush  *  fist  *  unearthly 
®  harsh  '  wizards  *  church-yards  ^  dug  up  ^"^  churn 
^  petted  ^2  twelve-pint  cow  ^'  dry  as  ^*  bull 
^°  thaws  ^®  snowy  hoard  ^'  water-spirits  ^*  often 
'*  will-o'-the-wisps    -"  blazing  ^^  brother    ^  off 


3^4 


ROBERT    BURNS 


Lang  syne,  in  Eden's  bonie  yard,  85 

When  youthfu'  lovers  first  were  pair'd. 
And  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shar'd, 

The  raptur'd  hour, 
Sweet  on  the  fragrant  flow'ry  swaird,^ 

In  shady  bow'r ;  90 

Then  you,  ye  auld  sneck-drawin  ^  dog  ! 

Ye  cam  to  Paradise  incog. 

And  play'd  on  man  a  cursed  brogue,' 

(Black  be  your  fa' !) 
And  gied  the  infant  warld  a  shog,^  95 

Maist  ^  ruin'd  a'. 

D'ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a  bizz,*' 
Wi'  reeket  ^  duds  and  reestet  gizz,* 
Ye  did  present  your  smoutie  phiz 

Mang  better  folk,  100 

An'  sklented  ^  on  the  man  of  Uz  ^° 

Your  spitefu'  joke  ? 

An'  how  ye  gat  him  i'  your  thrall, 

An'  brak  him  out  o'  house  and  hal'. 

While  scabs  and  blotches  did  him  gall,        105 

Wi'  bitter  claw. 
An'  lows'd  "  his  ill-tongued,  wicked  scaul,^^ 

Was  warst  ava  ?  " 

But  a'  your  doings  to  rehearse, 

Your  wily  snares  an'  fechtin  fierce,  no 

Sin'  that  day  Michael "  did  you  pierce, 

Down  to  this  time. 
Wad  ding  ^^  a  Lallan  ^^  tongue,  or  Erse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

An'  now,  auld  Cloots,^''  I  ken  ye're  thinkin,  115 

A  certain  Bardie's  rantin,  drinkin. 

Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin,^^ 

To  your  black  pit ; 
But  faith  !  he'M  turn  a  corner  jinkin," 

An'  cheat  you  yet.  120 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  ! 
O  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men' ! 
Ye  aiblins  ^"  might  —  I  dinna  ken 

Still  hae  a  stake  :  ^^ 
I'm  wae  ^^  to  think  upo'  yon  den,  125 

Ev'n  for  your  sake  ! 


'  sward   ^  latch-lifting 

^  "Tioked   ^  singed  face 


'  trick  ''  shock  ^  almost 
'  flurrj'  "^  smoked  ^  singed  face  '■'  directed  '°  Job 
"  loosed  ^-  scold  "  worst  of  all  "  cf.  Milton, 
Par.  Lost,  VI,  326  ^^  baffle  ^^  Lowland  "  old  Hoofs 
^^  tripping  ^'  darting  ^'^  possibly  ^*  rftill  have  a 
chance  in  the  game  ^  sad 


From  LINES   TO  JOHN  LAPRAIK 

I  am  nac  Poet,  in  a  sense. 

But  just  a  Rhymer  like  by  chance,  50 

An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence; 

Yet  what  the  matter? 
Whene'er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I  jingle  at  her. 

Your  critic-folk  may  cock  their  nose,  55 

And  say,  "How  can  you  e'er  propose, 
You  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose, 

To  mak  a  sang?" 
But,  by  your  leave,  my  learned  foes,    . 

Ye're  maybe  wrang.  60 

What's  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  schools. 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  an'  stools? 
If  honest  nature  made  you  fools. 

What  sairs  ^  your  grammars  ? 
Ye'd  better  taen^  up  spades  and  shools,       65 

Or  knappin-hammers.' 

A  set  o'  dull,  conceited  hashes  '' 
Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes  ! 
They  gang  in  stirks  ^  and  come  out  asses, 

Plain  truth  to  speak ;  70 

An'  syne  ^  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 

By  dint  o'  Greek  ! 

Gie  me  ae  ^  spark  o'  Nature's  fire, 

That's  a'  the  learnin  I  desire  ; 

Then,  tho'  I  drudge  thro'  dub  *  an'  mire      75 

At  pleugh  or  cart. 
My  Muse,  though  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart. 


TO  A   MOUSE 

ON  TURNING  UP  HER  NEST  WITH  THE 
PLOUGH,   NOVEMBER,    1785 

Wee,  sleekit,'  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie. 
Oh,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty 

Wi'  bickerin  ^^  brattle  !  " 
I  wad  be  laith  ^^  to  rin  an'  chase  thee  5 

Wi'  murd'rin  pattle  !  ^' 

'  serves  ^  have  taken  ^  stone  breakers  ■*  fools 
^  steers  *  then  ^  one  *  puddle  ^  sleek  "*  hurrying 
^^  scamper    '^  loth    ^'  paddle 


THE    COTTER'S    SATURDAY    NIGHT 


365 


I'm  tnily  sorr\'  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  Ul  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle  10 

At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion. 

An'  fellow-mortal ! 

I  doubt  na,  ^A'hyles,^  but  thou  may  thieve: 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live  ! 
A  daimen  ^  icker  ^  in  a  thrave  *  15 

'S  a  sma'  request ; 
I'll  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave,* 

An'  never  miss  't ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 

Its  silly  wa's  ®  the  win's  are  strewin  !  20 

An'  naething,  now,  to  big  "  a  new  ane, 

0'  foggage  *  green  ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin 

Baith  snell  ^  an'  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste,     25 
An'  weary  winter  comin  fast. 
An'  cozie  here  beneath  the  blast 
,         Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till  crash  1  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell.  30 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou's  tum'd  out  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  ^^  house  or  hald. 
To  thole  ^  the  winter's  sleety  dribble  35 

An'  cranreuch  ^^  cauld  ! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane  ^^ 

In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 

The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men  40 

Gang  aft  a-gley,^* 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain 

For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me  ! 

The  present  only  toucheth  thee : 

But,  och  I  I  backward  cast  my  ee^*  45 

On  prospects  drear ! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear  ! 

^  sometimes  ^  occasional  ^  ear  of  grain  *  twenty- 
four  sheaves  ^  rest  ^  its  poor  walls  "  build  ^  rank 
grass  *  piercing  ^^  without  ^^  endure  ^  hoar-frost 
^^  lone    ^^  amiss    '^  eye 


THE   COTTER'S   SATURDAY  NIGHT 

INSCRIBED     TO     ROBERT     AIKEN,    ESQ. 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joj^s  and  destiny  obscure ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

—  Gray. 

i\Iy  lov'd,   my  honour'd,   much    respected 
friend ! 
No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end : 
]\Iy  dearest  meed  a  friend's  esteem  and 

praise. 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays,    5 
The  lowly  train  in  hfe's  sequester 'd  scene ; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless 
ways ; 
WTiat  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been ; 
Ah !   tho'   his ,  worth   imknown,   far    happier 
there,  I  ween  ! 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh,^ 

The  short 'ning  winter  day  is  near  a  close  ; 

The  mirv^  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh. 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their 

repose ; 
The    toil-worn    Cotter    frae    his    laboiu" 
goes,  — 
This  night  his  weekly  moU  is  at  an  end,  — 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks  and  his 
hoes,  16 

Hoping  the  morn  ^  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does 
hameward  bend. 


At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view. 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree  ;      20 
Th'  expectant    wee-things,   toddlin,  stacher  ^ 
through 
To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin  *  noise 

an'  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  ^  blinkin  bonilie, 
His  clean  hearth-stane,   his   thrifty  wifie's 
smile,  24 

The  Hsping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee. 
Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh  ^  and  care  beguile, 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  his 
toil. 

^  sound       ^  morrow        '  stagger       *  fluttering 
*  fire-place     ®  anxiety 


366 


ROBERT    BURNS 


Belyve/  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin  in, 
At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun' ; 
Some   ca  ^    the   plough,    some   herd,    some 
tentie  ^  rin  30 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neibor  toun : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman- 
grown, 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  ee, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw  * 
new  gown, 
Or  deposite  her  sair-won  ^  penny-fee,         35 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

With  joy  unfeign'd  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 
An'    each    for    other's    weelfare    kindly 
spiers :  '^ 
The   social   hours,   swift-wing'd,    unnotic'd 
fleet; 
Each  tells   the  uncos  ^   that  he  sees  or 
hears.  40 

The  parents,  partial,  eye   their  hopeful 
years ; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view ; 
The    mother,    wi'    her    needle    an'    her 
sheers, 
Gars  ^  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the 
new; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due.        45 

Their   master's   an'    their   mistress's   com- 
mand 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 
An'    mind   their   labours    wi'    an   eydent ' 
hand. 
An'  ne'er  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or 
play :  49 

"An'  O !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway, 
An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the 
Lord  aright ! "  54 

But  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door. 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same. 

Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor. 

To    do   some   errands,    and   convoy   her 

hame. 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  ee,  and  flush  her  cheek; 

Wi'  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires 

his  name,  61 

*  presently   ^  drive    ^  careful    ^  fine    ^  hard-won 
^  asks    '  odds  and  ends    *  makes    *  diligent 


While  Jenny  halBins  ^  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 
Weel  pleas'd  the  mother  hears  it's  nae  wild 
worthless  rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben,- 

A  strappin  youth ;   he  takes  the  mother's 

eye; 

Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  taen  ;  ^  66 

The  father  cracks  *  of  horses,  pleughs,  and 

kye.^ 
The  youngster's   artless   heart   o'erflows 
wi'  joy. 
But,  blate  ^  and  laithfu',^    scarce  can  weel 
behave ; 
The  mother  wi'  a  woman's  wiles  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae 
grave,  71 

Weel-pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected 
like  the  lave.* 

O  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found ! 
O  heart-felt  raptures !  bliss  beyond  com- 
pare ! 
I'v.e  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round, 
And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  — 
"If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleas- 
ure spare,  77 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 

In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the 

ev'ning  gale."  81 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 
A  wretch !   a   villain !  lost   to   love   and 
truth  ! 
That  can  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art 
Betray      sweet      Jenny's      unsuspecting 
youth?  85 

Curse  on  his  perjur'd  arts !  dissembling 
smooth ! 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd  ? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth. 
Points  to   the  parents  fondling  o'er  their 
child. 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  dis- 
traction wild?  90 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple 
board. 
The  halesome  parritch,^  chief  of  Scotia's 
food; 

^  partly  ^  within    ^  not  ill  taken  ■*  talks  ^  cows 
''  shy    ^  bashful    **  rest    ^  porridge 


THE    COTTER'S    SATURDAY    NIGHT 


367 


The  sow'pe  ^  their  only  hawkie  ^  does  afford, 
That  yont  ^  the  hallan  •*  snugly  chows  her 

cud. 
The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental 
mood,  95 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  ^  kebbuck 
fell,« 
An'  aft  ^  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it 
guid; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  'twas  a  towmond  *  auld,  sin'  lint  ^  was 
i'  the  bell.  99 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 
They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er  with  patriarchal  grace 
The    big    ha'-biblcj^"    ance    his    father's 

pride ; 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 
His    lyart "    haffets  ^    wearing   thin    and 
bare;  105 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion 
glide. 
He  wales  ^^  a  portion  with  judicious  care ; 
And,   "Let  us  worship  God,"  he  says  with 
solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple 

guise; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest 

aim:  no 

Perhaps  Dundee's  wild-warbling  measures 

•    rise, 

Or    plaintive   Martyrs.,    worthy    of    the 

name. 
Or  noble  Elgin  beets  ^^  the  heaven-ward 
flame. 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays. 

Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  trills  are 

tame;  115 

The  tickl'd  ear  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise; 

Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The    priest-Like    father    reads    the    sacred 
page,  — 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on 
high; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage       120 
.  With  .\malek's  ungracious  progeny ; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  He 

^  milk  '  cow  ^  beyond  "*  partition  ^  well-saved 
**  strong  cheese  "  often  *  twelve-month  ^  since  flax 
■"^  hall  Bible  "  gray  ^  locks  ^^  chooses  ^^  incites, 
kindles 


Beneath  the  stroke  of  heaven^s  avenging 

ire; 

Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire;         125 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps     the     Christian    volume    is     the 
theme,  — 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was 
shed; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  heav'n  the  second 
name. 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His 
head :  130 

How   His    first    followers    and    servants 
sped ; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a 
land; 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  siui  a  mighty  angel  stand, 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced 
by  Heav'n 's  command.  135 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  Eternal 
King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband 
prays : 
Hope    "springs    exulting    on    triumphant 
wing," 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future 

days: 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays,      140 
No  more  to  sigh  or  shed  the  bitter  tear. 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear, 
WTiile  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal 
sphere. 

Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's 
pride  145 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art. 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 
Devotion's  ev'ry  grace  except  the  heart  ! 
The   Pow'r,   incens'd,   the  pageant   will 
desert. 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 

But  haply  in  some  cottage  far  apart    151 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the 
soul, 
And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral 
way ; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest ; 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 


368 


ROBERT    BURNS 


And  proffer  up  to  lieav'n  the  warm  re- 
quest, 
That  He,  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous 
nest 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  llow'ry  pride. 
Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the 
best,  1 60 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine 
preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur 

springs, 

That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd 

abroad : 

Princes  and  lords  are  but   the  breath  of 

kings,  165 

"An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of 

God":i 
And    certes,   in    fair    Virtue's    heavenly 
road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind : 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?  a  cumbrous 
load,  169 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refin'd  ! 

O  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven 
is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 
Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet 
content!  i7S 

And,  oh  !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives 
prevent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be 
rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much- 
lov'd  isle.  180 

O  Thou  !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 
That  stream'd  thro'  Wallace's  undaunted 
heart. 
Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride. 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, — 
(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  thou  art. 
His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward  !) 

O  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert, 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard. 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and 
guard  ! 

^  Quoted  from  Pope 


ADDRESS    TO   THE   UNCO    GUID,  OR 
THE   RIGIDLY   RIGHTEOUS 

0  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel, 
Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 

Ye've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 

Your  neibour's  fauts  and  folly  ! 
Whase  life  is  like  a  wcel-gaun  ^  mill,  5 

Supply'd  wi'  store  o'  water. 
The  heapet  happer's  -  ebbing  still. 

And  still  the  clap  ■*  plays  clatter,  — ■ 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core,'* 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals,  10 

That  frequent  pass  douce  ^  Wisdom's  door 

For  glaiket  *^  Folly's  portals ; 

1  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes 
Would  here  propone  defences  — 

Their  donsie  ^  tricks,  their  black  mistakes,  15 
Their  failings  and  mischances. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compar'd, 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer ;  * 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard, 

What  maks  the  mighty  differ  ?  *  20 

Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave, 

That  purity  ye  pride  in, 
And  (what's  aft  ^°  mair  than  a'  the  lave  ") 

Your  better  art  o'  hidin. 


Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop, 
What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse 

That  still  eternal  gallop  : 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way ; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  ^  to  sail, 

It  maks  an  unco  ^^  leeway. 


25 


30 


See  Social  Life  and  Glee  sit  down, 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 
Till,  quite  transmugrify'd,i^  they're  grown  35 

Debauchery  and  Drinking : 
O  would  they  stay  to  calculate 

Th'  eternal  consequences; 
Or  —  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state  — 

Damnation  of  expenses  !  40 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  Dames, 
Tied  up  in  godly  laces, 

1  well-going  ^  heaped  hopper  is  '  clapper 
^  company  ^  grave  ^  giddy  ^  reckless  *  exchange 
^  difference  '"  often  "  rest  ^^  both  ^^  wonderful 
^^  metamorphosed 


A    BARD'S    EPITAPH 


369 


Before  you  gie  poor  Frailty  names, 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases : 
A  dear  lov'd  lad,  convenience  snug,  45 

A  treacherous  inclination  — 
But,  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug,  ^ 

Ye're  aiblins  ^  nae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman  ;  50 

Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennin  ^  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human : 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  Why  they  do  it ; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark,  55 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us, 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone, 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias :  60 

Then  at  the  balance,  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What's  done  we  partly  can  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DMSY 

ON    TURNING    ONE    DOWN    WITH    THE 
PLOUGH,   IN  APRIL,    1786 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 

Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 

For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure  * 

Thy  slender  stem : 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r,  5 

Thou  bonie  gem. 

Alas!  it's  no  thy  neibor  sweet. 
The  bonie  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  devvy  weet 

Wi'  spreckl'd  breast,  10 

When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter -biting  north 

Upon  thy  early,  hvunble  birth  ; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  gUnted  forth  15 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield 
High  shelt'ring  woods  an'  wa's  ^  maun  shield : 

^  ear    ^  perhaps     ^  trifle     *  dust     *  walls 


But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield  ^ 

O'  clod  or  stane. 
Adorns  the  histie "  stibble-tield 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread. 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  Maid, 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray 'd 

And  guileless  trust ; 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage  and  gales  blow  hard. 

And  whelm  him  o'er! 


30 


35 


40 


Such  fate  to  suffering  Worth  is  giv'n, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n. 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n  45 

To  mis'ry's  brink ; 
Till,  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n, 

He  ruin'd  sink! 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date  ;  50 

Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives  elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight 

Shall  be  thy  doom. 


A  BARD'S  EPITAPH 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 

Owre  ^  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 

Owre  blate  ^  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool?  ^  — 

Let  him  draw  near ; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool,*  5 

And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song. 

Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among. 


^  shelter 
sorrow 


'  dry      ^  over     ^  bashful       ^  cringe 


370 


ROBERT    BURNS 


That  weekly  this  area  throng  ?  — 

Oh,  pass  not  by!  lo 

But  with  a  frater-feeUng  strong 

Here  heave  a  sigh. 

Is  there  a  man  whose  judgment  clear 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs  himself  life's  mad  career  15 

Wild  as  the  wave  ?  — 
Here  pause  —  and  thro'  the  starting  tear 

Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know,  20 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow 

And  softer  flame ; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stain'd  his  name  ! 

Reader,  attend!  whether  thy  soul  .25 

Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole, 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole 

In  low  pursuit ; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root.  30 

TAM  O'    SHANTER 
A  TALE 

Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogillis  full  is  this  buke. 
—  Gawin  Douglas 

When  chapman  billies  ^  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  ^  neibors  neibors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late. 
And  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate ; 
While  we  sit  bousin  at  the  nappy,'  5 

And  gettin  fou  and  unco  ■*  happy. 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles. 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,''  and  stiles. 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame,  10 

Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tarn  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter : 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses,     15 
For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses.) 

O  Tam !  had'st  thovi  but  been  sae  wise 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 

^  pedlers   ^  thirsty   '  ale   ^  marvellously   ^  gaps 


She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum,^ 

A  bletherin,  blusterin,  drunken  blellum ;  ^    20 

That  frae  November  till  October, 

Ae  ^  market-day  thou  was  na  sober ; 

That  ilka  ^  melder  ^  wi'  the  miller. 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller ; 

That  ev'ry  naig  ''  was  ca'd  ^  a  shoe  on,         25 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roarin  fou  on  ; 

That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 

Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean  till  Monday. 

She  prophesied,  that,  late  or  soon. 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Dqon  ; 

Or  catch't  wi'  warlocks  *  in  the  mirk,*  31 

By  AUoway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames  !  it  gars  ^"  me  greet," 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet. 
How  mony  lengthened  sage  advices,  35 

The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  ! 

But  to  our  talc :  —  Ae  market  night, 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right, 
Fast  by  an  ingle,^'^  bleezin  finely, 
Wi'  reamin  swats  ^^  that  drank  divinely ;      40 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony  : 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither ;  " 
They  had  been  fou  ^^  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter ;   45 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better : 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious 
Wi'  secret  favours,  sweet,  and  precious: 
The  souter  ^^  tauld  his  queerest  stories ; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus :       50 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy. 
E'en  drown'd  himsel  amang  the  nappy  :  ^'^ 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure,         55 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure ; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious  ! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread. 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed ;         60 
Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white  —  then  melts  forever ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
^  That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 

^  wretch  ^  idle-talker  ^  one  *  every  ^  grinding 
''  nag  ^  driven  ^  wizards  ^  dark  ^°  makes  "  weep 
'^  fireside  ^^  foaming  ale  ^^  brother  '^  full  ^^  cob- 
bler   ^'  ale 


TAM    0'    SHANTER 


371 


Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 


65 


Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide : 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride,  — 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key- 

stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in ;    70 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  't  wad  blawn  its  last ; 
The  rattling  show'rs  rose  on  the  blast ; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow'd  • 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  moimted  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg,  — 
A  better  never  lifted  leg,  —  80 

Tam  skelpit  ^  on  thro'  dub  ^  and  mire, 
Despising  wind  and  rain  and  fire  ; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
Whiles  glowrin  roimd  wi'  prudent  cares,       85 
Lest  bogles  ^  catch  him  unawares. 
Kirk-x\lloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  *  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd ;  * 
And  past  the  birks  ^  and  meikle  ^  stane,       91 
Whare  drucken  ^  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane  ;  ^ 
And  thro'  the  whins, ^°  and  by  the  cairn," 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn  ;  '^ 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  ^^  the  well,  95 

Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods ; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods ; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole. 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roU ;       100 
When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk- Alio  way  seemed  in  a  bleeze  :  ^^ 
Thro'  flka  bore  ^^  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  !  105 

What  dangers  thou  can'st  make  us  scorn  ! 
Wi'  tippenny  ^®  we  fear  nae  evil ; 
Wi'  usquebae  ^^  we'll  face  the  devil ! 


^  clattered  ^  puddle  ^  goblins  *  owls  ^  smothered 
"  Dirches  '  big  ^  drunken  ^  neck-bone  '°  gorse 
"  pile  of  stones  ^  child  ^^  above  '■*  bla 
crevice  '*  twopenny  ale  ^'  whiskey 


every 


The  swats  ^  sae  ream'd  -  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  deils  a  boddle.^         no 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish'd. 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd, 
She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light ; 
And,  wow!  Tam  saw  an  unco  ••  sight ! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance  ;  115 

Nae  cotillon  brent-new  *  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels : 
A  winnock  ®  bunker  ^  in  the  east. 
There  sat  Auld  Nick  in  shape  o'  beast ;      120 
A  towzie  tyke,^  black,  grim,  and  large. 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge ; 
He  screv/'d  the  pipes  and  gart  *  them,  skirl,^" 
TiU  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl.^^  — 
Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses,         125 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 
And  by  some  devflish  cantraip  ^^  sleight 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light, 
By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table  130 

A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims  ;  ^^ 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristen'd  bairns; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  the  rape  ^*  — 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  ^^  did  gape ; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red-rusted;       135 
Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted ; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft  — 
The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ;  140 

Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu'. 
Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amaz'd  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious : 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew,  145 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew ; 
They    reel'd,    they    set,    they    cross'd,    they 

cleekit,!^ 
Till  ilka  carlin  ^"  swat  ^®  and  reekit,^' 
And  coost  2°  her  duddies  ^^  to  the  wark  ^^ 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  !  ^^  150 

Now  Tam,  O  Tam!  had  thae  been  queans,^^ 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens  ! 

^  ale  ^  foamed   ^  copper   ■*  marvellous  ^  brand- 

rindow      "  seat      *  shaggy   cur  '  made 

o^.^u,...     ^^  throb      ^  tricksy     ^^  irons  ^'^  rope 
^^  mouth 


10 


"  loamea  "  copper  '  marveuous  "  orana- 
new  *  window  "  seat  *  shaggy  cur  '  made 
scream  ^^  throb  ^  tricksy  ^^  irons  ^'^  rope 
mouth  ^^  clutched  ^^  old  woman  ^*  sweated 
steamed  ^°  cast  aside  ^^  clothes  ^'^  work  ^^  che- 
lise   ^^  girls 


372 


ROBERT    BURNS 


Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  *  flannen, 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen!  ^  — 
Thir  ^  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair,  155 

That  ance  were  plush,  o'  gude  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gien  them  aff  my  hurdies,'' 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonie  burdies!  ^ 


But  Tarn  ken'd  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie ;  ^ 
There  was  ae  winsom  wench  and  walie,' 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core  ^  165 

(Lang  after  ken'd  on  Carrick  shore ; 
For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot. 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonie  boat. 
And  shook  baith  meikle  ^  corn  and  bear,^" 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear) ;  170 

Her  cutty  sark  "  o'  Paisley  harn,^^ 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie.^^ 
Ah!  little  kent  thy  reverend  grannie,  175 

That  sark  she  coft  ^"^  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her*riches). 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  o'  witches! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cow'r, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow'r ;  180 

To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jad  she  was  and  Strang,) 
And  how  Tam  stood  like  ane  bewitch 'd. 
And  thought  his  very  een  ^^  enrich'd  ; 
Even  Satan  glowr'd  and  fidg'd  ^^  fu'  fain,"  185 
And    hotch'd  ^*    and    blew    wi'    might    and 

main : 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  ^^  anither, 
Tam  tint  ^^  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "Weel  done,  Cutty-sark!"^' 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark:  190 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke,^ 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke ;  ^^ 
As  open  pussie's^''  mortal  foes,  195 

When,  pop  !  she  starts  before  their  nose; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 
When  "Catch  the  thief !"  resounds  aloud; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  ^^  skricch  and  hollo.  200 

^greasy  ^  very  fine  linen  ^  these  ''hips  ''girls 
^well  'goodly  *  company  ®much  ^"barley  ^' short 
skirt  '^  linen  '^  proud  '''bought  '^eyes  "'fidgeted 
'^  eagerly  '**  squirmed  "then  2"  lost  '""Short-skirt 
^  fuss   ^^  hive   ^''  the  hare's   '^'■'  unearthly 


Ah,  Tam  !  ah,  Tam  !  thou'll  get  thy  fairin  ! ' 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin  ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin  ! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman  ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg,  205 

And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig :  - 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  ^  a  tail  she  had  to  shake  !  210 

For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest. 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle ;  * 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle  — 
Ae  ^  spring  brought  aff  her  master  hale,      2 1 5 
But  left  behind  her  ain  ^  grey  tail : 
The  carlin '  claught  her  by  the  rump. 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  *  man  and  mother's  son,  take  heed,       220 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclin'd, 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  owre  ^  dear, 
Remember  Tam  o'  Shanter's  mear.^*^ 

BONIE  DOON 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care? 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird,       5 

That  sings  upon  the  bough  ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days. 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 
That  sings  beside  thy  mate ;  10 

For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 
And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon 

To  see  the  wood-bine  twine, 
And  ilka  ^  ^ird  sang  o'  its  luve,  15 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree ; 
And  my  fause  i'  luver  staw  "^  my  rose 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me.  20 


Short-skirt  '  reward    ^  bridge    ^  devil    ''  aim    ^  one     ''  own 

''  wench  **  every  *  over  '"  mare  "  false  '-  stole 


HIGHLAND    MARY 


373 


AE   FOND   KISS 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 
Ae  fareweel,  and  then  forever  ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him, 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me ; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 


The  Powers  aboon  will  tent  ^  thee-; 

Misfortune  sha'  na  steer  ^  thee  ; 
Thou'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely, 

That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie  ! 
That  we  may  brag,  we  hae  a  lass 

There's  nane  again  sae  bonie. 


I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 

Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy;  lo 

But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her ; 

Love  but  her,  and  love  forever. 

Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly, 

Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  blindly, 

Never  met  —  or  never  parted  —  15 

We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest ! 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 

Thine  be  ilka  ^  joy  and  treasure. 

Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure  !  20 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 

Ae  fareweel,  alas,  forever  ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee  ! 


BONIE  LESLEY 

O  saw  ye  bonie  Lesley 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border? 
She's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her,  5 

And  love  but  her  forever ; 
For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 

And  never  made  anither  ! 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 

Thy  subjects,  we  before  thee :  10 

Thou  art  di\'ine,  fair  Lesley, 

The  hearts  0'  men  adore  thee. 

The  Deil  he  could  na  scaith  -  thee, 

Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee ; 
He'd  look  into  thy  bonie  face,  15 

And  say,  "I  canna  wrang  thee." 


HIGHLAND   MARY 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,^  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods  and  fair  your  flowers. 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  !  * 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes,  5 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel, 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk,^ 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom,  10 

As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings. 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life,  15 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender ; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ;  20 

But  O  !  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flOwer  sae  early  ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay. 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips,  25 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly  ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance. 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ! 
And  mould'ring  now  in  silent  dust. 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly  !  30 

But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live'  my  Highland  Mary. 

^  tend     '  hurt     ^  slopes     ■*  muddy     ^  birch 


every    '■  injure 


374 


ROBERT    BURNS 


DUNCAN   GRAY 


SCOTS  WHA  HAE 


Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
On  blythe  Yule  night  when  we  were  fou,^ 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Maggie  coost  her  head  fu  hiegh, 
Look'd  asklent  ^  and  unco  skiegh,^ 
Gart  ■*  poor  Duncan  stand  abiegh ;  ^ 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 


Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led  ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 

Or  to  victory  ! 
Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power 

Chains  and  slavery ! 


Duncan  fleech'd,^  and  Duncan  pray'd ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig,^ 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in, 
Grat  *  his  een  «  baith  bleer't "  and  blin', 
Spak  o'  lowpin  "  owre  a  Hnn  ;  ^^ 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 


IS 


Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 
Wha  can  till  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee  ! 
Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  Freeman  fa', 

Let  him  follow  me  ! 


15 


Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide,-'' 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
"Shall  I,  like  a  fool,"  quoth  he, 
"  For  a  haughty  hizzie  ^*  die  ? 
She  may  gae  to  —  France  for  me  ! " 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Meg  grew  sick  as  he  grew  hale, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 
For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings ; 
And  O  !  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things  ! 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 


25 


30 


Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case,  35 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Duncan  could  na  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoor'd  ^^  his  wrath ; 
Now  they're  crouse  ^^  and  cantie  '^  baith ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't !  •  40 


^  full  ^  sidewise  ^  wondrous  shy  ''  made  ^  off 
*  flattered  '  a  mountainous  island  off  Ayrshire 
^  wept  '■*  eyes  '"  bleared  '^  leaping  ^^  water- 
fall "^  hard  to  endure  "  lass  ^^  smothered. 
^®  bright   "  happy 


By  oppression's  woes  and  pains 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free  ! 
Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  !  — 

Let  us  do  or  die  ! 


A    MAN'S    A    MAN    FOR    A'    THAT 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hings  his  head,  an'  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that,  5 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp ; 
The  man's  the  gowd  ^  for  a'  that. 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hodden-gray,^  an'  a'  that ;  10 

Gie  fools  their  sUks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor,       15 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 


gold        ^  coarse  grey  cloth 


A    MAN'S    A    MAN   FOR    A'    THAT 


375 


Ye  see  yon  birkie,^  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that ; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He's  but  a  coof  ^  for  a'  that :  20 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  an'  a'  that, 
The  man  o'  independent  mind, 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight,  25 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  ^  his  might, 

Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  *  that ! 

^  young    fellow       ^  fool       ^  above       *  cannot 
accomplish 


For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that,  30 

The  pith  o'  sense,  an'  pride  o'  worth. 

Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 


Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may. 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,^  an'  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 
Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 


35 


40 


pnze 


THE    ROMANTIC    REVIVAL 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

(1770-1850) 

From  THE  PREFACE  TO   "LYRICAL 
BALLADS" 


The  principal  object,  then,  which  I  proposed 
to  myself  in  these  Poems  was  to  choose  inci- 
dents and  situations  from  common  life,  and  to 
relate  or  describe  them,  throughout,  as  far  as 
was  possible,  in  a  selection  of  language  really 
used  by  men,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  throw 
over  them  a  certain  colouring  of  imagination, 
whereby  ordinary  things  should  be  presented 
to  the  mind  in  an  unusual  way ;  and,  further, 
and  above  all,  to  make  these  incidents  and 
situations  interesting  by  tracing  in  them, 
truly  though  not  ostentatiously,  the  primary 
laws  of  our  nature :  chiefly,  as  far  as  regards 
the  manner  in  which  we  associate  ideas  in  a 
state  of  excitement.  Low  and  rustic  life  was 
generally  chosen,  because,  in  that  condition, 
the  essential  passions  of  the  heart  find  a  better 
soil  in  which  they  can  attain  their  maturity, 
are  less  under  restraint,  and  speak  a  plainer 
and  more  emphatic  language  ;  because  in  that 
condition  of  life  our  elementary  feelings  co- 
exist in  a  state  of  greater  simplicity,  and,  con- 
sequently, may  be  more  accurately  contem- 
plated, and  more  forcibly  communicated ; 
because  the  manners  of  rural  life  germinate 
from  those  elementary  feelings ;  and  from  the 
necessary  character  of  rural  occupations,  are 
more  easily  comprehended,  and  are  more 
durable  ;  and,  lastly,  because  in  that  condition 
the  passions  of  men  are  incorporated  with 
the  beautiful  and  permanent  forms  of  nature. 
The  language,  too,  of  these  men  is  adopted 
(purified  ipdeed  from  what  appears  to  be  its 
real  defects,  from  all  lasting  and  rational 
causes  of  dislike  or  disgust)  because  such  men 
hourly  communicate  with  the  best  objects 
fr6m  which  the  best  part  of  language  is  origi- 
nally derived ;    and  because,  from  their  rank 


in  society  and  the  sameness  and  narrow  circle 
of  their  intercourse,  being  less  under  the  influ- 
ence of  social  vanity,  they  convey  their  feel- 
ings and  notions  in  simple  and  unelaborated 
expressions.  Accordingly,  such  a  language, 
arising  out  of  repeated  experience  and  regular 
feelings,  is  a  more  permanent,  and  a  far  more 
philosophical  language,  than  that  which  is 
frequently  substituted  for  it  by  Poets,  who 
think  that  they  are  conferring  honour  upon 
themselves  and  their  art,  in  proportion  as  they 
separate  themselves  from  the  sympathies  of 
men,  and  indulge  in  arbitrary  and  capricious 
habits  of  expression,  in  order  to  furnish  food 
for  fickle  tastes,  and  fickle  appetites,  of  their 
own  creation. 

I  cannot,  however,  be  insensible  of  the  pres- 
ent outcry  against  the  triviality  and  meanness, 
both  of  thought  and  language,  which  some  of 
my  contemporaries  have  occasionally  intro- 
duced into  their  metrical  compositions  ;  and  I 
acknowledge  that  this  defect,  where  it  exists, 
is  more  dishonourable  to  the  Writer's  own 
character  than  false  refinement  or  arbitrary 
innovation,  though  I  should  contend  at  the 
same  time,  that  it  is  far  less  pernicious  in  the 
sum  of  its  consequences.  From  such  verses 
the  Poems  in  these  volumes  will  be  found  dis- 
tinguished at  least  by  one  mark  of  difference, 
that  each  of  them  has  a  worthy  purpose.  Not 
that  I  mean  to  say,  I  always  began  to  write 
with  a  distinct  purpose  formally  conceived; 
but  my  habits  of  meditation  have  so  formed 
my  feelings,  as  that  my  descriptions  of  such 
objects  as  strongly  excite  those  feelings,  will 
be  found  to  carry  along  with  them  a  purpose. 
If  in  this  opinion  I  am  mistaken,  I  can  have 
little  right  to  the  name  of  a  Poet.  For  all 
good  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of 
powerful  feelings :  and  though  this  be  true, 
Poems  to  which  any  value  can  be  attached 
were  never  produced  on  any  variety  of  sub- 
jects but  by  a  man,  who,  being  possessed  of 
more  than  usual  organic  sensibility,  had  also 
thought  long  and  deeply.  For  our  continued 
influxes  of  feeling  are  modified  and  directed 
by  our  thoughts,  which  are  indeed  the  repre- 


376 


PREFACE    TO    "LYRICAL   BALLADS 


377 


sentatives  of  all  our  past  feelings :  and,  as  by 
contemplating  the  relation  of  these  general 
representatives  to  each  other  we  discover 
what  is  really  important  to  men,  so,  by  the 
repetition  and  continuance  of  this  act,  our 
feelings  will  be  connected  with  important 
subjects,  till  at  length,  if  we  be  originally 
possessed  of  much  sensibility,  such  habits  of 
mind  will  be  produced,  that,  by  observing 
blmdly  and  mechanically  the  impulses  of  those 
habits,  we  shall  describe  objects,  and  utter 
sentiments,  of  such  a  nature,  and  in  such 
connection  with  each  other,  that  the  imder- 
standing  of  the  being  to  whom  we  address 
ourselves,  if  he  be  in  a  healthful  state  of  asso- 
ciation, must  necessarily  be  in  some  degree 
enlightened,  and  his  affections  ameliorated. 


I  will  not  abuse  the  indulgence  of  my 
Reader  by  dwelling  longer  upon  this  subject ; 
but  it  is  proper  that  I  should  mention  one 
other  circumstance  which  distinguishes  these 
Poems  from  the  popular  Poetry  of  the  day; 
it  is  this,  that  the  feeling  therein  developed 
gives  importance  to  the  action  and  situation, 
and  not  the  action  and  situation  to  the  feeling. 
My  meaning  will  be  rendered  perfectly  intelli- 
gible by  referring  my  Reader  to  the  Poems 
entitled  Poor  Susan  and  the  Childless  Father, 
particularly  to  the  last  Stanza  of  the  latter 
Poem. 

I  wiU  not  suffer  a  sense  of  false  modesty  to 
prevent  me  from  asserting,  that  I  point  my 
Reader's  attention  to  this  mark  of  distinction, 
far  less  for  the  sake  of  these  particular  Poems 
than  from  the  general  importance  of  the  sub- 
ject. The  subject  is  indeed  important !  For 
the  human  mind  is  capable  of  being  excited 
without  the  application  of  gross  and  violent 
stimiilants ;  and  he  must  have  a  very  faint 
perception  of  its  beauty  and  dignity  who  does 
not  know  this,  and  who  does  not  further  know, 
that  one  being  is  elevated  above  another,  in 
proportion  as  he  possesses  this  capability. 
It  has  therefore  appeared  to  me,  that  to  en- 
deavour to  produce  or  enlarge  this  capability 
is  one  of  the  best  services  in  which,  at  any 
period,  a  Writer  can  be  engaged;  but  this 
service,  excellent  at  all  times,  is  especially  so 
at  the  present  day.  For  a  multitude  of  causes, 
unknown  to  former  times,  are  now  acting  with 
a  combined  force  to  blunt  the  discriminating 
powers  of  the  mind,  and  unfitting  it  for  all 
voluntary  exertion,  to  reduce  it  to  a  state  of 


almost  savage  torpor.  The  most  effective  of 
these  causes  are  the  great  national  events 
which  are  daily  taking  place,  and  the  increas- 
ing accumulation  of  men  in  cities,  where  the 
uniformity  of  their  occupations  produces  a 
cra\dng  for  extraordinary  incident,  which  the 
rapid  commimication  of  intelligence  hourly 
gratifies.  To  this  tendency  of  life  and  man- 
ners the  literatiure  and  theatrical  exhibitions  of 
the  country  have  conformed  themselves.  The 
invaluable  works  of  our  elder  writers,  I  had 
almost  said  the  works  of  Shakspeare  and 
Milton,  are  driven  into  neglect  by  frantic 
novels,  sickly  and  stupid  German  Tragedies, 
and  deluges  of  idle  and  extravagant  stories  in 
verse.  —  When  I  think  upon  this  degrading 
thirst  after  outrageous  stimulation,  I  am 
almost  ashamed  to  have  spoken  of  the  feeble 
effort  with  which  I  have  endeavoured  to 
counteract  it ;  and,  reflecting  upon  the  magni- 
tude of  the  general  evil,  I  should  be  oppressed 
with  no  dishonourable  melancholy,  had  I  not 
a  deep  impression  of  certain  inherent  and  in- 
destructible qualities  of  the  human  mind,  and 
likewise  of  certain  powers  in  the  great  and 
permanent  objects  that  act  upon  it,  which  are 
equally  inherent  and  indestructible ;  and  did 
I  not  further  add  to  this  impression  a  belief, 
that  the  time  is  approaching  when  the  evil 
will  be  systematically  opposed,  by  men  of 
greater  powers,  and  with  far  more  distin- 
guished success. 

Having  dwelt  thus  long  on  the  subjects  and 
aim  of  these  Poems,  I  shall  request  the 
Reader's  permission  to  apprise  him  of  a  few 
circumstances  relating  to  their  style,  in  order, 
among  other  reasons,  that  I  may  not  be  cen- 
sured for  not  having  performed  what  I  never 
attempted.  The  Reader  will  find  that  per- 
sonifications of  abstract  ideas  rarely  occur 
in  these  volumes ;  and,  I  hope,  are  utterly 
rejected  as  an  ordinary  device  to  elevate  the 
style,  and  raise  it  above  prose.  I  have  pro- 
posed to  myself  to  imitate,  and,  as  far  as  is 
possible,  to  adopt  the  very  language  of  men ; 
and  assuredly  such  personifications  do  not 
make  any  natural  or  regular  part  of  that  lan- 
guage. They  are,  indeed,  a  figure  of  speech 
occasionally  prompted  by  passion,  and  I  have 
made  use  of  them  as  such ;  but  I  haVe  en- 
deavoured utterly  to  reject  them  as  a  mechan- 
ical device  of  style,  or  as  a  family  language 
which  Writers  in  metre  seem  to  lay  claim  to 
by  prescription.  I  have  wished  to  keep  my 
Reader  in  the  company  of  flesh  and  blood, 


378 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


persuaded  that  by  so  doing  I  shall  interest 
him.  I  am,  however,  well  aware  that  others 
who  pursue  a  different  track  may  interest 
him  likewise;  I  do  not  interfere  with  their 
claim,  I  only  wish  to  prefer  a  different  claim 
of  my  own.  There  will  also  be  found  in  these 
pieces  little  of  what  is  usually  called  poetic 
diction ;  I  have  taken  as  much  pains  to  avoid 
it  as  others  ordinarily  take  to  produce  it ;  this 
I  have  done  for  the  reason  already  alleged,  to 
bring  my  language  near  to  the  language  of 
men,  and  further,  because  the  pleasure  which 
I  have  proposed  to  myself  to  impart,  is  of  a 
kind  very  different  from  that  which  is  sup- 
posed by  many  persons  to  be  the  proper 
object  of  poetry.  I  do  not  know  how,  with- 
out being  cidpably  particular,  I  can  give  my 
Reader  a  more  exact  notion  of  the  style  in 
which  I  wished  these  poems  to  be  written, 
than,  by  informing  him  that  I  have  at  all 
times  endeavoured  to  look  steadily  at  my 
subject,  consequently,  I  hope  that  there  is  in 
these  Poems  little  falsehood  of  description, 
and  that  my  ideas  are  expressed  in  language 
fitted  to  their  respective  importance.  Some- 
thing I  must  have  gained  by  this  practice,  as 
it  is  friendly  to  one  property  of  all  good  poetry, 
namely,  good  sense ;  but  it  has  necessarily 
cut  me  ofif  from  a  large  portion  of  phrases  and 
figures  of  speech  which  from  father  to  son  have 
long  been  regarded  as  the  common  inheritance 
of  Poets.  I  have  also  thought  it  expedient  to 
restrict  myself  still  further,  having  abstained 
from  the  use  of  many  expressions,  in  them- 
selves proper  and  beautiful,  but  which  have 
been  foolishly  repeated  by  bad  Poets,  till 
such  feelings  of  disgust  are  connected  with 
them  as  it  is  scarcely  possible  by  any  art  of 
association  to  overpower. 

If  in  a  poem  there  should  be  found  a  series 
of  lines,  or  even  a  single  line,  in  which  the 
language,  though  naturally  arranged,  and  ac- 
cording to  the  strict  laws  of  metre,  does  not 
differ  from  that  of  prose,  there  is  a  numerous 
class  of  critics  who,  when  they  stumble  upon 
these  prosaisms,  as  they  call  them,  imagine 
that  they  have  made  a  notable  discovery,  and 
exult  over  the  Poet  as  over  a  man  ignorant  of 
his  own  profession.  Now  these  men  would 
establish  a  canon  of  criticism  which  the  Reader 
will  conclude  he  must  utterly,  reject,  if  he 
wishes  to  be  pleased  with  these  pieces.  And  it 
would  be  a  most  easy  task  to  prove  to  him, 
that  not  only  the  language  of  a  large  portion 
of  every  good  poem,  even  of  the  most  elevated 


character,  must  necessarily,  except  with  ref- 
erence to  the  metre,  in  no  respect  differ  from 
that  of  good  prose,  but  likewise  that  some  of 
the  most  interesting  parts  of  the  best  poems 
will  be  foimd  to  be  strictly  the  language  of 
prose,  when  prose  is  well  written.  The  truth 
of  this  assertion  might  be  demonstrated  by 
innumerable  passages  from  almost  all  the 
poetical  writings,  even  of  Milton  himself. 

I  wiU  go  further.  I  do  not  doubt  that  it 
may  be  safely  affirmed,  that  there  neither  is. 
nor  can  be,  any  essential  difference  between 
the  language  of  prose  and  metrical  composi- 
tion. We  are  fond  of  tracing  the  resem- 
blance betv/een  Poetry  and  Painting,  and, 
accordingly,  we  call  them  Sisters :  but  where 
shall  we  fmd  bonds  of  connection  sufficiently 
strict  to  typify  the  afifinit}^  betwixt  metrical 
and  prose  composition  ?  They  both  speak  by 
and  to  the  same  organs ;  the  bodies  in  which 
both  of  them  are  clothed  may  be  said  to  be  of 
the  same  substance,  their  affections  are  kin- 
dred, and  almost  identical,  not  necessarily 
differing  even  in  degre^ ;  Poetry  ^  sheds  no 
tears  "such  as  Angels  weep"  but  natural  and 
human  tears;  she  can  boast  of  no  celestial 
Ichor  that  distinguishes  her  vital  juices  from 
those  of  prose;  the  same  human  blood  cir- 
culates through  the  veins  of  them  both. 

If  it  be  affirmed  that  rhym-C  and  metrical 
arrangement  of  themselves  constitute  a  dis- 
tinction which  overturns  what  I  have  been 
saying  on  the  strict  affinity  of  metrical  lan- 
guage with  that  of  prose,  and  paves  the  way 
for  other  artificial  distinctions  which  the  mind 
voluntarily  admits,  I  answer  that  the  lan- 
guage of  such  Poetry  as  I  am  recommending 
is,  as  far  as  is  possible,  a  selection  of  the  lan- 
guage really  spoken  by  men ;  that  this  selec- 
tion, wherever  it  is  made  with  true  taste  and 
feeling,  will  of  itself  form  a  distinction  far 
greater  than  would  at  first  be  imagined,  and 

^  I  here  use  the  word  "Poetry"  (though  against 
my  own  judgment)  as  opposed  to  the  word 
"Prose,"  and  synonymous  with  metrical  composi- 
sion.  But  much  confusion  has  been  introduced 
into  criticism  by  this  contradistinction  of  Poetry 
and  Prose,  instead  of  the  more  philosophical  one 
of  Poetry  and  Matter  of  Fact,  or  Science.  The 
only  strict  antithesis  to  Prose  is  Metre  :  nor  is  this, 
in  truth,  a  strict  antithesis ;  because  Hnes  and  pas- 
sages of  metre  so  naturally  occur  in  writing  prose, 
that  it  would  be  scarcely  possible  to  avoid  theto, 
even  were  it  desirable. 


PREFACE  TO  "  LYRIC\L  BALLADS 


379 


will  entirely  separate  the  composition  from 
the  vulgarity  and  meamiess  of  ordinan,'  life ; 
and,  if  metre  be  superadded  thereto,  I  believe 
that  a  dissimilitude  will  be  produced  alto- 
gether sufficient  for  the  gratification  of  a 
rational  mind,  ^^'hat  other  distinction  -would 
we  have?  WTience  is  it  to  come?  And 
where  is  it  to  exist?  Nat,  surely,  where  the 
Poet  speaks  through  the  mouths  of  his  char- 
acters :  it  cannot  be  necessary  here,  either  for 
elevation  of  style,  or  any  of  its  supposed  orna- 
ments :  for,  if  the  Poet's  subject  be  judiciously 
chosen,  it  will  naturally,  and  upon  fit  occasion, 
lead  him  to  passions  the  language  of  which,  if 
selected  tnily  and  judiciously,  must  neces- 
sarily be  dignified  and  variegated,  and  aUve 
with  metaphors  and  figures.  I  forbear  to 
speak  of  an  incongruity  which  would  shock 
the  intelligent  Reader,  should  the  Poet  inter- 
weave any  foreign  splendour  of  his  own  with 
that  which  the  passion  naturally  suggests: 
it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  such  addition  is  im- 
necessary.  And,  surely,  it  is  more  probable 
that  those  passages,  which  with  propriety 
abound  with  metaphors  and  figures,  will  have 
their  due  elJect,  if,  upon  other  occasions  where 
the  passions  are  of  a  milder  character,  the  style 
also  be  subdued  and  temperate. 

But,  as  the  pleasure  which  I  hope  to  give  by 
the  Poems  I  now  present  to  the  Reader  must 
depend  entirely  on  just  notions  upon  this  sub- 
ject, and,  as  it  is  in  itself  of  the  highest  impor- 
tance to  our  taste  and  moral  feelings,  I  cannot 
content  myself  with  these  detached  remarks. 
And  if,  in  what  I  am  about  to  say,  it  shall 
appear  to  some  that  my  labour  is  unnecessary, 
and  that  I  am  like  a  man  fighting  a  battle 
without  enemies,  I  would  remind  such  per- 
sons, that,  whatever  may  be  the  language 
outwardly  holden  by  men,  a  practical  faith 
in  the  opinions  which  I  am  wishing  to  estab- 
hsh  is  almost  imknown.  If  my  conclusions  are 
admitted,  and  carried  as  far  as  they  must  be 
carried  if  admitted  at  all,  our  judgments 
concemmg  the  works  of  the  greatest  Poets 
both  ancient  and  modern  wdll  be  far  different 
from  what  they  are  at  present,  both  when  we 
praise,  and  when  we  censure :  and  our  moral 
feelings  influencing  and  influenced  by  these 
judgments  w^Ul,  I  beheve,  be  corrected  and 
purffied. 

Taking  up  the  subject,  then,  upon  general 
groimds,  I  ask  what  is  meant  by  the  word 
"  Poet "  ?  What  is  a  Poet  ?  To  whom  does  he 
address  himself  ?    And  what  language  is  to  be 


expected  from  him  ?  He  is  a  man  speaking  to 
men:  a  man,  it  is  true,  endued  with  more 
lively  sensibility,  more  enthusiasm  and  tender- 
ness, who  has  a  greater  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  and  a  more  comprehensive  soul,  than 
are  supposed  to  be  common  among  mankind ; 
a  man  pleased  with  his  own  passions  and 
volitions,  and  who  rejoices  more  than  other 
men  in  the  spirit  of  life  that  is  in  him ;  de- 
lighting to  contemplate  similar  volitions  and 
passions  as  manifested  in  the  goings-on  of  the 
Universe,  and  habitually  impelled  to  create 
them  where  he  does  not  find  them.  To  these 
quahties  he  has  added,  a  disposition  to  be 
affected  more  than  other  men  by  absent  things 
as  if  they  were  present ;  an  ability  of  conjuring 
up  in  himself  passions,  which  are  indeed  far 
from  being  the  same  as  those  produced  by  real 
events,  yet  (especially  in  those  parts  of  ther 
general  sympathy  which  are  pleasing  and  de- 
lightful) do  more  nearly  resemble  the  passions 
produced  by  real  events,  than  anything  w^hich, 
from  the  motions  of  their  own  minds  merely, 
other  men  are  accustomed  to  feel  in  them- 
selves; whence,  and  from  practice,  he  has 
acquired  a  greater  readiness  and  power  in 
expressing  what  he  thinks  and  feels,  and  es- 
pecially those  thoughts  and  feelings  which, 
by  his  own  choice,  or  from  the  structure  of  his 
owTi  mind,  arise  in  him  without  immediate 
external  excitement. 

But,  whatever  portion  of  this  faculty  we 
may  suppose  even  the  greatest  Poet  to  pos- 
sess, there  cannot  be  a  doubt  but  that  the 
language  which  it  will  suggest  to  him,  must, 
in  liveliness  and  truth,  fall  far  short  of  that 
which  is  uttered  by  men  in  real  life,  under  the 
actual  pressure  of  those  passions,  certain  shad- 
ow's of  which  the  Poet  thus  produces,  or  feels 
to  be  produced,  in  himself. 

However  exalted  a  notion  we  would  wish  to 
cherish  of  the  character  of  a  Poet,  it  is  obvious, 
that,  while  he  describes  and  imitates  passions, 
his  situation  is  altogether  slavish  and  mechan- 
ical, compared  with  the  freedom  and  poAver 
of  real  and  substantial  action  and  suffering. 
So  that  it  will  be  the  wish  of  the  Poet  to  bring 
his  feelings  near  to  those  of  the  persons  whose 
feelings  he  describes,  nay,  for  short  spaces  of 
time,  perhaps,  to  let  himself  slip  into  an  entire 
delusion,  and  even  confound  and  identify  his 
own  feelings  with  theirs ;  modifying  only  the 
language  which  is  thus  suggested  to  him  by  a 
consideration  that  he  describes  for  a  particular 
purpose,  that  of  giving  pleasure.     Here,  then, 


38o 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


he  will  apply  the  principle  on  which  I  have  so 
much  insisted,  namely,  that  of  selection;  on 
this  he  will  depend  for  removing  what  would 
otherwise  be  painful  or  disgusting  in  the  pas- 
sion ;  he  will  feel  that  there  is  no  necessity  to 
trick  out  or  to  elevate  nature :  and,  the  more 
industriously  he  applies  tliis  principle,  the 
deeper  will  be  his  faith  that  no  words,  which 
Ms  fancy  or  imagination  can  suggest,  will  be 
to  be  compared  with  those  which  are  the 
emanations  of  reality  and  truth. 

But  it  may  be  said  by  those  who  do  not 
object  to  the  general  spirit  of  these  remarks, 
that,  as  it  is  impossible  for  the  poet  to  produce 
upon  all  occasions  language  as  exquisitely 
fitted  for  the  passion  as  that  which  the  real 
passion  itself  suggests,  it  is  proper  that  he 
should  consider  himself  as  in  the  situation  of 
a  translator,  who  deems  himself  justified 
when  he  substitutes  excellencies  of  another 
kind  for  those  which  are  unattainable  by  him ; 
and  endeavours  occasionally  to  surpass  his 
original,  in  order  to  make  some  amends  for 
the  general  inferiority  to  which  he  feels  that 
he  must  submit.  But  this  w'ould  be  to  en- 
courage idleness  and  unmanly  despair.  Fur- 
ther, it  is  the  language  of  men  who  speak 
of  what  they  do  not  understand;  who  talk 
of  Poetry  as  of  a  matter  of  amusement  and  idle 
pleasure ;  who  will  converse  with  us  as  gravely 
about  a  taste  for  Poetry,  as  they  express  it,  as 
if  it  were  a  thing  as  indifferent  as  a  taste  for 
Rope-dancing,  or  Frontiniac  ^  or  Sherry.  Aris- 
totle, I  have  been  told,  hath  said,  that  Poetry 
is  the  most  philosophic  of  all  writing :  it  is  so  : 
its  object  is  truth,  not  individual  and  local, 
but  general,  and  operative;  not  standing 
upon  external  testimony,  but  carried  alive  into 
the  heart  by  passion ;  truth  which  is  its  own 
testimony,  which  gives  strength  and  divinity 
to  the  tribunal  to  which  it  appeals,  and  re- 
ceives them  from  the  same  tribimal.  Poetry 
is  the  image  of  man  and  nature.  The  ob- 
stacles which  stand  in  the  way  of  the  fidelity 
of  the  Biographer  and  Historian  and  of  their 
consequent  utility,  are  incalculably  greater 
than  those  which  are  to  be  encountered  by  the 
Poet  who  has  an  adequate  notion  of  the 
dignity  of  his  art.  The  Poet  writes  under  one 
restriction  only,  namely,  that  of  the  necessity 
of  giving  immediate  pleasure  to  a  human 
Being  possessed  of  that  information  which 
may  be  expected  from  him,  not  as  a  lawyer,  a 

^  a  sweet  wine  of  France 


physician,  a  mariner,  an  astronomer,  or  a 
natural  philosopher,  but  as  a  Man.  Except 
this  one  restriction,  there  is  no  object  standing 
between  the  Poet  and  the  image  of  things; 
between  this,  and  the  Biographer  and  Histo- 
rian there  are  a  thousand. 

Nor  let  this  necessity  of  producing  immedi- 
ate pleasure  be  considered  as  a  degradation  of 
the  Poet's  art.  It  is  far  otherwise.  It  is  an 
acknowledgment  of  the  beauty  of  the  universe, 
an  acknowledgment  the  more  sincere,  because 
it  is  not  formal,  but  indirect ;  it  is  a  task  fight 
and  easy  to  him  who  looks  at  the  world  in  the 
spirit  of  love  :  further,  it  is  an  homage  paid  to 
the  native  and  naked  dignity  of  man,  to  the 
grand  elementary  principle  of  pleasure,  by 
which  he  knows,  and  feels,  and  lives,  and 
moves.  We  have  no  sympathy  but  what  is 
propagated  by  pleasure :  I  would  not  be 
misunderstood;  but  wherever  we  sympathise 
with  pain,  it  wiU  be  found  that  the  sympathy 
is  produced  and  carried  on  by  subtle  combina- 
tions with  pleasure.  We  have  no  knowledge, 
that  is,  no  general  principles  drawn  from  the 
contemplation  of  particular  facts,  but  what 
has  been  built  up  by  pleasure,  and  exists  in 
us  by  pleasure  alone.  The  Man  of  Science, 
the  Chemist  and  Mathematician,  whatever 
difiiculties  and  disgusts  they  may  have  had 
to  struggle  with,  know  and  feel  this.  How- 
ever painful  may  be  the  objects  with  which 
the  Anatomist's  knowledge  is  connected,  he 
feels  that  his  knowledge  is  pleasure;  and 
where  he  has  no  pleasure  he  has  no  knowl- 
edge. What  then  does  the  Poet?  He  con- 
siders man  and  the  objects  that  surround  him 
as  acting  and  reacting  upon  each  other,  so  as 
to  produce  an  infinite  complexity  of  pain  and 
pleasure ;  he  considers  man  in  his  own  nature 
and  in  his  ordinary  life  as  contemplating  this 
with  a  certain  quantity  of  immediate  knowl- 
edge, with  certain  convictions,  intuitions,  and 
deductions,  which  by  habit  become  of  the 
nature  of  intuitions;  he  considers  him  as 
looking  upon  this  complex  scene  of  ideas  and 
sensations,  and  finding  everywhere  objects 
that  immediately  excite  in  him  sjTnpathies 
which,  from  the  necessities  of  his  nature, 
are  accompanied  by  an  overbalance  of  en- 
joyment. 

To  this  knowledge  which  all  men  carry 
about  with  them,  and  to  these  sympathies  in 
which,  without  any  other  discipline  than  that 
of  our  daily  fife,  we  are  fitted  to  take  delight, 
the    Poet    principally    directs    his    attention. 


PREFACE    TO    "LYRICAL    BALLADS" 


381 


He  considers  man  and  nature  as  essentially 
adapted  to  each  other,  and  the  mind  of  man 
as  naturally  the  mirror  of  the  fairest  and  most 
interesting  qualities  of  nature.  And  thus  the 
Poet,  prompted  by  this  feehng  of  pleasure 
which  accompanies  him  through  the  whole 
course  of  his  studies,  converses  with  general 
nature  with  affections  akin  to  those,  which, 
through  labour  and  length  of  time,  the  ]Man 
of  Science  has  raised  up  in  himself,  by  convers- 
ing with  those  particular  parts  of  nature 
which  are  the  objects  of  his  studies.  The 
knowledge  both  of  the  Poet  and  the  Man  of 
Science  is  pleasure ;  but  the  knowledge  of  the 
one  cleaves  to  us  as  a  necessary  part  of  our 
existence,  our  natural  and  inahenable  inheri- 
tance ;  the  other  is  a  personal  and  indi\dd- 
ual  acquisition,  slow  to  come  to  us,  and  by  no 
habitual  and  direct  sympathy  connecting  us 
with  our  fellow-beings.  The  Man  of  Science 
seeks  truth  as  a  remote  and  unknown  bene- 
factor ;  he  cherishes  and  loves  it  in  his  soh- 
tude :  the  Poet,  singing  a  song  in  which  all 
human  beings  join  with  him,  rejoices  in  the 
presence  of  truth  as  our  visible  friend  and 
hourly  companion.  Poetry  is  the  breath  and 
finer  spirit  of  all  knowledge;  it  is  the  impas- 
sioned expression  which  is  in  the  countenance 
of  aU  Science.  Emphatically  may  it  be  said 
of  the  Poet,  as  Shakespeare  hath  said  of  man, 
''that  he  looks  before  and  after."  He  is  the 
rock  of  defence  of  human  nature;  an  up- 
holder and  preser\'er,  carrying  everywhere 
with  him  relationship  and  love.  In  spite  of 
difference  of  soil  and  climate,  of  language  and 
manners,  of  laws  and  customs,  in  spite  of 
things  silently  gone  out  of  mind,  and  things 
violently  destroyed,  the  Poet  binds  together 
by  passion  and  knov.iedge  the  vast  empire  of 
human  society,  as  it  is  spread  over  the  whole 
earth,  and  over  all  time.  The  objects  of 
the  Poet's  thoughts  are  everj^where;  though 
the  eyes  and  senses  of  man  are,  it  is  true,  his 
favourite  guides,  yet  he  will  follow  whereso- 
ever he  can  find  an  atmosphere  of  sensation  in 
which  to  move  his  wings.  Poetry  is  the  first 
and  last  of  aU  knowledge  —  it  is  as  immortal 
as  the  heart  of  man.  If  the  labours  of  Men  of 
Science  should  ever  create  any  material  revo- 
lution, direct  or  indirect,  in  our  condition,  and 
in  the  impressions  which  we  habitually  re- 
ceive, the  Poet  will  sleep  then  no  more  than  at 
present,  but  he  ^^ill  be  ready  to  follow  the 
steps  of  the  Man  of  Science,  not  only  in  those 
general  indirect  effects,  but  he  will  be  at  his 


side,  carrying  sensation  into  the  midst  of  the 
objects  of  the  Science  itself.  The  remotest 
discoveries  of  the  Chemist,  the  Botanist,  or 
Mineralogist,  will  be  as  proper  objects  of  the 
Poet's  art  as  any  upon  which  it  can  be  em- 
ployed, if  the  time  should  ever  come  when 
these  things  shall  be  familiar  to  us,  and  the 
relations  under  which  they  are  contemplated 
by  the  followers  of  these  respective  Sciences 
shall  be  manifestly  and  palpably  material  to 
us  as  enjoying  and  suiifering  beings.  If  the 
time  should  ever  come  when  what  is  now 
called  Science,  thus  familiarised  to  men,  shall 
be  ready  to  put  on,  as  it  v\'ere,  a  form  of  flesh 
and  blood,  the  Poet  will  lend  his  divine 
spirit  to  aid  the  transfiguration,  and  will 
welcome  the  Being  thus  produced,  as  a  dear 
and  genuine  inmate  of  the  household  of  man. 
—  It  is  not,  then,  to  be  supposed  that  any 
one,  who  holds  that  sublime  notion  of  Poetry 
which  I  have  attempted  to  convey,  will  break 
in  upon  the  sanctity  and  truth  of  his  pictures 
by  transitory  and  accidental  ornaments,  and 
endeavour  to  excite  admiration  of  himself 
by  arts,  the  necessity  of  which  must  manifestly 
depend  upon  the  assumed  meanness  of  his 
subject. 


I  have  said  that  poetry  is  the  spontaneous 
overflow  of  powerful  feelings :  it  takes  its 
origin  from  emotion  recollected  in  tran- 
quillity ;  the  emotion  is  contemplated,  till, 
by  a  species  of  reaction,  the  tranquiUity 
gradually  disappears,  and  an  emotion,  kin- 
dred to  that  which  was  before  the  subject  of 
contemplation,  is  gradually  produced,  and 
does  itself  actually  exist  in  the  mind.  In  this 
mood  successfid  composition  generally  be- 
gins, and  in  a  mood  similar  to  this  it  is  carried 
on ;  but  the  emotion  of  whatever  kind,  and 
in  whatever  degree,  from  various  causes,  is 
qualified  by  various  pleasures,  so  that  in  de- 
scribing any  passions  whatsoever,  w-hich  are 
voluntarily  described,  the  mind  will,  upon  the 
whole,  be  in  a  state  of  enjojTnent.  Now,  if 
Nature  be  thus  cautious  in  preserving  in  a 
state  of  enjoyment  a  being  thus  employed, 
the  Poet  ought  to  profit  by  the  lesson  thus  held 
forth  to  him.,  and  ought  especially  to  take 
care,  that,  whatever  passions  he  communicates 
to  his  Reader,  those  passions,  if  his  Reader's 
mind  be  sound  and  vigorous,  should  always 
be  accompanied  with  an  overbalance  of  pleas- 
ure.    How  the  music  of  harmonious  metrical 


382 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


language,  the  sense  of  difificulty  overcome,  and 
the  blind  association  of  pleasure  which  has 
been  previously  received  from  the  works  of 
rhyme  or  metre  of  the  same  or  similar  con- 
struction, and  indistinct  perception  perpet- 
ually renewed  of  language  closely  resembling 
that  of  real  hfe,  and  yet,  in  the  circumstance 
of  metre,  differing  from  it  so  widely  —  all 
these  imperceptibly  make  up  a  complex  feel- 
ing of  delight,  which  is  of  the  most  important 
use  in  tempering  the  painful  feeling  which  will 
always  be  found  intermingled  with  powerful 
descriptions  of  the  deeper  passions.  This 
effect  is  always  produced  in  pathetic  and  im- 
passioned poetry ;  while,  in  lighter  composi- 
tions, the  ease  and  gracefulness  with  which 
the  Poet  manages  his  numbers  are  themselves 
confessedly  a  principal  source  of  the  gratifi- 
cation of  the  Reader.  I  might,  perhaps,  in- 
clude all  which  it  is  necessary  to  say  upon  this 
subject,  by  aflirming  what  few  persons  will 
deny,  that,  of  two  descriptions  either  of  pas- 
sions, manners,  or  characters,  each  of  them 
equally  well  executed,  the  one  in  prose  and 
the  other  in  verse,  the  verse  will  be  read  a 
hundred  times  where  the  prose  is  read  once. 
We  see  that  Pope,  by  the  power  of  verse 
alone,  has  contrived  to  render  the  plainest 
common  sense  interesting,  and  even  fre- 
quently to  invest  it  wdth  the  appearance  of 
passion. 


Long  as  I  have  detained  my  Reader,  I  hope 
he  will  permit  me  to  caution  him  against  a 
mode  of  false  criticism  which  has  been  applied 
to  Poetry  in  which  the  language  closely  re- 
sembles that  of  life  and  nature.  Such  verses 
have  been  triumphed  over  in  parodies  of 
which  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  is  a  fair  specimen. 

I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head 
And  walked  into  the  Strand, 
And  there  I  met  another  man 
Whose  hat  was  in  his  hand. 

Immediately  under  these  lines  I  will  place 
one  of  the  most  justly-admired  stanzas  of  the 
"Babes  in  the  Wood." 

These  pretty  babes  with  hand  in  hand 
Went  wandering  up  and  down ; 
But  never  more  they  saw  the  Man 
Approaching  from  the  Town. 

In  both  these  stanzas  the  words,  and  the 
order  of  the  words,  in  no  respect  differ  from 


the  most  unimpassioned  conversation.  There 
are  words  in  both,  for  example,  "the  Strand," 
and  "the  Town,"  connected  with  none  but 
the  most  familiar  ideas ;  yet  the  one  stanza 
we  admit  as  admirable,  and  the  other  as  a 
fair  example  of  the  superlatively  contemptible. 
Whence  arises  this  difference?  Not  from  the 
metre,  not  from  the  language,  not  from  the 
order  of  the  words ;  but  the  matter  expressed 
in  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  is  contemptible.  The 
proper  method  of  treating  trivial  and  simple 
verses,  to  which  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  would 
be  a  fair  parallelism,  is  not  to  say.  This  is  a 
bad  kind  of  poetry,  or.  This  is  not  poetry; 
but.  This  wants' sense ;  it  is  neither  interesting 
in  itself,  nor  can  lead  to  anything  interesting ; 
the  images  neither  originate  in  that  sane  state 
of  feeling  which  arises  out  of  thought,  nor 
can  excite  thought  or  feeling  in  the  Reader. 
This  is  the  only  sensible  manner  of  dealing 
with  such  verses.  Why  trouble  yourself 
about  the  species  till  you  have  previously 
decided  upon  the  genus  ?  Why  take  pains  to 
prove  that  an  ape  is  not  a  Newton,  when  it 
is  self-evident  that  he  is  not  a  man? 


WE  ARE   SEVEN 


A  simple  child. 

That  lightly  drav/s  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl :  5 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said ; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl   , 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad :  10 

Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair ; 

—  Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be?'' 

"How  many?     Seven  in  all,"  she  said,         15 

And  wondering  looked  at  me. 


"And  where  are  they?     I  pray  you  tell." 

She  answered,  "Seven  are  we; 

And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea.  20 


EXPOSTULATION    AND    REPLY 


383 


"Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 
My  sister  and  my  brother  ; 
And,  in  the  church-yard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell,  25 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 
Yet  ye  are  seven  !  —  I  pray  you  tell. 
Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be." 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 

"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ;  30 

Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie. 

Beneath  the  church-yard  tree." 

"You  run  about,  my  little  maid, 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive ; 

If  two  are  in  the  church-yard  laid,  35 

Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen," 

The  little  maid  replied, 

"Twelve   steps   or  more   from  my  mother's 

door, 
And  they  are  side  bj^  side. 


40 


"jVIy  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 
]\Iy  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit. 
And  sing  a  song  to  them. 

"And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 
When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  Uttle  porringer. 
And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"The  first  that  died  was  sister  Jane; 
In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain ; 
And  then  she  went  away. 

"So  in  the  church-yard  she  was  laid ; 
And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 
My  brother  John  and  I. 


45 


50 


55 


"And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow. 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 

My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go. 

And  he  lies  by  her  side."  60 

"How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I. 
"If  they  two  are  in  heaven?" 
Quick  was  the  little  maid's  reply, 
"O  master!  we  are  seven." 


"But  they  are  dead ;  those  two  are  dead  !  65 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven!" 

'Twas  throwing  words  away ;  for  still 

The  little  maid  would  have  her  will, 

And  said,  "Nay,  we  are  seven!" 


EXPOSTULATION    AND    REPLY 

"Why,  William,  on  that  old  grey  stone, 
Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  day. 
Why,  WiUiam,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
And  dream  your  time  away  ? 


"Where   are  your   books?  —  that   light   be- 
queathed 5 
To  beings  else  forlorn  and  blind! 
Up!  up!  and  drink  the  spirit  breathed 
From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 


"You  look  round  on  your  Mother  Earth, 
As  if  she  for  no  purpose  bore  you ; 
As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth, 
And  none  had  lived  before  you!" 


One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake. 
When  life  was  sweet,  I  knew  not  why, 
To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake,        15 
And  thus  I  made  reply  : 


"The  eye  —  it  cannot  choose  but  see ; 
We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still ; 
Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be. 
Against  or  with  our  will. 


"Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  Powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress ; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 


"Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum         25 
Of  things  forever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come. 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking  ? 


" —  Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone. 
Conversing  as  I  may,  30 

I  sit  upon  this  old  grey  stone. 
And  dream  my  time  away." 


384 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


THE  TABLES  TURNED 

AN    EVENING     SCENE    ON    THE    SAME 
SUBJECT 

Up!   up!   my  friend,  and  quit  your  books ; 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double : 
Up!   up!   my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 

The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head,  5 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow 
Through  aU  the  long  green  fields  has  spread, 
His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books!   'tis  a  dull  and  endless  strife: 
Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet,  10 

How  sweet  his  music  !   on  my  life 
There's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 

And  hark!   how  blithe  the  throstle  sings! 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher : 
Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things,  15 

Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless  — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness.  20 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings ;         25 
Our  meddling  intellect 

Misshapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things :  — 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art ; 
Close  up  those  barren  leaves ;  30 

Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 


LINES     COMPOSED     A    FEW     MILES 

ABOVE   TINTERN   ABBEY,   ON   RI^ 

VISITING  THE  BANKS  OF  THE 

WYE   DURING  A  TOUR 

JULY   13,  1798 

Five  years  have  past ;  five  summers,  with  the 

length 
Of  five  long  winters!   and  again  I  hear 


These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain- 
springs 
With  a  soft  inland  murmur.  —  Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs,         5 
That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion  ;  and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view   10 
These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard- 
tufts, 
Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits. 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
'Mid  groves  and  copses.     Once  again  I  see 
These  hedgerows,  hardly  hedgerows,  little  lines 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild :    these  pastoral 
farms,  16 

Green  to  the  very  door  ;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees! 
With  some  imcertain  notice,  as  might  seem 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods,  20 
Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 
The  hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din  25 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet. 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind. 
With  tranquil  restoration  :  —  feelings  too     30 
Of  unremembered  pleasure :  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life. 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 3  5 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime ;   that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery. 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world,  40 

Is  lightened :  —  that  serene  and  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on,  — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep  45 

In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy. 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh!   how  oft  —     50 
In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight ;  when  the  fretful  stir 


TINTERN    ABBEY 


385 


Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart  — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee,     55 

0  sylvan    Wye!     thou    wanderer    thro'    the 

woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee! 
And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished 

thought. 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity,  60 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope,   65 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was 

when  first 

1  came  among  these  hills ;   when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  nature  led :  more  like  a  man         70 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than 

one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  nature 

then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days. 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all.  —  I  cannot  paint         75 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion ;   the  tall  rock. 
The   mountain,   and   the   deep   and   gloomy 

wood. 
Their  colours  and  "their  forms,  were  then  to 

me 
An  appetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love,  80 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
B^  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye.  —  That   time  is 

past. 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
x\nd  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this     85 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn,  nor  murmur ;   other  gifts 
Have  followed  ;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe. 
Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth  ;  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity,  91 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts ;   a  sense  sublime,      95 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused. 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns. 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air. 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man ; 


A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels  100 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought. 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I 

still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods. 
And  mountains ;   and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth ;    of  all   the  mighty 
world  105 

Of  eye,  and  ear,  —  both  what  they  half  create, 
And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to  recognise 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense. 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance,      in 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay : 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river ;   thou  my  dearest  friend, 
My  dear,  dear  friend;    and  in  thy  voice  I 
catch  116 

The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh!   yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once,     120 
My  dear,  dear  sister!  and  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her ;    'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  :   for  she  can  so  inform      125 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues. 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life,  131 

Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk;  135 

And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee :   and,  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure;  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms,      140 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds   and    harmonies;    oh! 

then. 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 
Should  be  thy  portion,   with  what  healing 

thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me,        14S 
And     these     my     exhortations!     Nor,     per- 
chance — • 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 


386 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these 

gleams 
Of  past  existence  —  wilt  thou  then  forget 
That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 
We  stood  together ;   and  that  I,  so  long      151 
A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 
Unwearied  in  that  service :   rather  say 
With  warmer  love  —  oh!  with  far  deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.     Nor  wUt  thou  then  forget,  155 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 
And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy 

sake! 

LUCY 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love  : 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone  S 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
—  Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 
When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ;  10 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 
The  difference  to  me! 


"The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her  ;  for  her  the  willow  bend ;  20 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

.By  silent  sympathy. 

"The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear  25 

To  her ;   and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round. 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

ShaU  pass  into  her  face.  30 

"And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live  35 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake  —  the  work  was  done  — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 

She  difed,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene;        40 
The  memory  of  what  has  been. 

And  never  more  will  be. 


A    SLUMBER   DID    MY   SPIRIT   SEAL 


THREE   YEARS   SHE   GREW 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  said,  "A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown ; 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make  5 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

"Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse :   and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower,  10 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 


"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn, 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 


15 


A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal ; 

I  had  no  human  fears ; 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force ; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees  ; 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course, 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 


LUCY   GRAY;    OR,   SOLITUDE 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray : 
And,  when  I  crossed  the  wild, 
I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew, 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
—  The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door! 


THE    RECLUSE 


387 


You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play 

The  hare  upon  the  green  ;  10 

But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 

Will  never  more  be  seen. 

"To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night  — 

You  to  the  town  must  go  ; 

And  take  a  lantern,  child,  to  light  15 

Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

'•That,  Father  !  will  I  gladly  do : 

'Tis  scarcely  afternoon  — 

The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 

And  yonder  is  the  moon  I  "  20 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook, 
And  snapped  a  faggot-band  ; 
He  plied  his  work ;  —  and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe :  25 

With  many  a  wanton  stroke 

Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 

That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time : 

She  wandered  up  and  down ;  30 

And  many  a  hUl  did  Lucy  climb : 

But  never  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 

Went  shoutmg  far  and  wide ; 

But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight  35 

To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  daybreak  on  a  hill  they  stood 

That  overlooked  the  moor  ; 

And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 

A  furlong  from  their  door.  40 

They  wept  —  and,  turning  homeward,  cried, 
"Li  heaven  we  all  shaU  meet ;" 
—  When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
They  tracked  the  footmarks  small ;  46 

And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone-wall ; 


And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed : 
The  marks  were  stUl  the  same ; 
They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost ; 
And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 


50 


They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Lito  the  middle  of  the  plank ;  55 

And  further  there  were  none! 

—  Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a  living  child  ; 

That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 

Upon  the  lonesome  wUd.  60 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 
And  never  looks  behind  ; 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 

THE   RECLUSE 
From  BOOK  I 

On  Man,  on  Nature,  and  on  Human  Life, 
Musing  in  solitude,  I  pft  perceive 
Fair  trains  of  imagery  before  me  rise, 
x\ccompanied  by  feelings  of  delight 
Pure,  or  with  no  vmpleasing  sadness  mixed ;  5 
And  I  am  conscious  of  affecting  thoughts 
And    dear    remembrances,    whose    presence 

soothes 
Or  elevates  the  mind,  intent  to  weigh 
The  good  and  evU  of  our  mortal  state.         9 

—  To  these  emotions,  whencesoe'er  they  come, 
WTiether  from  breath  of  outward  circumstance, 
Or  from  the  soul  —  an  impulse  to  herself  — 
I  would  give  utterance  in  numerous^  verse. 
Of  Truth,  of  Grandeur,  Beauty,  Love,  and 

Hope, 
And  melancholy  Fear  subdued  by  Faith ;    15 
Of  blessed  consolations  in  distress; 
Of  moral  strength,  and  intellectual  power; 
Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread ; 
Of  the  individual  mmd  that  keeps  her  own 
Liviolate  retirement,  subject  there  20 

To  conscience  only,  and  the  law  supreme 
Of  that  Intelligence  which  governs  all  — 
I  sing:  —  "fit  audience  let  me  find  though 

few!  "2 
So  prayed,  more  gaining  than  he  asked,  the 

bard  — • 
In  holiest  mood.     Urania,^  I  shaU  need        25 
Thy  guidance,  or  a  greater  muse,  if  such 
Descend  to  earth  or  dweU  in  highest  heaven  ! 
For  I  must  tread  on  shado\\y  ground,  must 

sink 

^  melodious     -  Quoted  from  Milton.     ^  Cf.  note 
on  Shelley's  Adonais,  1.  12 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


Deep  —  and,    aloft    ascending,    breathe    in 
worlds  2g 

To  which  the  heaven  of  heavens  is  but  a  veil. 
All  strength  — ■  all  terror,  single  or  in  bands, 
That  ever  was  put  forth  in  personal  form  — 
Jehovah  —  with  his  thunder,  and  the  choir 
Of  shouting  angels,  and  the  empyreal  thrones  — 
I  pass  them  unalarmed.     Not  Chaos,  not    35 
The  darkest  pit  of  lowest  Erebus, 
Nor  aught  of  blinder  vacancy,  scooped  out 
By  help  of  dreams  —  can  breed  such  fear  and 

awe 
As  falls  upon  us  often  when  we  look 
Into  our  minds,  into  the  mind  of  Man  — ■    40 
My  haunt,  and  the  main  region  of  my  song. 

—  Beauty  —  a  living  Presence  of  the  earth, 
Surpassing  the  most  fair  ideal  forms 
Which  craft  of  delicate  Spirits  hath  composed 
From    earth's    materials  —  waits    upon    my 

steps ;  45 

Pitches  her  tents  before  me  as  I  move, 
An  hourly  neighbour.     Paradise,  and  groves 
Elysian,  Fortunate  Fields  —  like  those  of  old 
Sought  in  the  Atlantic  Main  —  why  should 

they  be 
A  history  only  of  departed  things,  50 

Or  a  mere  fiction  of  what  never  was? 
For  the  discerning  intellect  of  Man, 
When  wedded  to  this  goodly  universe 
In  love  and  holy  passion,  shall  find  these 
A  simple  produce  of  the  common  day.  55 

—  I,  long  before  the  blissful  hour  arrives, 
Would    chant,  in    lonely  peace,  the  spousal 

verse 
Of  this  great  consummation  :  —  and,  by  words 
Which  speak  of  nothing  more  than  what  we 

are, 
Would  I  arouse  the  sensual  from  their  sleep  60 
Of  death,  and  win  the  vacant  and  the  vain 
To  noble  raptures ;  while  my  voice  proclaims 
How  exquisitely  the  individual  mind 
(And  the  progressive  powers  perhaps  no  less 
Of  the  whole  species)  to  the  external  world  65 
Is  fitted  :  —  and  how  exquisitely,  too  — 
Theme  this  but  little  heard  of  among  men  — 
The  external  world  is  fitted  to  the  mind ; 
And  the  creation  (by  no  lower  name 
Can  it  be  called)  which  they  with  blended 

might  70 

Accomplish  :  —  this  is  our  high  argument.' 

—  Such  grateful  haunts  foregoing,  if  I  oft 
Must    turn    elsewhere  —  to   travel   near   the 

tribes 

'  great  subject 


And  fellowships  of  men,  and  see  ill  sights 
Of  madding  passions  mutually  inflamed  ;     75 
Must  hear  Humanity  in  fields  and  groves 
Pipe  solitary  anguish  ;  or  must  hang 
Brooding  above  the  fierce  confederate  storm 
Of  sorrow,  barricadoed  evermore 
Within  the  walls  of  cities  —  may  these  sounds 
Have  their  authentic  comment ;    that  even 

these  81 

Hearing,  I  be  not  downcast  or  forlorn  !  — 
Descend,  prophetic  Spirit !  that  inspir'st 
The  human  Soul  of  universal  earth, 
Dreaming    on    things    to    come ;     and    dost 

possess  85 

A  metropolitan  temple  in  the  hearts 
Of  mighty  poets ;  upon  me  bestow 
A  gift  of  genuine  insight ;   that  my  song 
With  star-like  virtue  in  its  place  may  shine, 
Shedding  benignant  influence,  and  secure     90 
Itself  from  all  mialevolent  effect 
Of  those  mutations  that  extend  their  sway 
Throughout  the  nether  sphere!  —  And  if  with 

this 
I  mix  more  lowly  matter ;   with  the  thing 
Contemplated,  describe  the  Mind  and  Man  95 
Contemplating ;  and  who,  and  what  he  was  — 
The  transitory  being  that  beheld 
This  vision ;  —  when  and  where,  and  how  he 

lived ; 
Be  not  this  labour  useless.     If  such  theme 
May  sort  with  highest  objects,  then  —  dread 

Power !  100 

Whose  gracious  favour  is  the  primal  source 
Of  all  illumination  ■^-  may  my  life 
Express  the  image  of  a  better  time, 
More  wise  desires,  and  simpler  manners ;  — 

nurse 
IMy   heart    in   genuine   freedom :  —  all   pure 

thoughts  105 

Be  with  me  ;  —  so  shall  thy  unfailing  love 
Guide,  and  support,   and  cheer   me  to    the 

end ! 


TO  THE   CUCKOO 

0  blithe  New-comer!     I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

O  Cuckoo!  shall  1  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  1  hear. 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off,  and  near. 


SHE    WAS    A    PHANTOM    OF    DELIGHT 


389 


Though  babbling  only  to  the  Vale, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers,  10 

Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 

Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring! 
Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing,  15 

A  voice,  a  mystery ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

I  listened  to  ;   that  Cry 

Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 

In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky.  20 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love ; 
StiU  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ;  25 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  Bird !  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be  30 

An  unsubstantial  faery  place, 
That  is  fit  home  for  thee! 


MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP  WHEN  I 
BEHOLD 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  m  the  sky  : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man ; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die! 
The  ChUd  is  father  of  the  I\Ian  ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

THE   SOLITARY  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself ; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain ; 
O  listen !   for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 


No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 

More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands         10 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 

Among  Arabian  sands : 

A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 

In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas  15 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ?  — 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago  :  20 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang       25 

As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending ; 

I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 

And  o'er  the  sickle  bending ;  — 

I  listened,  motionless  and  still ; 

And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill  30 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 

Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

A  lovely  apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ;  5 

Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 

A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  way -lay.  10 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet  15 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  srmles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene  21 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 

A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 


390 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


A  traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will,  25 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 

A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned. 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 

And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  angelic  light.  30 


I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A  CLOUD 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils ; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees,  5 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

A.nd  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

A.long  the  margin  of  a  bay :  10 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance. 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee : 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay  15 

In  such  a  jocund  company : 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought : 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood,  20 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


ODE   TO   DUTY 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  ! 

O  Duty!  if  that  name  thou  love  . 

Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove ; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law  5 

When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free ; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity  1 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 

Be  on  them  ;  who,  in  love  and  truth,  10 

Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 

Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth : 


Glad  Hearts!   without  reproach  or  blot 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 
Oh!   if  through  confidence  misplaced  15 

They  fail,   thy  saving   arms,  dread   Power! 
around  them  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security.  20 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold. 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed ; 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their 
need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried;  25 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide. 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust : 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred  30 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I 
may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  m}'  soul. 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ;  35 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same.     40 

Stern  Lawgiver!   yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace ; 
Nor  know  we  anj'thing  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds       45 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  thee, 
are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 
I  call  thee  :   I  myself  commend  50 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give  ;  55 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  bondman  let  me 
live! 


INTIMATIONS    OF    IMMORTALITY 


391 


PERSON.\L  T.\LK 


I 


I  am  not  one  who  much  or  oft  delight 
To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk,  — 
Of  friends,  who  live  within  an  easy  walk. 
Or  neighbours,  daily,  weekly,  in  my  sight : 
And,    for  ^    my    chance-acquaintance,   ladies 
bright,  _  _  5 

Sons,    mothers,    maidens    withering    on    the 

stalk, 
These  all  wear  out  of  me,  Uke  forms,  with 

chalk 
Painted  on  rich  men's  floors,  for  one  feast- 
night. 
Better  than  such  discourse  doth  silence  long. 
Long,  barren  silence,  square  with  my  desire ;  10 
To  sit  without  emotion,  hope,  or  aim. 
In  the  loved  presence  of  my  cottage  fire, 
And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame. 
Or  kettle  whispering  its  faint  undersong. 

II 

"  Yet  life,"  you  say,  "  is  life ;  w^e  have  seen  and 

see,  15 

And  with  a  living  pleasure  we  describe ; 
And  fits  of  sprightly  malice  do  but  bribe 
The  languid  mind  into  activity. 
Sound  sense,  and  love  itself,  and  mirth  and 

glee 
Are  fostered  by  the  comment  and  the  gibe."  20 
Even  be  it  so  ;  yet  still  among  your  tribe. 
Our  daily  world's  true  worldings,  rank  not 

me! 
Children  are  blest,  and  powerful ;   their  world 

lies 
More  justly  balanced;   partly  at  their  feet. 
And  part  far  from  them  :  sweetest  melodies  25 
Are  those  that  are  by  distance  made  more 

sweet ;  • 
Whose  mind  is  but  the  mind  of  his  own  eyes. 
He  is  a  slave ;  the  meanest  we  can  meet ! 

Ill 

Wings  have  we,  —  and  as  far  as  we  can  go, 
We  may  lind  pleasure :   wilderness  and  wood, 
Blank  ocean  and  mere  sky,  support  that  mood 
Which  with  -  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low.     32 
Dreams,  books,  are  each  a  world ;   and  books, 

we  know. 
Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good : 

^  as  for  -  by  means  of 


Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and 

blood,  35 

Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 
There  find  I  personal   themes,   a  plenteous 

store, 
Matter  wherein  right  voluble  I  am, 
To  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear ; 
Two  shall  be  named,  pre-eminently  dear,  — 
The  gentle  Lady  married  to  the  Moor ;        41 
And  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white  Lamb. 

IV 

Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby 
Great  gains  are  mine ;  for  thus  I  live  remote 
From  evil-speaking;  rancour,  never  sought,  45 
Comes  to  me  not ;  malignant  truth,  or  lie. 
Hence  have  I  genial  seasons,  hence  have  I 
Smooth  passions,  smooth  discourse,  and  joy- 
ous thought : 
And  thus  from  day  to  day  my  little  boat 
Rocks  in  its  harbour,  lodging  peaceably.       50 
Blessings  be  with  them  —  and  eternal  praise, 
Who  gave  us  nobler  loves,  and  nobler  cares  — 
The  Poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays  1 
Oh!    might   my  name  be  numbered  among 

theirs, 
Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days.    56 


ODE 

INTniATIONS   OF   IMINIORTALITY   FROM 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF   EARLY 

CHILDHOOD 


There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove  and 

stream, 
The  earth,  and  ever>^  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream.         5 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ;  — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may. 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no 
more. 

II 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes,        10 
And  lovely  is  the  Rose ; 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 


392 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare  ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair;  15 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the 
earth. 

Ill 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound         20 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief ; 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief. 

And  I  again  am  strong :  24 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the 

steep ; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong ; 
I   hear   the   echoes   through    the   mountains 

throng. 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay  : 

Land  and  sea  30 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday ;  — 
Thou  child  of  joy. 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou 
happy  shepherd-boy!  35 


IV 

Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 
Ye  to  each  other  make ;   I  see 

The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jXibilee : 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival. 
My  head  hath  its  coronal,  40 

The  fullness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel  —  I  feel  it 
all. 
Oh  evil  day!   if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  children  are  culling  45 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh    flowers ;     while    the    sun    shines 
warm, 

And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm  — 
I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear!  50 

—  But  there's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 

A  single  field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 

Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone  : 
The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat :  55 


Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting,  60 

And  Cometh  from  afar  : 

Not  in  entire  forget  fulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home :  65 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy. 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ;  70 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away,      75 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

VI 

Earth  fiUs  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 

And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 
And  no  unworthy  aim,  80 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 

To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  Man, 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 

And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came.  84 

VII 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size  ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses. 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart,      90 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart,-  95 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside,  100 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 


INTIMATIONS    OF    IMMORTALITY 


393 


The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 

Filling   from   time   to    time   his   "humorous 

stage" 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ;  105 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Mil 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep  no 
Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep. 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind,  — 

Mighty  prophet !     Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest,  115 

\\Tiich  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find. 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ;        120 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height. 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  pro- 
voke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly 
freight,  126 

And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight. 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 

DC 

O  joy  !   that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live,  130 

That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  ovu"  past  years  in  me  doth 

breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :   not  indeed  134 

For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest  — 
Delight  and  Uberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  b  his 
breast : — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise;  140 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised,         145 


High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  : 

But  for  those  first  affections. 

Those  shadowy  recollections. 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may,  150 

Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing ; 
Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:   truths  that  wake,  155 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeav- 
our, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  !  160 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

WTiich  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither,  165 

And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore^ 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song  I 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound  !  1 70 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so 
bright  175 

Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight. 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendour  in   the  grass,  of  glory  in   the 
flower ; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind;       180 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
WTiich  having  been  must  ever  be ; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suft'ering  ;  1S4 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death. 

In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI 

And  O  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  HiUs,  and 

Groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 
'I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight  190 


394 


WILLIAM    WOKDSWORTH 


To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  love  the  Brooli  which  down  their  channels 

fret, 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  Kghtly  as  they ; 
The  mnocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet ;  195 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality: 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are 

won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

TO  A   SKY-LARK 

Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 

Dost    thou    despise    the    earth   where    cares 

abound  ? 
Of,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  groimd  ? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will,  5 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music 

stiU! 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood ; 
A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine ; 
Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 
Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine;        10 
Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never  roam ; 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and 
Home! 

SONNETS 

ON    THE    EXTINCTION    OF    THE    VENE- 
TIAN REPUBLIC 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  fee ; 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  west :  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  child  of  Liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  city,  bright  and  free ;         5 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate ; 
And,  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  Mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 
And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 
Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay  ; 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid        10 
When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final  day  : 
Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the 

Shade 
Of  that  which  once  was  great  is  passed  away. 


TO  TOUSSAINT  L'OU\^RTURE 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men! 
Whether  the  whisthng  rustic  tend  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
PUlowed    in    some    deep    dimgeon's    earless 
den ;  — 

0  miserable  chieftain  !   where  and  when        5 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?     Yet  die  not ;    do 

thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow : 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again. 
Live,  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  be- 
hind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee ;  air,  earth,  and 
skies;  10 

There's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  wdll  forget  thee ;   thou  hast  great  allies ; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 

SEPTEMBER,  1802,  NEAR  DOVER 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood ; 

And  saw,  whUe  sea  was  calm  and  air  was  clear, 

The  coast  of  France  —  the  coast  of  France 

how  near ! 
Drawn  almost  into  frightful  neighbo'urhood. 

1  shrunk ;  for  verily  the  barrier  flood  5 
Was  like  a  lake,  or  river  bright  and  fair, 

A  span  of  waters  ;   yet  what  power  is  there  ! 
What  mightiness  for  evil  and  for  good  ! 
Even  so  doth  God  protect  us  if  we  be 
Virtuous  and  wise.     Winds  blow,  and  waters 

roll,  10 

Strength  to  the  brave,  and  Power,  and  Deity ; 
Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing !     One  decree 
Spake    laws   to  them,  and  said  that  by  the 

soul 
Only,  the  nations  shaU  be  great  and  free. 

THOUGHT    OF    A    BRITON    ON    THE 
SUBJUGATION  OF  SWITZERLAND 

Two  voices  are  there ;  one  is  of  the  sea. 
One  of  the  mountains  ;   each  a  mighty  voice : 
In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 
They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty ! 
There  came  a  tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee         s 
Thou  fought 'st  against  him ;  but  hast  vainly 

striven : 
Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art 

driven, 


SONNETS 


395 


\\Tiere  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 
Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft : 
Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is 

left ;  lo 

For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it 

be 
That    mountain    floods    should    thunder    as 

before, 
And  ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 
And  neither  awful  voice  be  heard  by  thee. 

LONDON,  1802 

Milton  !  thou  should'st  be  li\'ing  at  this  hour : 
England  hath  need  of  thee :   she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters :   altar,  sword,  and  pen. 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  Enghsh  dower    5 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men ; 
Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 
And  give  us  manners,  wtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart : 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the 
sea :  10 

Pui'e  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  Ufa's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness ;   and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

COMPOSED  UPON  wt:stminster 

BRIDGE,   SEPT.  3,    1802 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 

A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 

This  Cit}'  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  mornmg ;  silent,  bare,       5 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  he 

Open  imto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky ; 

All  bright  and  glittering  m  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  hUl;    10 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 

The  river  ghdeth  at  his  ovm  sweet  will : 

Dear  God  !   the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 

And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 

ON  THE   SEA-SHORE  NEAR    C.\LAIS 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free. 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration ;   the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 


The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea  :  5 
Listen  !   the  mighty  Being  is  awake. 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder  —  everlastingly. 
Dear  Child  !    dear  Girl !    that  walkest  with 

me  here. 
If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought j 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  di\dne :  u 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year ; 
And  worship'st  at  the  temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 


THE   WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us :  late  and  soon, 
Getting    and    spending,    we    lay    w^aste    our 

powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  'ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ;  5 
The  winds  that  wiU  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And     are     up-gathered     now     like     sleeping 

flowers ; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not.  —  Great  God  !     I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn ;  10 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 
Have    glimpses    that   would    make    me    less 

forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


TO   SLEEP 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 
One  after  one ;   the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring ;  the  fall  of  rivers,  wmds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure 

sky: 
I  have  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet  do  he  5 
Sleepless  !   and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
IMust   hear,   first   uttered  from   my  orchard 

trees ; 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I 

lay. 
And  could  not  win  thee.  Sleep  !  by  any  stealth : 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away :  1 1 

Without    Thee    what    is    all    the    morning's 

wealth  ? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous 

health ! 


396 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


THE  ri\t:r  DUDDON 


IV 

I  thought  of  thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide, 
As  being  past  away.  —  Vain  sympathies ! 
For,  backward,  Duddon!   as  I  cast  my  eyes, 
I  see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide ; 
Still  glides  the  Stream,  and  shall  forever  glide  ; 
The  Form  remains,  the  Function  never  dies ;  6 
While  we,   the  brave,   the  mighty,   and  the 

wise, 
We  Men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 
The  elements,  must  vanish;^ — be  it  so! 
Enough,  if  something   from  our  hands  have 
power  lo 

To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour ; 
And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we  go. 
Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith's  tran- 
scendent dower. 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know. 

MOST   SWEET  IT  IS 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 

To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or  none, 

While  a  fair  region  round  the  traveller  lies 

Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon  ; 

Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene,      5 

The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 

Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 

The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 

If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 

Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse  : 

With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our 

way,  II 

Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse. 
The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her 

dews 
Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 

SCORN  NOT  THE  SONNET 

Scorn    not    the    Sonnet ;     Critic,    you    have 

frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honours ;   with  this  key 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart :   the  melody 
Of   this  small  lute  gave  case   to   Petrarch's 

wound ; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound  ;  5 
With  it  Camoens  soothed  an  exile's  grief ; 
The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 


His  visionary  brow :   a  glow-worm  lamp, 
It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Faery- 
land  10 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;   and,  when  a 

damp 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  Thing  became  a  trumpet ;    whence  he 

blew 
Soul-animating  strains  —  alas,  too  few ! 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

(1772-1834) 

BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA 
CHAP.  XIV 

During  the  first  year  that  Mr.  Wordsworth 
and  I  were  neighbours,  our  conversations 
turned  frequently  on  the  two  cardinal  points 
of  poetry,  the  power  of  exciting  the  sympathy 
of  the  reader  by  a  faithful  adherence  to  the 
truth  of  nature,  and  the  power  of  giving  the 
interest  of  novelty  by  the  modifying  colours 
of  imagination.  The  sudden  charm,  which 
accidents  of  light  and  shade,  which  moonlight 
or  sunset,  diffused  over  a  known  and  familiar 
landscape,  appeared  to  represent  the  prac- 
ticability of  combining  both.  These  are 
the  poetry  of  nature.  The  thought  sug- 
gested itself  (to  which  of  us  I  do  not  recollect) 
that  a  series  of  poems  might  be  composed  of 
two  sorts.  In  the  one,  the  incidents  and 
agents  were  to  be,  in  part  at  least,  super- 
natural ;  and  the  excellence  aimed  at  was  to 
consist  in  the  interesting  of  the  affections  by 
the  dramatic  truth  of  such  emotions  as  would 
naturally  accompany  such  situations,  suppos- 
ing them  real.  And  real  in  this  sense  they 
have  been  to  every  human  being  who,  from 
whatever  source  of  delusion,  has  at  any  time 
believed  himself  under  supernatural  agency. 
For  the  second  class,  subjects  were  to  be 
chosen  from  ordinary  Ufe ;  the  characters 
and  incidents  were  to  be  such  as  will  be  found 
in  every  village  and  its  vicinity  where  there  is 
a  meditative  and  feeling  mind  to  seek  after 
them,  or  to  notice  them  when  they  present 
themselves. 

In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the 
"Lyrical  Ballads";  in  which  it  was  agreed 
that  my  endeavours  should  be  directed  to 
persons  and  characters  supernatural,  or  at 


BIOGRAPHIA    LITERARIA 


397 


least  romantic  ;  yet  so  as  to  transfer  from  our 
inward  nature  a  human  interest  and  a  sem- 
blance of  truth  sufficient  to  procure  for  these 
shadows  of  imagination  that  willing  suspen- 
sion of  disbelief  for  the  moment,  which  con- 
stitutes poetic  faith.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  to  propose  to  himself 
as  his  object,  to  give  the  charm  of  novelty  to 
things  of  every  day,  and  to  excite  a  feeling 
analogous  to  the  supernatural,  by  awakening 
the  mind's  attention  from  the  lethargy  of 
custom,  and  directing  it  to  the  loveliness  and 
the  wonders  of  the  world  before  us ;  an  inex- 
haustible treasure,  but  for  which,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  film  of  familiarity  and  seliish 
solicitude,  we  have  eyes,  yet  see  not,  ears  that 
hear  not,  and  hearts  that  neither  feel  nor 
understand. 

With  this  view  I  wTote  the  "Ancient  Mari- 
ner," and  was  preparing,  among  other  poems, 
the  "Dark  Ladie,"  arid  the  " Christabel,"  in 
which  I  should  have  more  nearly  realised  my 
ideal  than  I  had  done  in  my  first  attempt. 
But  Mr.  Wordsworth's  industry  had  proved 
so  much  more  successful,  and  the  number  of 
his  poems  so  much  greater,  that  my  com- 
positions, instead  of  forming  a  balance,  ap- 
peared rather  an  interpolation  of  heterogene- 
ous matter.  Mr.  Wordsworth  added  two  or 
three  poems  v.ritten  in  his  own  character,  in 
the  impassioned,  lofty,  and  sustained  diction 
which  is  characteristic  of  his  genius.  In  this 
foim  the  "Lyrical  Ballads"  were  published; 
and  were  presented  by  him,  as  an  experiment, 
whether  subjects,  which  from  their  nature 
rejected  the  usual  ornaments  and  extra- 
colloquial  style  of  poems  in  general,  might 
not  be  so  managed  in  the  language  of  ordinary 
life  as  to  produce  the  pleasurable  interest 
which  it  is  the  pecuUar  business  of  poetry 
to  impart.  To  the  second  edition  he  added 
a  preface  of  considerable  length ;  in  which, 
notwithstanding  some  passages  of  apparently 
a  contrar}^  import,  he  was  understood  to 
contend  for  the  extension  of  this  style  to 
poetry  of  all  kinds,  and  to  reject  as  vicious 
and  indefensible  all  phrases  and  forms  of 
style  that  were  not  included  in  what  he 
(unfortunately,  I  think,  adopting  an  equivocal 
expression)  called  the  language  of  real  life. 
From  this  preface,  prefixed  to  poems  in  which 
it  was  impossible  to  deny  the  presence  of  orig- 
inal genius,  how^ever  mistaken  its  direction 
might  be  deemed,  arose  the  whole  long-con- 
tinued controversy.     For  from  the  conjunc- 


tion of  perceived  power  with  supposed  heresy 
I  explain  the  inveteracy,  and  in  some  in- 
stances, I  grieve  to  say,  the  acrimonious 
passions,  with  which  the  controversy  has 
been  conducted  by  the  assailants. 

Had  !Mr.  Wordsworth's  poems  been  the 
silly,  the  childish  things  which  they  were  for  a 
long  time  described  as  being ;  had  they  been 
really  distinguished  from  the  compositions 
of  other  poets  merely  by  meanness  of  language 
and  inanity  of  thought ;  had  they  indeed  con- 
tained nothing  more  than  what  is  found  in  the 
parodies  and  pretended  imitations  of  them ; 
they  must  have  sunk  at  once,  a  dead  weight, 
into  the  slough  of  obhvion,  and  have  dragged 
the  preface  along  with  them.  But  year  after 
year  increased  the  number  of  JVIr.  Words- 
worth's admirers.  They  were  fotmd,  too, 
not  in  the  lower  classes  of  the  reading  pubhc, 
but  chiefly  among  young  men  of  strong  sensi- 
bility and  meditative  minds ;  and  their  ad- 
miration (inflamed  perhaps  in  some  degree 
by  opposition)  was  distinguished  by  its  in- 
tensity, I  might  almost  say,  by  its  religious 
ferv^our.  These  facts,  and  the  intellectual 
energy  of  the  author,  which  was  more  or  less 
consciously  felt,  where  it  was  outwardly  and 
even  boisterously  denied,  meeting  with  sen- 
timents of  aversion  to  his  opinions,  and  of 
alarm  at  their  consequences,  produced  an 
eddy  of  criticism,  which  would  of  itself  have 
borne  up  the  poems  by  the  violence  with 
w'hich  it  whirled  them  round  and  round. 
With  many  parts  of  this  preface,  in  the  sense 
attributed  to  them,  and  which  the  words  un- 
doubtedly seem  to  authorise,  I  never  con- 
curred; but,  on  the  contrary,  objected  to 
them  as  erroneous  in  principle,  and  as  con- 
tradictory (in  appearance  at  least)  both  to 
other  parts  of  the  same  preface  and  to  the 
author's  own  practice  in  the  greater  number 
of  the  poems  themselves.  jMr.  Wordsworth, 
in  his  recent  collection,  has,  I  find,  degraded 
this  prefatory  disquisition  to  the  end  of  his  sec- 
ond volume,  to  be  read  or  not  at  the  reader's 
choice.  But  he  has  not,  as  far  as  I  can  dis- 
cover, announced  any  change  in  his  poetic 
creed.  At  all  events,  considering  it  as  the 
source  of  a  controversy,  in  which  I  have  been 
honoured  more  than  I  deserve  by  the  fre- 
quent conjunction  of  my  name  with  his,  I 
think  it  expedient  to  declare,  once  for  all, 
in  what  points  I  coincide  wdth  his  opinions, 
and  in  what  points  I  altogether  differ.  But 
in  order  to  render  myself  intelligible,  I  must 


398 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


previously,  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  explain 
my  ideas,  first,  of  a  poem ;  and  secondly,  of 
poetry  itself,  in  kind  and  in  essence. 

The  oftice  of  philosophical  disquisition  con- 
sists in  just  distinction  ;  while  it  is  the  privi- 
lege of  the  philosopher  to  preserve  himself 
constantly  aware  that  distinction  is  not 
division.  In  order  to  obtain  adequate  notions 
of  any  truth,  we  must  intellectually  separate 
its  distinguishable  parts ;  and  this  is  the 
technical  process  of  philosophy.  But  having 
so  done,  we  must  then  restore  them  in  our 
conceptions  to  the  unity  in  which  they  actually 
coexist ;  and  this  is  the  result  of  philosophy. 
A  poem  contains  the  same  elements  as  a 
prose  composition ;  the  difference,  therefore, 
must  consist  in  a  different  combination  of 
them,  in  consequence  of  a  different  object 
proposed.  According  to  the  difference  of 
the  object  will  be  the  difference  of  the  com- 
bination. It  is  possible  that  the  object  may 
be  merely  to  facilitate  the  recollection  of  any 
given  facts  or  observations  by  artificial 
arrangement ;  and  the  composition  will  be 
a  poem,  merely  because  it  is  distinguished 
from  prose  by  metre,  or  by  rhyme,  or  by  both 
conjointly.  In  this,  the  lowest  sense,  a  man 
might  attribute  the  name  of  a  poem  to  the 
well-known  enumeration  of  the  days  in  the 
several  months : 

"Thirty  days  hath  September, 
April,  June,  and  November,"  etc. 

and  others  of  the  same  class  and  purpose. 
And  as  a  particular  pleasure  is  found  in  an- 
ticipating the  recurrence  of  sound  and  quanti- 
ties, aU  compositions  that  have  this  charm  su- 
peradded, whatever  be  their  contents,  may  be 
entitled  poems. 

So  much  for  the  superficial  form.  A  differ- 
ence of  object  and  contents  supplies  an  addi- 
tional ground  of  distinction.  The  immediate 
purpose  may  be  the  communication  of  truths  : 
either  of  truth  absolute  and  demonstrable,  as 
in  works  of  science;  or  of  facts  experienced 
and  recorded,  as  in  history.  Pleasure,  and 
that  of  the  highest  and  most  permanent  kind, 
may  result  from  the  attainment  of  the  end; 
but  it  is  not  itself  the  immediate  end.  In 
other  works  the  commimication  of  pleasure 
may  be  the  immediate  purpose ;  and  though 
truth,  either  moral  or  intellectual,  ought  to  be 
the  ultimate  end,  yet  this  will  distinguish  the 
character  of  the  author,  not  the  class  to  which 


the  work  belongs.  Blest  indeed  is  that  state 
of  society,  in  which  the  immediate  purpose 
would,  be  baiSed  by  the  perversion  of  the 
proper  ultimate  end ;  in  which  no  charm  of 
diction  or  imagery  coidd  exempt  the  Bathyllus 
even  of  an  Anacreon,  or  the  Alexis  of  Virgil, 
from  disgust  and  aversion! 

But  the  communication  of  pleasure  may  be 
the  immediate  object  of  a  work  not  metrically 
composed  ;  and  that  object  may  have  been  in 
a  high  degree  attained,  as  in  novels  and 
romances.  Would  then  the  mere  superaddi- 
tion  of  metre,  with  or  without  rhyme,  entitle 
these  to  the  name  of  poems?  The  answer 
is,  that  nothing  can  permanently  please,  which 
does  not  contain  in  itself  the  reason  Avhy  it  is  so, 
and  not  otherwise.  If  metre  be  superadded, 
all  other  parts  must  be  made  consonant  with 
it.  They  must  be  such  as  to  justify  the 
perpetual  and  distinct  attention  to  each  part, 
which  an  exact  correspondent  recurrence  of 
accent  and  sound  are  calculated  to  excite. 
The  final  definition  then,  so  deduced,  may  be 
thus  worded.  A  poem  is  that  species  of  com- 
position, which  is  opposed  to  works  of  science, 
by  proposing  for  its  immediate  object  pleasure, 
not  truth ;  and  from  all  other  species  (having 
this  object  in  common  with  it)  it  is  discrimi- 
nated by  proposing  to  itself  such  delight  from 
the  whole,  as  is  compatible  with  a  distinct 
gratification  from  each  component  part. 

Controversy  is  not  seldom  excited  in  conse- 
quence of  the  disputants  attaching  each  a 
different  meaning  to  the  same  word ;  and  in 
few  instances  has  this  been  more  striking 
than  in  disputes  concerning  the  present 
subject.  If  a  man  chooses  to  call  every 
composition  a  poem,  which  is  rhyme,  or 
measure,  or  both,  I  must  leave  his  opinion 
un controverted.  The  distinction  is  at  least 
competent  to  characterise  the  writer's  inten- 
tion. If  it  were  subjoined,  that  the  whole 
is  likewise  entertaining  or  affecting  as  a  tale, 
or  as  a  series  of  interesting  reflections,  I  of 
course  admit  this  as  another  fit  ingredient 
of  a  poem,  and  an  additional  merit.  But 
if  the  definition  sought  for  be  that  of  a 
legitimate  poem,  I  answer,  it  must  be  one  the 
parts  of  which  mutually  support  and  explain 
each  other;  all  in  their  proportion  harmo- 
nising with,  and  supporting  the  purpose  and 
known  influences  of  metrical  arrangement. 
The  philosophic  critics  of  all  ages  coincide 
with  the  ultimate  judgment  of  all  countries, 
in  eqvially  denying  the  praises  of  a  just  poem, 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA 


399 


on  the  one  hand  to  a  series  of  striking  lines 
or  distichs,  each  of  which  absorbing  the  whole 
attention  of  the  reader  to  itseh",  disjoins  it 
from  its  context,  and  makes  it  a  separate 
whole,  instead  of  a  harmonising  part ;  and 
on  the  other  hand,  to  an  unsustained  com- 
position, from  which  the  reader  collects 
rapidly  the  general  result  imattracted  by  the 
component  parts.  The  reader  should  be 
carried  forvrard,  not  merely  or  chieliy  by  the 
mechanical  impulse  of  ciuiosity,  or  by  a  rest- 
less desire  to  arrive  at  the  final  solution ;  but 
by  the  pleasurable  acti\dty  of  mind  excited  by 
the  attractions  of  the  journey  itself.  Like  the 
motion  of  a  serpent,  wliich  the  Egyptians 
made  the  emblem  of  mtellectual  power ;  or 
like  the  path  of  sound  through  the  air,  at 
ever\'  step  he  pauses  and  half  recedes,  and 
from  the  retrogressive  movement  collects  the 
force  which  again  carries  him  onward,  Prac- 
cipUandus  est  liber  spirltus,^  says  Petronius 
Arbiter  most  happily.  The  epithet,  liber, 
here  balances  the  preceding  verb :  and  it  is 
not  easy  to  conceive  more  meaning  condensed 
in  fewer  words. 

But  if  this  should  be  admitted  as  a  satisfac- 
tory character  of  a  poem,  we  have  still  to  seek 
for  a  definition  of  poetry.  The  writings  of 
Plato,  and  Bishop  Taylor,  and  the  Thcoria 
Sacra  of  Burnet,  furnish  undeniable  proofs 
that  poetry  of  the  highest  kind  may  exist  with- 
out metre,  and  even  without  the  contra-dis- 
tinguishing objects  of  a  poem.  The  first 
chapter  of  Isaiah  (indeed  a  very  large  propor- 
tion of  the  whole  book)  is  poetry  in  the  most 
emphatic  sense ;  yet  it  would  be  not  less 
irrational  than  strange  to  assert,  that  pleasure, 
and  not  truth,  was  the  immediate  object  of  the 
prophet.  In  short,  whatever  specific  import 
we  attach  to  the  word  poetry,  there  will  be 
found  involved  in  it,  as  a  necessary  conse- 
quence, that  a  poem  of  any  length  neither 
can  be,  nor  ought  to  be,  all  poetry.  Yet  if  a 
harmonious  whole  is  to  be  produced,  the  re- 
maining parts  must  be  preserved  in  keeping 
with  the  poetry ;  and  this  can  be  no  otherwise 
effected  than  by  such  a  studied  selection  and 
artificial  arrangement  as  will  partake  of  one, 
though  not  a  peculiar,  property  of  poetry. 
And  this  again  can  be  no  other  than  the 
property  of  exciting  a  more  continuous  and 
equal  attention  than  the  language  of  prose 
aims  at,  whether  colloquial  or  written. 


My  own  conclusions  on  the  nature  of  poetry, 
in  the  strictest  use  of  the  word,  have  been  in 
part  anticipated  in  the  preceding  disquisition 
on  the  fancy  and  imagination.  What  is 
poetry?  is  so  nearly  the  same  question  with, 
what  is  a  poet  ?  that  the  answer  to  the  one  is 
involved  in  the  solution  of  the  other.  For  it 
is  a  distinction  resulting  from  the  poetic 
genius  itself,  which  sustains  and  modifies 
the  images,  thoughts,  and  emotions  of  the 
poet's  own  mind.  The  poet,  described  in  ideal 
perfection,  brings  the  whole  soul  of  man  into 
activity,  wdth  the  subordination  of  its  faculties 
to  each  other,  according  to  their  relative  worth 
and  dignity.  He  diffuses  a  tone  and  spirit 
of  unity,  that  blends,  and  (as  it  were)  fuses, 
each  into  each,  by  that  synthetic  and  magical 
power,  to  which  we  have  exclusively  appro- 
priated the  name  of  imagination.  This 
power,  first  put  in  action  by  the  will  and 
understanding,  and  retained  under  their 
irremissive,^  though  gentle  and  unnoticed,  con- 
trol {laxis  ejfertur  habenis  ~)  reveals  itself  in  the 
balance  or  reconciliation  of  opposite  or  discor- 
dant qualities :  of  sameness,  with  difference ; 
of  the  general,  with  the  concrete ;  the  idea, 
with  the  image ;  the  individual,  with  the  repre- 
sentative ;  the  sense  of  novelty  and  fresh- 
ness, with  old  and  famihar  objects :  a  more 
than  usual  state  of  emotion,  with  more  than 
usual  order  ;  judgment  ever  awake  and  steady 
self-possession,  with  enthusiasm  and  feeling 
profound  or  vehement ;  •  and  while  it  blends 
and  harmonises  the  natinral  and  the  artificial, 
still  subordinates  art  to  nature ;  the  m.anner 
to  the  matter ;  and  our  admiration  of  the 
poet  to  our  sympathy  with  the  poetry. 

KUBLA   KHAN:    OR,   A   \TSION  IN  A 
DREAAI 

A  FRAGMENT 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree  : 

Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 

Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea-.  s 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round : 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous 
riUs, 


^  The  free  spirit  must  be  urged  headlong. 


^  unremitting        ^  He  is  borne  with  loosened  reins. 


400 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


Where  blossom'd  many  an  incense-bearing  tree ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills,  lo 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh !    that    deep   romantic   chasm   which 

slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover ! 
A  savage  place  !  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted  15 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover  ! 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil . 

seething. 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  tliick  pants  were  breath- 
ing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced  : 
Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst      20 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail : 
And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion  25 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran. 
Then  reach'd  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean  : 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war  !  30 


The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves  ; 
Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 

It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 

A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  ! 


35 


A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid. 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  play'd,  40 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me, 
That  with  music  loud  and  long,  45 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome !   those  caves  of  ice !  ' 
And  all  who  heard  shoidd  see  them  there,  — 
And  all  should  cry.  Beware!   Beware!  — 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair!  50 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


An  ancient 
Mariner 
meeteth  three 
gallants  bid- 
den to  a  wed- 
ding-feast, 
and  detaineth 


The  wedding- 
guest  is  spell- 
bound by  the 
eye  of  the  old 
seafaring 
man,  and  con- 
strained to 
hear  his  tale. 


IN   SEVEN   PARTS 
Part  I 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

"By  thy  long  grey  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

The  bridegroom's  doors  are  open'd  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
"There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 
"Hold  off  !   unhand  me,  grey-beard  loon  !" 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye  — 
The  wedding-guest  stood  still , 
And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child : 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  wedding-guest  sat  on  a  stone : 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 


IS 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


401 


And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

"The  ship  was  cheer 'd,  the  harbour  clear'd, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  Ughthouse  top. 


The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he  ! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

TUl  over  the  mast  at  noon  — " 

The  wedding-guest  here  beat  his  breast. 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 


25 


30 


The  Mariner 
tells  how  the 
ship  sailed 
southward 
with  a  good 
wind  and  fair 
weather,  till 
it  reached  the 
Line. 


Tlie  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall. 

Red  as  a  rose  is  she ; 

Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes  35 

The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  wedding-guest  he  beat  his  breast. 

Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner.  40 


The  wedding- 
guest  heareth 
the  bridal 
music ;  but  the 
Mariner  con- 
tinueth  his 
tale. 


"And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong : 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings. 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow,  45 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe. 

And  forward  bends  his  head. 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roar'd  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled.  50 


The  ship 
drawn  by  a 
storm  toward 
the  south 
pole. 


And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  ; 
And  ice,  mast -high,  came  floating  by. 
As  green  as  emerald  ; 


And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts  55 

Did  send  a  dismal  sheen  : 

Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken  — 

The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there. 
The  ice  was  all  around :  60 

It  crack'd  and  growl'd,  and  roar'd  and  howl'd, 
Like  noises  in  a  swound  ! 


The  land  of 
ice,  and  of 
fearful  soxmds, 
where  no 
living  thing 
was  to  be 
seen. 


402 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


Till  a  great 
sea-bird,  called 
the  Albatross, 
came  through 
the  snow-fog, 
and  was 
received  with 
great  joy  and 
hospitality. 


At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross: 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came  : 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  haU'd  it  in  God's  name. 


It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steer'd  us  through  ! 


6S 


70 


And  lo !  the 
Albatross 
proveth  a  bird 
of  good  omen, 
and  followeth 
the  ship  as  it 
returned 
northward, 
through  fog 
and  floating 
ice. 


And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind ; 

The  Albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play 

Came  to  the  mariners'  hoUo  ! 


In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud. 

It  perch 'd  for  vespers  nine ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmer'd  the  white  moon-shine." 


75 


The  ancient 
Mariner 
inhospitably 
killeth  the 
pious  bird  of 
good  omen. 


"God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner  ! 
From  the  iiends,  that  plague  thee  thus !  —  80 

Why  look'st  thou  so?"  —  "With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross  ! 


Part  II 


"The  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right; 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 


85 


And  the  good  south  wind  stiU  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow. 
Nor  any  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hoUo  ! 


go 


His  shipmates 
cry  out  against 
the  ancient 
IVfariner,  for 
killing  the 
bird  of  good 
luck. 

But  when  the 
fog  cleared 
off,  they  jus- 
tify the  same, 
and  thus 
make  them- 
selves accom- 
plices in  the 
crime. 


And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe ; 

For  all  averr'd,  I  had  kill'd  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch  !   said  they,  the  bird  to  slay 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 

Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious  sun  uprist :  ' 

Then  all  averr'd,  I  had  kill'd  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 


95 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER 


403 


The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  follow'd  free  : 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea  ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  blood}^  sun,  at  noon. 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  moon. 


los 


The  fair 
breeze  con- 
tinues ;    the 
ship  enters 
the  Pacific 
Ocean,  and 
sails  north- 
ward, even  till 
it  reaches  the 
Line. 

The  ship  hath 
been  suddenly 
becalmed. 


Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion  ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 


"5 


Water,  water,  every  where, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink ; 
Water,  water,  every  wheref, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 


And  the 
Albatross 
begins  to  be 
avenged. 


The  very  deep  did  rot :  0  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  shmy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the,  slimy  sea. 


125 


About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout. 

The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 

The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 

Burnt  green,  and  blue  and  white.  130 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so  : 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  follow'd  us, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought,  135 

Was  wither'd  at  the  root ; 

We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 

We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Constantinopolitan,    Michael    Psellus,   may   be    consulted. 

numerous,  and  there  is  no  climate  or  element  without  one  or 


A  spirit  had 
followed 
them ;  one  of 
the  invisible 
inhabitants  of 
this  planet, 
neither  de- 
parted souls 
nor  angels; 
concerning 
whom  the 
learned  Jew, 
Josephus,  and 
the  Platonic 

They  are    very 

more. 


Ah  !  well-a-day  !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


140 


the  ancient  Mariner: 

his  neck. 


The  shipmates, 
in  their  sore 
distress,  would 
fain  throw  the 
whole  guilt  on 
in  sign  whereof  they  hang  the  dead  sea-bird  round 


404 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


Part  III 


The  ancient 
Mariner  be- 
holdeth  a  sign 
in  the  element 
afar  off. 


At  its  nearer 
approach,  it 
seemeth  him 
to  be  a  ship; 
and  at  a  dear 
ransom  he 
freeth  his 
speech  from 
the  bonds  of 
thirst. 

A  flash  of  joy ; 


"There  pass'd  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 

Was  parch'd,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time  !     A  weary  time  !  145 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye  ! 

When  looking  westward  I  beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seem'd  a  little  speck, 

And  then  it  seem'd  a  mist :  150 

It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 

A  certain  shape,  I  wist.^ 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ! 

And  still  it  near'd  and  near'd : 

As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite,  155 

It  plunged  and  tack'd  and  veer'd. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ; 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood  ! 

I  bit  my  arm,  I  suck'd  the  blood,  160 

And  cried,  A  sail !   a  sail ! 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

Agape  they  heard  me  call : 

Gramercy  !  ^  they  for  joy  did  grin, 

And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in,  165 

As  ^  they  were  drinking  all. 


And  horror 
follows.     For 
can  it  be  a 
ship  that 
comes  onward 
without  wind 
or  tide? 


'  See  !  see  !   (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more  ! 
Hither,  to  work  us  weal. 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide. 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel ! ' 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-fiame : 

The  day  was  well  nigh  done : 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad  bright  sun  ; 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 


170 


175 


It  seemeth 
him  but  the 
skeleton  of  a 
ship. 


And  straight  the  sun  was  fleck'd  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  !) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon  grate  he  peer'd. 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 

Alas  !   (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres  ? '' 


180 


^  I  perceived     ^  Many  thanks ! 
the  air  in  clear  weather 


•*  as  if     ^  fine  cobwebs  that  float  in 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER 


405 


195 


Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew  ? 
Is  that  a  Death  ?   and  are  there  two  ? 
Is  Death  that  woman's  mate? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  night-mare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came. 
And  the  twain  were  casting  dice ; 
'The  game  is  done  I     I've,  I've  won  !' 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  sun's  rim  dips  ;   the  stars  rush  out : 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 


We  listen'd  and  look'd  sideways  up  ! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seem'd  to  sip  ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night. 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleam'd  white; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip  — 

TiU  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 

The  horned  moon,  with  one  bright  star  21 

Within  the  nether  tip. 


185     And  its  ribs 
are  seen  as 
bars  on  the 
face  of  the 
setting  sun. 
The  spectre- 
woman  and 
her  death- 

190     mate,  and  no 
other  on 
board  the 
skeleton  ship. 

Like  vessel, 
like  crew ! 


205 


Death,  and 
Life-in-Death, 
have  diced  for 
the  ship's  crew, 
and  she  (the 
latter)  winneth 
the  ancient 
Mariner. 

No  twilight 
within  the 
courts  of  the 


At  the  rising 
of  the  moon. 


One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogg'd  moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 
Each  turn'd  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 


215 


One  after 
another. 


Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump. 
They  dropp'd  down  one  by  one. 


His  shipmates 
drop  down 
dead. 


The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly. 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 
And  every  soul,  it  pass'd  me  by. 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow  I" 


But  Life-in- 
Death  begins 
her  work  on 
the  ancient 
Mariner. 


Part  IV 


"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner  ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  ! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribb'd  sea-sand. 


225 


The  wedding- 
guest  feareth 
that  a  spirit  is 
talking  to  him. 


4td6 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


But  the  an- 
cient Mariner 
assureth  him 
of  his  bodily 
life,  and  pro- 
ceedeth  to 
relate  his 
horrible 
penance. 

He  despiseth 
the  creatures 
of  the  calm, 


And  envieth 
that  they 
should  live, 
and  so  many 
lie  dead. 


But  the  curse 
liveth  for  him 
in  the  eye  of 
the  dead  men. 


In  his  loneli 
ness  and 
txedness  he 
yearneth 
towards  the 


I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 

And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown."  — 

"Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  wedding-guest !  230 

This  body  dropt  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 

Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea  ! 

And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 

My  sold  in  agony.  235 

The  many  men,  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on  ;  and  so  did  I. 

I  look'd  upon  the  rotting  sea,  240 

And  drew  my  eyes  awaj' ; 

I  look'd  upon  the  rotting  deck, 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  look'd  to  Heaven,  and  tried  to  pray; 

But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht,  245 

A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 

My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky, 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye,  251 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs. 

Nor  rot  nor  reek"  did  they  : 

The  look  with  which  they  look'd  on  me  255 

Had  never  pass'd  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 

But  oh  !   more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  !  260 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 


journeying 
moon,  and  the 


The  moving  moon  went  up  the  sky, 

And  no  where  did  abide  : 

Softly  she  was  going  up,  265 

And  a  star  or  two  beside  — 
stars  that  still  sojourn,  yet  still  move  onward ;   and  everywhere  the  blue  sky 
belongs  to  them,  and  is  their  appointed   rest,  and  their  native   country,   and 
their  own  natural  homes,  which  they  enter  unannounced,  as   lords  that  are 
certainly  expected,  and  yet  there  is  a  silent  joy  at  their  arrival. 

Her  beams  bemock'd  the  sultry  main, 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread  ; 

But  where  the  ship's"  huge  shadow  lay, 

The  charmed  water  burnt  alway  270 

A  still  and  awful  red. 


THE    RIME    OF   THE   ANCIENT    MARINER 


407 


Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watch'd  the  water-snakes  : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  rear'd,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 


275 


By  the  light  of 
the  moon  he 
beholdeth 
God's  crea- 
tures of  the 
great  calm. 


Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watch'd  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black. 

They  coil'd  and  swam  ;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  lire. 


280 


O  happy  living  things  !   no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare : 

A  spring  of  love  gush'd  from  my  heart, 

And  I  bless'd  them  unaware  ! 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And  I  bless'd  them  unaware. 


285 


Their  beauty 
and  their 
happiness. 

He  blesseth 
them  in  his 
heart. 


The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


290 


The  spell 
begins  to 
break. 


Part  V 


"Oh  sleep  !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 

Belov'd  from  pole  to  pole  ! 

To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given  ! 

She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven,  295 

That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remain'd, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  fiU'd  with  dew ; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rain'd.  300 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
My  garments  aU  were  dank ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs :  305 

I  was  so  light  —  almost 

I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 

And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 


By  grace  of 
the  holy 
Motheir,  the 
ancient  Mar- 
iner is  re- 
freshed with 
rain. 


And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind : 
It  did  not  come  anear  ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails. 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere.^ 

idry 


310 


He  heareth 
sounds  and 
seeth  strange 
sights  and 
commotions  in 
the  sky  and  the 
element. 


4o8 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


The  bodies  of 
the  ship's 
crew  are  in- 
spirited, and 
the  ship 
moves  on ; 


But  not  by 
the  souls  of 
the  men,  nor 
by  demons  of 
earth  or  mid- 
dle air,  but 
by  a  blessed 
troop  of  an- 
gelic spirits, 
sent  down  by 
the  invoca- 
tion of  the 
guardian 
saint. 


The  upper  air  burst  into  life  ! 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen/ 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ; 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 


31S 


And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 
And  the  rain  pour'd  down  from  one  black  cloud ; 
The  moon  was  at  its  edge.  321 


The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  moon  was  at  its  side : 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 


325 


330 


The  loud  wind  never  reach 'd  the  ship, 
Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

They  groan'd,  they  stirr'd,  they  all  uprose, 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steer'd,  the  ship  moved  on  ; 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up-blew  ; 

The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do : 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools  — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee : 
The  body  and  I  puU'd  at  one  rope, 
But  he  said  nought  to  me." 

"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner  !" 
"Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain. 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again. 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest : 


For  when  it  dawn'd  —  they  dropp'd  their  arms, 
And  cluster'd  round  the  mast;  351 

Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths. 
And  from  their  bodies  pass'd. 


335 


340 


345 


Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound. 
Then  darted  to  the  sun  ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  come  back  again. 
Now  mix'd,  now  one  by  one. 


355 


beautiful 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER 


409 


Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 

I  heard  the  skylark  sing ; 

Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are,  360 

How  they  seem'd  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 

With  their  sweet  jargoning  ! 

And  now  'twas  like  aU  instruments, 

Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 

And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song,  365 

That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased ;   yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June,  370 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sail'd  on, 

Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 

Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship,  375 

Moved  onward  from  beneath. 


Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 

From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

The  spirit  slid ;   and  it  was  he 

That  made  the  ship  to  go.  380 

The  sails  at  noon  left  of?  their  tune. 

And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  sun,  right  up  above  the  mast. 

Had  fix'd  her  to  the  ocean ; 

But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir,  385 

With  a  short  uneasy  motion  — 

Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length, 

With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go. 

She  made  a  sudden  bound  :  390 

It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 

And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 

I  have  not  to  declare ; 

But  ere  my  living  life  return'd,  395 

I  heard,  and  in  my  soul  discern 'd 

Two  voices  in  the  air. 

'  Is  it  he  ? '   quoth  one,  '  is  this  the  man  ? 

By  Him  who  died  on  cross. 

With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  fuU  low  400 

The  harmless  Albatross. 

'  The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 


The  lonesome 
spirit  from 
the  south- 
pole  carries 
on  the  ship  as 
far  as  the 
Line,  in  obe- 
dience to  the 
angelic  troop, 
but  still  re- 
quireth  ven- 
geance. 


The  Polar 
Spirit' s  fel- 
low demons, 
the  invisible 
inhabitants  of 
the  element, 
take  part  in 
his  wrong;  and 
two  of  them 
relate,  one  to 
the  other,  that 
penance  long 
and  heavy  for 
the  ancient 
Mariner  hath 
been  accorded 
to  the  Polar 
Spirit,  who  re- 
turneth  south- 
ward. 


4IO 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.' 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew  : 

Quoth  he,  '  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.' 


405 


Part  VI 

First  Voice 

'But  tell  me,  tell  me  !  speak  again,  410 

Thy  soft  response  renewing  — 

What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast? 

What  is  the  ocean  doing  ? ' 

Second  Voice 

'  Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 

The  ocean  hath  no  blast ;  415 

His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 

Up  to  the  moon  is  cast  — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go ; 

For  she  guides  him,  smooth  or  grim. 

See,  brother,  see  !  how  graciously  420 

She  looketh  down  on  him.' 


The  Mariner 
hath  been  cast 
into  a  trance ; 
for  the  angelic 
power  causeth 
the  vessel  to 
drive  north- 
ward, faster 
than  human 
life  could  en- 
dure. 


First  Voice 

'But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  ? ' 

Second  Voice 

'The  air  is  cut  away  before, 

And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly  !   more  high,  more  high  ! 

Or  we  shall  be  belated : 

For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 

When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated.' 


42s 


The  super- 
natural mo- 
tion is 
retarded ; 
the  Mariner 
awakes,  and 
his  penance 
begins  anew. 


I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on, 

As  in  a  gentle  weather : 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  moon  was  high ; 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter : 
All  fix'd  on  me  their  stony  eyes. 
That  in  the  moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 
Had  never  pass'd  away  : 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs. 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 


430 


435 


440 


THE    RIME    OF    THE   ANCIENT   MARINER 


411 


And  now  this  spell  was  snapt :  once  more 

I  view'd  the  ocean  green, 

And  look'd  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen  —  443 

Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  turn'd  round,  walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 

Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend  450 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 

Nor  sound  nor  motion  made : 

Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 

In  ripple  or  in  shade.  45S 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fann'd  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring  — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  Uke  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship,  460 

Yet  she  sail'd  softly  too : 

Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze  — 

On  me  alone  it  blew. 

Oh  !  dream  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed 

The  lighthouse  top  I  see?  465 

Is  this  the  hill  ?  is  this  the  kirk  ? 

Is  this  mine  own  countree  ? 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour-bar, 

And  I  with  sobs  did  pray  — 

'  O  let  me  be  awake,  my  God  !  470 

Or  let  me  sleep  alway.' 

The  harbour-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 

So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 

And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay. 

And  the  shadow  of  the  moon.  475 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock: 
The  moonlight  steep 'd  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light,  480 

Till  rising  from  the  same, 

FuU  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 

In  crimson  colours  came. 


The  curse  is 

finally 

expiated, 


And  the  an- 
cient Mariner 
beholdeth  his 
native 
country. 


The  angelic 
spirits  leave 
the  dead 
bodies, 


A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were : 
I  turn'd  my  eyes  upon  the  deck  — 
Oh,  Christ !  what  saw  I  there  ! 


48s 


.\nd  appear 
in  their  own 
forms  of  light. 


412 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 

And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 

A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man,  490 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand : 

It  was  a  heavenly  sight  ! 

They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 

Each  one  a  lovely  light :  495 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart  — 
No  voice ;   but  oh  !   the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars,  500 

I  heard  the  pilot's  cheer ; 

My  head  was  turn'd  perforce  away, 

And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  pilot,  and  the  pilot's  boy, 

I  heard  them  coming  fast :  505 

Dear  Lord  in  Heaven  !  it  was  a  joy 

The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third  —  I  heard  his  voice : 

It  is  the  Hermit  good  ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns  510 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 


The  Hermit 
of  the  Wood 


Approacheth 
the  ship  with 
wonder. 


Part  VH 

"This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 

Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea.     -  515 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears  ! 

He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 

That  come  from  a  far  count  ree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve  — 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump :  520 

It  is  the  moss  that  whoUy  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiflf-boat  near'd  :  I  heard  them  talk, 

'  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 

Where  are  those  hghts  so  many  and  fair,  525 

That  signal  made  but  now  ? ' 

'  Strange,  by  my  faith  ! '   the  Hermit  said  — 

'And  they  answer'd  not  our  cheer  ! 

The  planks  look  warp'd  !  and  see  those  sails. 

How  thin  they  are  and  sere  !  530 

I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 

Unless  perchance  it  were 


THE    RIME    OF   THE    ANCIENT    MARINER 


413 


Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 

My  forest-brook  along : 

When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow,  535 

And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below 

That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young.' 

'  Dear  Lord  !  it  hath  a  fiendish  look  — 

(The  pilot  made  reply) 

I  am  a-fear'd'  —  'Push  on,  push  on  !'  540 

Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 

But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirr'd ; 

The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 

And  straight  a  sound  was  heard.  545 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread : 
It  reach'd  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay ; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

Stunn'd  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound,  550 

WTaich  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drown 'd. 

My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  pUot's  boat.  555 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round  ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips  —  the  pilot  shriek'd,  560 

And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 

The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes. 

And  pray'd  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars :   the  pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go,  565 

Laugh'd  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

'Ha  !   ha  !'   quoth  he,  'full  plain  I  see, 

The  DevU  knows  how  to  row.' 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree,  570 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 

The  Hermit  stepp'd  forth  from  the  boat. 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

*0  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man  !' 
The  Hermit  cross'd  his  brow.  575 

'Say  quick,'  quoth  he,  'I  bid  thee  say  — 
WTiat  manner  of  man  art  thou  ? ' 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrench'd 
With  a  woeful  agony, 


The  ship  sud- 
denlj'  sinketh. 


The  ancient 
Mariner  is 
saved  in  the 
pilot's  boat. 


The  ancient 
Mariner 
earnestly 
entreateth 
the  Hermit  to 
shrieve  him ; 
and  the  pen- 
ance of  life 
falls  on  him. 


414 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


And  ever  and 
anon  through- 
out his  future 
life  an  agony 
constraineth 
him  to  travel 
from  land  to 
land; 


And  to  teach, 
by  his  own 
example, 
love  and 
reverence  to 
all  things  that 
God  made 
and  loveth. 


Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale :  580 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then  at  an  uncertain  hour, 

That  agony  returns ; 

And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 

This  heart  within  me  burns.  585 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land: 

I  have  strange  power  of  speech ; 

That  rtioment  that  his  face  I  see, 

I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me : 

To  him  my  tale  I  teach.  590 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door : 

The  wedding-guests  are  there ; 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 

And  bride-maids  singing  are : 

And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell,  595 

Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer  ! 

O  Wedding-Guest !  this  soul  hath  been 

Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea : 

So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 

Scarce  seemed  there  to  be.  600 

O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me. 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company  !  — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk,  605 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

Farewell,  farewell !   but  this  I  tell  610 

To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small ;  .615 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 

He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 

Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 

Is  gone;  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest  620 

Turn'd  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunn'd, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn  : 

A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 

He  rose  the  morrow  morn.  625 


CHRISTABEL 


4IS 


CHRISTABEL 


From   PART  I 


'Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock, 
And   the  owls   have   awaken'd   the   crowing 

cock ; 
Tu-whit  —  Tu-whoo ! 
And  hark,  again  !  the  crowing  cock, 
How  drowsily  it  crew.  5 

Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron  rich. 
Hath  a  toothless  mastiff  bitch  ; 
From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 
She  maketh  answer  to  the  clock,  g 

Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the  hour ; 
Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower, 
Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud ; 
Some  say,  she  sees  mj^  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ? 

The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark.  15 

The  thin  grey  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 

It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 

The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full ; 

And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 

The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  grey :  20 

'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  INIay, 

And  the  Spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 

Whom  her  father  loves  so  well. 

What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late,  25 

A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate  ? 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of  her  own  betrothed  knight ; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that's  far  away.    30 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 

The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and  low. 

And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak, 

But  moss  and  rarest  mistletoe : 

She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree,  35 

And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 


The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel ! 

It  moan'd  as  near  as  near  can  be, 

But  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell.  — 

On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be, 

Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak  tree. 


The  night  is  chill ;  the  forest  bare ; 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak  ? 
There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 


40 


45 


To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 

From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek  — 

There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 

The  one  red  .leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can,  50 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high, 

On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky. 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 

Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 

She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak,         55 

And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 

What  sees  she  there? 
There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 
Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 
That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone :        60 
The  neck  that  made  that  White  robe  wan. 
Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  were  bare ; 
Her  blue-vein'd  feet  unsandal'd  w-ere ; 
And  wildly  ghtter'd  here  and  there 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair.  65 

I  guess,  'twas  frightful  there  to  see 
A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she  — 
Beautiful  exceedingly ! 


"Mar>-  mother,  save  me  now  !" 

Said  Christabel,  "and  who  art  thou?" 


70 


The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet, 

And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet :  — 

"Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 

I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness : 

Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no  fear ! "  75 

Said  Christabel,  "How-  camest  thou  here?" 

And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  faint  and  sweet 

Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet :  — 

"]\Iy  sire  is  of  a  noble  line, 

And  my  name  is  Geraldine :  80 

Five  warriors  seized  me  yestermom, 

]Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn : 

They  choked  my  cries  with  force  and  fright, 

And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 

The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind,  85 

And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 

They  spurr'd  amain,  their  steeds  were  white : 

And  once  we  cross'd  the  shade  of  night. 

As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 

I  have  no  thought  w-hat  men  they  be ; 

Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 

(For  I  have  lain  entranced,  I  wis) 

Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five, 

Took  me  from  the  palfrey's  back, 

A  wear>^  woman,  scarce  alive. 

Some  mutter'd  words  his  comrades  spoke : 

He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak ; 


90 


95 


4i6 


FRANCIS    JEFFREY 


He  swore  they  would  return  with  haste ; 
Whither  they  went  I  cannot  tell  — 
I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  past, 
Sounds  as  of  a  castle  bell. 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand,"  thus  ended  she, 
"And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  flee." 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY  (1774-1843) 

THE   WELL  OF   ST.   KEYNE 

A  well  there  is  in  the  West  country. 
And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen ; 

There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  West  country 
But  has  heard  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne.     4 

An  oak  and  an  elm  tree  stand  beside, 
And  behind  does  an  ash-tree  grow, 

And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 

Droops  to  the  water  below.  8 

A  traveller  came  to  the  WeU  of  St.  Keyne ; 

Joyfully  he  drew  nigh,  < 

For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  travelling, 

And  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky.       1 2 

He  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear, 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he, 
And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank. 

Under  the  willow-tree.  16 

There  came  a  man  from  the  house  hard  by 

At  the  well  to  fill  his  pail, 
On  the  well-side  he  rested  it. 

And  he  bade  the  stranger  hail.  20 

"  Now  art  thou  a  bachelor,  stranger? ' '  quoth  he, 

"  For  an  if  thou  hast  a  wife. 
The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank  this 
day 

That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life.  24 

*'0r  has  thy  good  woman,  if  one  thou  hast 

Ever  here  in  Cornwall  been  ? 
For  an  if  she  have,  I'll  venture  my  life 

She  has  drunk  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne."  28 

"I  have  left  a  good  woman  who  never  was 
here," 
The  stranger  he  made  reply ; 
"But  that  my  draught  should  be  the  better  for 
that, 
I  pray  you  answer  me  why."  32 


"St.  Keyne,"  quoth  the  Cornish-man,  "many 
a  tiriie 

Drank  of  this  crystal  well. 
And  before  the  Angel  summoned  her 

She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell.  36 

"If  the  Husband  of  this  gifted  well 

Shall  drink  before  his  Wife, 
A  happy  man  thenceforth  is  he, 

For  he  shall  be  Master  for  life.  40 

"But  if  the  Wife  should  drink  of  it  first, 

God  help  the  Husband  then  !" 
The  stranger  stooped  to  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne, 

And  drank  of  the  waters  again.  44 

"You  drank  of  the  well,  I  warrant,  betimes?" 

He  to  the  Cornish-man  said. 
But  the  Cornish-man  smiled  as  the  stranger 
spake, 

And  sheepishly  shook  his  head.  48 

"I  hastened,  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done, 

And  left  my  wife  in  the  porch. 
But  i'  faith,  she  had  been  wiser  than  me, 

For  she  took  a  bottle  to  Church." 

FRANCIS  JEFFREY   (1773-1850) 

"THE    WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE" 

This,  we  think,  has  the  merit  of  being  the 
very  worst  poem  we  ever  saw  imprinted  in  a 
quarto  volume;  and  though  it  was  scarcely 
to  be  expected,  we  confess,  that  Mr.  Words- 
worth, with  all  his  ambition,  should  so  soon 
have  attained  to  that  distinction,  the  wonder 
may  perhaps  be  diminished  when  we  state, 
that  it  seems  to  us  to  consist  of  a  happy  union 
of  all  the  faults,  without  any  of  the  beauties, 
which  belong  to  his  school  of  poetry.  It  is 
just  such  a  work,  in  short,  as  some  wicked 
enemy  of  that  school  might  be  supposed  to 
have  devised,  on  purpose  to  make  it  ridicu- 
lous ;  and  when  we  first  took  it  up,  we  could 
not  help  suspecting  that  some  iU-natured 
critic  had  actually  taken  this  harsh  method  of 
instructing  IVIr.  Wordsworth,  by  example, 
in  the  nature  of  those  errors,  against  which 
our  precepts  had  been  so  often  directed  in 
vain.  We  had  not  gone  far,  however,  till 
we  felt  intimately  that  nothing  in  the  nature 
of  a  joke  could  be  so  insupportably  dull ;  — 
and  that  this  must  be  the  work  of  one  who 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL 


417 


earnestly  believed  it  to  be  a  pattern  of  pa- 
thetic simplicity,  and  gave  it  out  as  such  to  the 
admiration  of  all  intelligent  readers.  In  this 
point  of  view,  the  work  may  be  regarded  as 
curious  at  least,  if  not  in  some  degree  in- 
teresting ;  and,  at  all  events,  it  must  be 
instructive  to  be  made  aware  of  the  excesses 
into  which  superior  understandings  may  be 
betrayed,  by  long  self-indulgence,  and  the 
strange  extravagances  into  which  they  may 
run,  when  under  the  influence  of  that  intoxica- 
tion which  is  produced  by  vmrestrained  ad- 
miration of  themselves.  This  •  poetical  in- 
toxication, indeed,  to  pursue  the  figure  a 
little  farther,  seems  capable  of  assuming  as 
many  forms  as  the  vulgar  one  which  arises 
from  wine;  and  it  appears  to  require  as 
delicate  a  management  to  make  a  man  a 
good  poet  by  the  help  of  the  one,  as  to  make 
him  a  good  companion  by  means  of  the  other. 
In  both  cases  a  Uttle  mistake  as  to  the  dose 
or  the  quality  of  the  inspiring  fluid  may 
make  him  absolutely  outrageous,  or  lull 
him  over  into  the  most  profound  stupidity, 
instead  of  brightening  up  the  hidden  stores 
of  his  genius:  and  truly  we  are  concerned 
to  say,  that  Mr.  Wordsworth  seems  hitherto 
to  have  been  unlucky  in  the  choice  of  his 
liquor  —  or  of  his  bottle-holder.  In  some 
of  his  odes  and  ethic  exhortations,  he  was 
exposed  to  the  pubhc  in  a  state  of  incoherent 
rapture  and  glorious  delirium,  to  which  we 
think  we  have  seen  a  parallel  among  the 
humbler  lovers  of  jollity.  In  the  Lyrical  Bal- 
lads, he  was  exhibited,  on  the  whole,  in  a  vein 
of  very  pretty  deliration ;  but  in  the  poem 
before  us,  he  appears  in  a  state  of  low  and 
maudlin  imbecUity,  which  would  not  have 
misbecome  Master  Silence^  himself,  in  the  close 
of  a  social  day.  Whether  this  unhappy  result 
is  to  be  ascribed  to  any  adulteration  of  his 
Castalian^  cups,  or  to  the  unlucky  choice  of  his 
company  over  them,  we  cannot  presume  to 
say.  It  may  be  that  he  has  dashed  his 
Hippocrene  ^  with  too  large  an  infusion  of  lake^ 
water,  or  assisted  its  operation  too  exclusively 
by  the  study  of  the  ancient  historical  ballads 
of  "the  north  countrie."  That  there  are 
palpable  imitations  of  the  style  and  manner 

^  Cf.  Shakespeare's  Henry  IV,  Part  II.  ^  from 
the  Castalian  fountain  on  Mt.  Parnassus,  sacred 
to  the  Muses  ^  a  fountain  on  Mt.  Hehcon,  sacred 
to  the  Muses  *  a  jesting  allusion  to  Wordsworth's 
residence  in  the  Lake  district 


of  those  venerable  compositions  in  the  work 
before  us,  is  indeed  undeniable;  but  it 
unfortunately  happens,  that  while  the 
hobbling  versification,  the  mean  diction, 
and  flat  stupidity  of  these  models  are  very 
exactly  copied,,  and  even  improved  upon,  in 
this  imitation,  their  rude  energ>%  manly 
simplicity,  and  occasional  felicity  of  expres- 
sion, have  totally  disappeared;  and,  instead 
of  them,  a  large  allowance  of  the  author's 
own  metaphysical  sensibility,  and  mystical 
wordiness,  is  forced  into  an  unnatural  com- 
bination with  the  borrowed  beauties  which 
have  just  been  mentioned. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT   (1771-1832) 

THE   LAY   OF   THE   LAST   MINSTREL 
From  C.\NT0  VI 
The  Lay  of  Rosabelle 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay  ! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell ; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay, 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle ;  4 

"Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew  ! 

And,  gentle  ladye,  deign  to  stay, 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  ^  to-day.  8 

"The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white: 
To  inch 2  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly; 

The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water-Sprite, 
Whose  screams  forbode  that  wreck  is  nigh.  1 2 

"Last  night  the  gifted  Seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  ladye  gay; 

Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch : 

Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day?" —  16 

"  'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 
To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 

But  that  my  ladye-mother  there 

Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall.  20 

"  'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well, 

But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide, 

If  'tis  not  fiU'd  by  Rosabelle."  —  24 


^  bay 


^  island 


4i8 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 


O'er  Roslin  all  that  drear>'  night 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam  ; 

'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire's  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam.    28 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 
It  ruddied  all  the  copse- wood  glen  ; 

'Twas  seen  from  Dry  den's  groves  of  oak. 
And  seen  from  cavern'd  Hawthomden.     32 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud, 
Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncofiin'd  lie, 

Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud. 

Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply.  36 

Seem'd  aU  on  fire,  within,  around, 

Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale,^ 
Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound. 

And  glimmer'd  aU  the  dead  men's  mail.   40 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet^  high. 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair  — 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 

The  lordly  line  of  high  St.  Clair.  44 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle ; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold  — 

But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle!         48 

And  each  St.  Clair  was  buried  there, 
With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell ; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds 
sung, 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle.  S  2 

CHRISTMAS    IN    THE    OLDEN    TIME 

From     MARMION,     INTRODUCTION     TO 
CANTO  VI 

Heap  on  more  wood !  —  the  wind  is  chill ; 

But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will. 

We'll  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 

Each  age  has  deemed  the  new-bom  year 

The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer : 

Even,  heathen  yet,  the  savage  Dane 

At  lol  ■■*  more  deep  the  mead  did  drain ; 

High  on  the  beach  his  galleys  drew, 

And  feasted  all  his  pirate  crew ; 

Then  in  his  low  and  pine-built  hall,  10 

Where  shields  and  axes  decked  the  wall, 

^  enclosure    ^  pinnacle    '  Yule,     the    heathen 
Christmas 


They  gorged  upon  the  half -dressed  steer ; 

Caroused  in  seas  of  sable  beer ; 

While  round,  in  brutal  jest,  were  thrown 

The  half-gnawed  rib  and  marrow-bone ; 

Or  listened  all,  in  grim  delight, 

While  Scalds^  yeUed  out  the  joys  of  fight. 

Then  forth  in  frenzy  would  they  hie. 

While  wildly-loose  their  red  locks  fly  ; 

A»d,  dancing  round  the  blazing  pile,  20 

They  make  such  barbarous  mirth  the  while, 

As  best  might  to  the  mmd  recall 

The  boisterous  joys  of  Odin's  hall.^ 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 
Loved  when  the  year  its  course  had  rolled 
And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again 
With  aU  its  hospitable  train. 
Domestic  and  religious  rite 
Gave  honour  to  the  holy  night : 
On  Christmas  eve  the  beUs  were  rung ;         30 
On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  simg ; 
That  only  night,  in  all  the  year. 
Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear.* 
The  damsel  donned  her  kirtle  sheen  ; 
The  hall  was  dressed  with  holly  green ; 
Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry-men  go, 
To  gather  in  the  mistletoe. 
Then  opened  wide  the  baron's  hall 
To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all; 
Power  laid  his  rod  of  /ule  aside ;  40 

And  Ceremony  doffed  her  pride. 
The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes, 
That  night  might  village  partner  choose; 
The  lord,  underogating,''  share 
The  vulgar  game  of  "post  and  pair." 
All  hailed  with  uncontrolled  delight. 
And  general  voice,  the  happy  night 
That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown. 
Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied,       50 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide; 
The  huge  hall-table's  oaken  face, 
Scrubbed  tUl  it  shone,  the  day  to  grace, 
Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 
No  mark  to  part  the  squire  and  lord. 
Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn, 
By  old  blue-coated  serving-man ; 
Then  the  grim  boar's-head  frowned  on  high 
Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 
Well  can  the  green-garbed  ranger  tell  60 

How,  when,  and  where  the  monster  fell ; 

^  poets  2  in  the  Other- world,  where  heroes 
fought  and  feasted  forever  *  The  Mass  is  not 
celebrated  at  night  except  at  Christmas.  *  with- 
out loss  of  dignity 


FITZ-JAMES    AND    RODERICK    DHU 


419 


What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 

And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 

The  wassail  round,  in  good  brown  bowls. 

Garnished  with  ribbons,  bUthely  trowls. 

There  the  huge  sirloin  reeked  ;   hard  by 

Plum-porridge  stood,  and  Christmas  pie; 

Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce, 

At  such  high-tide,  her  savoury  goose. 

Then  came  the  merry  maskers  in,  70 

And  carols  roared  with  blithesome  din  ; 

If  unmelodious  was  the  song. 

It  was  a  hearty  note,  and  strong. 

Who  hsts  may  in  their  mumming  see 

Traces  of  ancient  mystery  ;  ^ 

White  skirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 

And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made : 

But,  O !  what  maskers  richly  dight 

Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 

England  was  merrv^  England,  when  80 

Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 

'Twas  Christmas  broached  the  mightiest  ale ; 

'Twas  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale ; 

A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 

The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  year. 

SOLDIER,  REST !  THY  WARFARE  O'ER 

From  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE 

Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er. 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking ; 
Dream  of  battled  iields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall. 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more;  10 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 

Armour's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

JNIustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping. 
Y''et  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum. 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow.  20 

Ruder  soimds  shall  none  be  near, 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here ; 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  clans  or  squadrons  stamping. 

^  religious  drama 


Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done. 

While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye, 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep  I  the  deer  is  in  his  den  ; 

Sleep !  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying ;    30 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 

Hovv'  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest!  thy  chase  is  done; 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun, 
For,  at  dawning  to  assail  ye, 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille. 


FITZ-JAMES    AND    RODERICK    DHU 

From  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE 

Canto  V 

VIII 

"Enough,  I  am  by  promise  tied 

To  match  me  with  this  man  of  pride : 

Twice  have  I  sought  Clan-.\lpine's  glen 

In  peace;  but  when  I  come  again, 

I  come  with  banner,  brand,  and  bow, 

As  leader  seeks  his  mortal  foe. 

For  lovelorn  swain,  in  lady's  bower, 

Ne'er  panted  for  the  appointed  hoiur, 

As  I,  until  before  me  stand  25 

This  rebel  Chieftain  and  his  band." 

IX 

"Have,    then,    thy    wish!"  —  He    whistled 

shrill. 
And  he  was  answered  from  the  hill ; 
Wild  as  the  scream  of  the  curlew. 
From  crag  to  crag  the  signal  flew. 
Instant,  through  copse  and  heath,  arose 
Bonnets  and  spears  and  bended  bows ; 
On  right,  on  left,  above,  below, 
Sprung  up  at  once  the  lurking  foe ; 
From  shingles  grey  their  lances  start. 
The  bracken  bush  sends  forth  the  dart,        10 
The  rushes  and  the  willow  wand 
Are  bristUng  into  axe  and  brand, 
And  every  tuft  of  broom  gives  life 
To  plaided  warrior  armed  for  strife. 
That  whistle  garrisoned  the  glen 
At  once  with  fuU  five  hundred  men. 
As  if  the  yawning  hill  to  heaven 
A  subterranean  host  had  given. 
Watching  their  leader's  beck  and  will, 
All  silent  there  they  stood,  and  still.  20 


420 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 


Like  the  loose  crags  whose  threatening  mass 

Lay  tottering  o'er  the  hollow  pass, 

As  if  an  infant's  touch  could  urge 

Their  headlong  passage  down  the  verge, 

With  step  and  weapon  forward  flung. 

Upon  the  mountain-side  they  hung. 

The  Mountaineer  cast  glance  of  pride 

Along  Benledi's  ^  living  side. 

Then  fixed  his  eye  and  sable  brow 

Full    on    Fitz-James:2     "How    say'st    thou" 

now?  3° 

These  are  Clan-Alpine's  warriors  true ; 
And,  Saxon,  —  I  am  Roderick  Dhu !"  ^ 

X 

Fitz- James  was  brave ;  —  though  to  his  heart 

The  Hfe-blood  thrilled  with  sudden  start, 

He  manned  himself  with  dauntless  air, 

Returned  the  Chief  his  haughty  stare. 

His  back  against  a  rock  he  bore, 

And  firmly  placed  his  foot  before :  — 

"  Come  one,  come  all !  this  rock  shall  fly 

From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I." 

Sir  Roderick  marked,  —  and  in  his  eyes 

Respect  was  mingled  with  surprise,  lo 

And  the  stern  joy  which  warriors  feel 

In  foeman  worthy  of  their  steel. 

Short  space  he  stood,  —  then  waved  his  hand  : 

Down  sunk  the  disappearing  band ; 

Each  warrior  vanished  where  he  stood, 

In  broom  or  bracken,  heath  or  wood: 

Sunk  brand  and  spear,  and  bended  bow, 

In  osiers  pale  and  copses  low : 

It  seemed  as  if  their  mother  Earth 

Had  swallowed  up  her  warlike  birth.  20 

The  wind's  last  breath  had  tossed  in  air 

Pennon  and  plaid  and  plumage  fair,  — 

The  next  but  swept  a  lone  hillside, 

Where  heath  and  fern  were  waving  wide ; 

The  sun's  last  glance  was  glinted  back, 

From    spear    and   glaive,^   from   targe*   and 

jack,*^  — 
The  next,  all  unreflected,  shone 
Gn  bracken  green,  and  cold  grey  stone. 

XI 

Fitz-James      looked      round,  —  yet      scarce 

believed 
The  witness  that  his  sight  received ; 

^  a  high  mountain,  north  of  Loch  Vennachar 
^  James  V,  in  disguise  •''  Black  Roderick,  chief  of 
Clan-Alpine  *  sword  *  small  shield  "^  leather  jacket 


Such  apparition  well  might  seem 

Delusion  of  a  dreadful  dream. 

Sir  Roderick  in  suspense  he  eyed, 

And  to  his  look  the  Chief  replied : 

"  Fear  naught  —  nay,  that  I  need  not  say  — 

But  —  doubt  not  aught  from  mine  array. 

Thou  art  my  guest ;  —  I  pledged  my  v/ord 

As  far  as  Coilantogle  ford  :  ^  10 

Nor  would  I  call  a  clansman's  brand 

For  aid  against  one  valiant  hand, 

Though  on  our  strife  lay  every  vale 

Rent  by  the  Saxon  from  the  Gael. 

So  move  we  on  ;  —  I  only  meant 

To  show  the  reed  on  which  you  leant, 

Deeming  this  path  you  might  pursue 

Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu." 

They  moved ;  —  I  said  Fitz-James  was  brave. 

As  ever  knight  that  belted  glaive ;  20 

Yet  dare  not  say  that  now  his  blood 

Kept  on  its  wont  and  tempered  flood. 

As,  following  Roderick's  stride,  he  drew 

That  seeming  lonesome  pathway  through, 

Which  yet,  by  fearful  proof,  was  rife 

With  lances,  that,  to  take  his  life, 

Waited  but  signal  from  a  guide. 

So  late  dishonoured  and  defied. 

Ever,  by  stealth,  his  eye  sought  round 

The  vanished  guardians  of  the  ground,         30 

And  still,  from  copse  and  heather  deep, 

Fancy  saw  spear  and  broadsword  peep. 

And  in  the  plover's  shrflly  strain 

The  signal  whistle  heard  again. 

Nor  breathed  he  free  till  far  behind 

The  pass  was  left ;  for  then  they  wind 

Along  a  wide  and  level  green, 

Where  neither  tree  nor  tuft  was  seen. 

Nor  rush  nor  bush  of  broom  was  near. 

To  hide  a  bonnet  or  a  spear.  40 

XII 

The  Chief  in  silence  strode  before, 

And  reached  that  torrent's  sounding  shore, 

Which,  daughter  of  three  mighty  lakes,^ 

From  Vennachar  in  silver  breaks. 

Sweeps  through  the  plain,  and  ceaseless  mines 

On  Bochastle^  the  mouldering  lines, 

Where  Rome,  the  Empress  of  the  world. 

Of  yore  her  eagle  wings  unfurled. 

And  here  his  course  the  Chieftain  stayed. 

Threw  down  his  target  and  his  plaid,  10 

*  at  the  east  end  of  Loch  Vennachar  ^  Lochs 
Katrine,  Achray,  and  Vennachar  ^  a  moor  in 
which  are  the  ruins  of  a  Roman  camp 


FITZ-JAMES    AND    RODERICK    DHU 


421 


And  to  the  Lowland  warrior  said : 

"Bold  Saxon  !  to  his  promise  just, 

Vich-Alpine^  has  discharged  his  trust. 

This  murderous  Chief,  this  ruthless  man, 

This  head  of  a  rebellious  clan. 

Hath  led  thee  safe  through  watch  and  ward, 

Far  past  Clan-Alpine's  outmost  guard. 

Now,  man  to  man,  and  steel  to  steel, 

A  Chieftain's  vengeance  thou  shalt  feel. 

See,  here,  all  vantageless  I  stand,  20 

Armed,  like  thyself,  with  single  brand ; 

For  this  is  Coilantogle  .ford. 

And  thou  must  keep  thee  with  thy  sword." 

XIII 

The  Saxon  paused  :   "I  ne'er  delayed, 
When  foeman  bade  me  draw  my  blade ; 
Nay    more,    brave     Chief,     I    vowed     thy 

death : 
Yet  sure  thy  fair  and  generous  faith, 
And  my  deep  debt  for  life  preserved, 
A  better  meed  have  well  deserved : 
Can  naught  but  blood  our  feud  atone? 
Are  there  no  means?"     "No,  Stranger,  none 
And  hear,  —  to  fire  thy  flagging  zeal,  — 
The  Saxon  cause  rests  on  thy  steel ;  10 

For  thus  spoke  Fate,  by  prophet  bred 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead : 
'Who  spills  the  foremost  foeman's  life 
His  party  conquers  in  the  strife.'" 
"Then,  by  my  word,"  the  Saxon  said, 
"The  riddle  is  already  read. 
Seek  yonder  brake  beneath  the  clifT,  — 
There  lies  Red  Murdock,^  stark  and  stiff. 
Thus  Fate  hath  solved  her  prophecy, 
Then  yield  to  Fate,  and  not  to  me.  20 

To  James,  at  Stirling,  let  us  go. 
When,  if  thou  wilt  be  still  his  foe. 
Or  if  the  King  shall  not  agree 
To  grant  thee  grace  and  favour  free, 
I  plight  my  honour,  oath,  and  word. 
That,  to  thy  native  strengths  restored. 
With  each  advantage  shalt  thou  stand. 
That  aids  thee  now  to  guard  thy  land." 

XIV 

Dark  lightning  flashed  from  Roderick's  eye: 
"Soars  thy  presumption,  then,  so  high, 
Because  a  wretched  kern  ^  ye  slew, 
Homage  to  name  to  Roderick  Dhu? 

^  the  descendant  of  .\lpine  -  a  guide  who  tried 
to  betray  him    ^  a  foot-soldier 


He  yields  not,  he,  to  man  nor  fate ! 

Thou  add'st  but  fuel  to  my  hate :  — 

My  clansman's  blood  demands  revenge. 

Not  yet  prepared?  —  By  Heaven,  I  change 

My  thought,  and  hold  thy  valour  light 

As  that  of  some  vain  carpet  knight,  10 

Who  ill  deserved  my  courteous  care. 

And  whose  best  boast  is  but  to  wear 

A  braid  of  his  fair  lady's  hair." 

"I  thank  thee,  Roderick,  for  the  word! 

It  nerves  my  heart,  it  steels  my  sword ; 

For  I  have  sworn  this  braid  ^  to  stain 

In  the  best  blood  that  warms  thy  vem. 

Now,  truce,  farewell !  and,  ruth,  begone !  — 

Yet  think  not  that  by  thee  alone. 

Proud  Chief !  can  courtesy  be  shown  ;  20 

Though  not  from  copse,  nor  heath,  nor  cairn, 

Start  at  my  whistle  clansmen  stern, 

Of  this  small  horn  one  feeble  blast 

Would  fearful  odds  against  thee  cast. 

But    fear    not  —  doubt    not  — ■  which    thou 

wilt  — 
We  try  this  quarrelhilt  to  hilt." 
Then  each  at  once  his  falchion  drew. 
Each  on  the  ground  his  scabbard  threw. 
Each  looked  to  sun  and  stream  and  plain, 
And  what  they  ne'er  might  see  again  ;  30 

Then,  foot  and  point  and  eye  opposed, 
In  dubious  strife  they  darkly  closed. 

XV 

111  fared  it  then  with  Roderick  Dhu, 

That  on  the  field  his  targe  he  threw. 

Whose  brazen  studs  and  tough  bull-hide 

Had  death  so  often  dashed  aside ; 

For,  trained  abroad  his  arms  to  wield, 

Fitz- James's  blade  was  sword  and  shield. 

He  practised  every  pass  and  ward. 

To  thrust,  to  strike,  to  feint,  to  guard; 

While  less  expert,  though  stronger  far, 

The  Gael  maintained  unequal  war.  10 

Three  times  in  closing  strife  they  stood, 

And  thrice  the  Saxon  blade  drank  blood : 

No  stinted  draught,  no  scanty  tide, 

The  gushing  floods  the  tartans  dyed. 

Fierce  Roderick  felt  the  fatal  drain. 

And  showered  his  blows  like  wintry  rain ; 

And,  as  firm  rock  or  castle-roof 

Against  the  winter  shower  is  proof. 

The  foe,  invulnerable  still. 

Foiled  his  wild  rage  by  steady  skill ;  20 

^  For  the  story  of  the  braid  and  his  oath,  see 
Canto  IV,  xxi-xxviii. 


422 


CHARLES    LAMB 


Till,  at  advantage  ta'en,  his  brand 
Forced  Roderick's  weapon  from  his  hand, 
And,  backwards  borne  upon  the  lea, 
Brought  the  proud  Chieftain  to  his  knee. 

-      XVI 

"Now  yield  thee,  or,  by  Him  who  made 

The  world,  thy  heart's  blood  dyes  my  blade !" 

"Thy  threats,  thy  mercy,  I  defy  ! 

Let  recreant  yield,  who  fears  to  die." 

Like  adder  darting  from  his  coU, 

Like  wolf  that  dashes  through  the  toil, 

Like  mountain-cat  who  guards  her  young, 

Full  at  Fitz- James's  throat  he  sprung ; 

Received,  but  recked  not  of  a  wound, 

And  locked  his  arms  his  foeman  round.         lo 

Now,  gallant  Saxon,  hold  thine  own  ! 

No  maiden's  hand  is  round  thee  thrown  ! 

That  desperate  grasp  thy  frame  might  feel 

Through  bars  of  brass  and  triple  steel ! 

They  tug  !  They  strain  !  Down,  down  they  go, 

The  Gael  above,  Fitz-James  below. 

The  Chieftam's  gripe  his  throat  compressed, 

His  "knee  was  planted  in  his  breast ; 

His  clotted  locks  he  backward  threw, 

Across  his  brow  his  hand  he  drew,  20 

From  blood  and  mist  to  clear  his  sight, 

Then  gleamed  aloft  his  dagger  bright ! 

But  hate  and  fury  ill  supplied 

The  stream  of  life's  exhausted  tide. 

And  all  too  late  the  advantage  came, 

To  turn  the  odds  of  deadly  game ; 

For,  while  the  dagger  gleamed  on  high. 

Reeled  soul  and  sense,  reeled  brain  and  eye. 

Down  came  the  blow !  but  in  the  heath 

The  erring  blade  found  bloodless  sheath.      30 

The  struggling  foe  may  now  unclasp 

The  fainting  Chief's  relaxing  grasp ; 

Unwounded  from  the  dreadful  close. 

But  breathless  all,  Fitz-James  arose. 

CHARLES    LAMB    (1775-1834) 
THE  TWO  RACES  OF  MEN 

The  human  species,  according  to  the  best 
theory  I  can  form  of  it,  is  composed  of  two 

distinct  races,  the  men  who  borrow,  and  the 
men  who  lend.  To  these  two  original  diver- 
sities may  be  reduced  all  those  impertinent 
classifications  of  Gothic  and  Celtic  tribes, 
wliite  men,  black  men,  red  men.  All  the 
dwellers  upon  earth,  "Parthians,  and  Medes, 


and  Elamites,"^  flock  hither,  and  do  naturally 
fall  in  with  one  or  other  of  these  primary 
distinctions.  The  infinite  superiority  of  the 
former,  which  I  choose  to  designate  as  the 
great  race,  is  discernible  in  their  figure,  port, 
and  a  certain  instinctive  sovereignty.  The 
latter  are  born  degraded.  "He  shall  serve 
his  brethren."  ^  There  is  something  in  the  air 
of  one  of  this  caste,  lean  and  suspicious ;  con- 
trasting with  the  open,  trusting,  generous  man- 
ners of  the  other. 

Observe  who  have  been  the  greatest  bor- 
rowers of  all  ages  —  Alcibiades  ^  —  Falstaff  — 
Sir  Richard  Steele  —  our  late  incomparable 
Brinsley  ^  —  what  a  family  likeness  in  all  four! 

What  a  careless,  even  deportment  hath  your 
borrower  !  what  rosy  gills  !  what  a  beautiful 
reliance  on  Providence  doth  he  manifest,  — 
taking  no  more  thought  than  lilies  !  ^  What 
contempt  for  money,  —  accounting  it  (yours 
and  mine  especially)  no  better  than  dross ! 
What  a  liberal  confoimding  of  those  pedantic 
distinctions  of  meiim  and  timm!^  or  rather, 
what  a  noble  simplification  of  language  (be- 
yond Tooke'),  resolving  these  supposed  oppo- 
sites  into  one  clear,  intelligible  pronoun  adjec- 
tive !  —  What  near  approaches  doth  he  make 
to  the  primitive  community,  —  to  the  extent  of 
one-half  of  the  principle  at  least ! 

He  is  the  true  taxer  "who  calleth  all  the 
world  up  to  be  taxed"  ;*  and  the  distance  is 
as  vast  between  him  and  one  of  us,  as  sub- 
sisted betwixt  the  Augustan  Majesty  ^  and  the 
poorest  obolary*°  Jew  that  paid  it  tribute- 
pittance  at  Jerusalem!  —  His  exactions,  too, 
have  such  a  cheerful,  voluntary  air !  So  far 
removed  from  your  sour  parochial  or  state- 
gatherers,  —  those  ink-horn  varlets,  who  carry 
their  want  of  welcome  in  their  faces !  He 
Cometh  to  you  with  a  smile,  and  troubleth  you 
with  no  receipt ;  confining  himself  to  no  set 
season.  Every  day  is  his  Candlemas,  or  his 
Feast  of  Holy  Michael. ^^  He  applieth  the  lene 
tormentum  ^^  of  a  pleasant  look  to  your  purse,  — 

^  Ads,  ii:  9  ^  inaccurately  quoted  from 
Genesis,  ix:  25  ^a  pupil  of  Socrates,  celebrated 
for  his  beauty,  talents,  insolence,  and  extrava- 
gance *  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  dramatist, 
orator,  and  spendthrift  *  Cf.  Matlliew,  vi:  28 
^  mine  and  thine  ^  Home  Tooke,  an  English 
philologer  (1736-1812)  *  Cf .  Zw^e,  ii :  i  *  Ro- 
man government  ^^  able  to  pay  only  a  half- 
penny "  customary  dates  for  settling  debts 
^'^  mild  torture,  Horace,  Odes,  III,  .x.xi,  13 


THE    TWO    RACES    OF    MEN 


423 


which  to  that  gentle  warmth  expands  her 
silken  leaves,  as  naturally  as  the  cloak  of  the 
traveller,  for  which  sun  and  wind  contended ! 
He  is  the  true  Propontic  which  never  ebbeth  !  ^ 
The  sea  which  taketh  handsomely  at  each 
man's  hand.  In  vain  the  victim,  whom  he 
delighteth  to  honour,  struggles  with  destiny ; 
he  is  ifi  the  net.  Lend  therefore  cheerfully,  O 
man  ordained  to  lend  —  that  thou  lose  not  in 
the  end,  with  thy  worldly  penny,  the  reversion 
promised.-  Combine  not  preposterously  in 
thine  owti  person  the  penalties  of  Lazarus  and 
of  Dives  !  ^  —  but,  when  thou  seest  the  proper 
authority  coming,  meet  it  smilingly,  as  it  were 
half-way.  Come,  a  handsome  sacrifice  !  See 
how  light  he  makes  of  it !  Strain  not  cour- 
tesies with  a  noble  enemy. 

Reflections  like  the  foregoing  were  forced 
upon  my  mind  by  the  death  of  my  old  friend, 
Ralph  Bigod,  Escj.,  who  departed  this  life  on 
Wednesday  evening ;  dying,  as  he  had  lived, 
without  much  trouble.  He  boasted  himself  a 
descendant  from  mighty  ancestors  of  that 
name,  who  heretofore  held  ducal  dignities  in 
this  realm.  In  his  actions  and  sentiments  he 
beUed  not  the  stock  to  which  he  pretended. 
Early  in  life  he  found  himself  invested  with 
ample  revenues ;  which,  Avith  that  noble  dis- 
interestedness which  I  have  noticed  as  in- 
herent in  men  of  the  great  race,  he  took  almost 
immediate  measures  entirely  to  dissipate  and 
bring  to  nothing :  for  there  is  something  re- 
volting in  the  idea  of  a  king  holding  a  private 
purse;  and  the  thoughts  of  Bigod  were  all 
regal.  Thus  furnished,  by  the  very  act  of  dis- 
furnishment ;  getting  rid  of  the  cumbersome 
luggage  of  riches,  more  apt  (as  one  ^  sings) 

To  slacken  virtue,  and  abate  her  edge. 

Than  prompt  her  to  do  aught  may  merit  praise, 

he  sets  forth,  hke  some  Alexander,  upon  his 
great  enterprise,  "borroviing  and  to  borrow  !" 
In  his  periegesis,  or  triumphant  progress 
throughout  this  island,  it  has  been  calculated 
that  he  laid  a  tithe  part  of  the  inhabitants 
imder  contribution.  I  reject  this  estimate  as 
greatly  exaggerated :  but  having  had  the 
honour  of  accompanying  my  friend,  divers 
times,  in  his  perambulations  about  this  vast 
city,  I  own  I  was  greatly  struck  at  first  with 

1  Cf.  Othello,  III,  iii,  453-6  2  cf.  Luke,  vi:  35 
^  i.e.,  suffer  in  both  worlds  ''Milton,  Par.  Re- 
gained, ii,  45S-6. 


the  prodigious  number  of  faces  we  met,  who 
claimed  a  sort  of  respectful  acquaintance  with 
us.  He  was  one  da>'  so  obliging  as  to  explain 
the  phenomenon.  It  seems,  these  were  his 
tributaries ;  feeders  of  his  exchequer ;  gentle- 
men, his  good  friends  (as  he  was  pleased  to 
express  himself) ,  to  whom  he  had  occasionally 
been  beholden  for  a  loan.  Their  multitudes 
did  no  way  disconcert  him.  He  rather  took  a 
pride  in  mmibering  them ;  and,  with  Comus, 
seemed  pleased  to  be  "stocked  with  so  fair  a 
herd."i 

With  such  sources,  it  was  a  wonder  how  he 
contrived  to  keep  his  treasury  always  empty. 
He  did  it  by  force  of  an  aphorism,  which  he 
had  often  in  his  mouth,  that  "money  kept 
longer  than  three  days  stinks."  So  he  made 
use  of  it  whUe  it  was  fresh.  A  good  part  he 
drank  away  (for  he  was  an  excellent  toss-pot), 
some  he  gave  away,  the  rest  he  threw  away, 
literally  tossing  and  hurling  it  \'iolently  from 
him  —  as  boys  do  burs,  or  as  if  it  had  been 
infectious,  —  into  ponds,  or  ditches,  or  deep 
holes,  —  inscrutable  ca\dties  of  the  earth  :  — 
or  he  would  bury  it  (where  he  w^ould  never 
seek  it  again)  by  a  river's  side  mider  some 
bank,  which  (he  would  facetiously  observe) 
paid  no  interest  —  but  out  away  from  him  it 
must  go  peremptorily,  as  Hagar's  offspring- 
mto  the  wilderness,  while  it  was  sweet.  He 
never  missed  it.  The  streams  were  perennial 
wliich  fed  his  fisc.^  W'hen  new  supplies  be- 
came necessary,  the  first  person  that  had  the 
felicity  to  fall  in  with  him,  friend  or  stranger, 
was  sure  to  contribute  to  the  deficiency.  For 
Bigod  had  an  Undeniable  way  with  him.  He 
had  a  cheerful,  open  exterior,  a  quick  jo\dal 
eye,  a  bald  forehead,  just  touched  with  grey 
{carta  fides)  .^  He  anticipated  no  excuse,  and 
found  none.  And,  waiving  for  a  while  my 
theory  as  to  the  great  race,  I  would  put  it  to 
the  most  untheorising  reader,  who  may  at 
times  have  disposable  coin  in  his  pocket, 
whether  it  is  not  more  repugnant  to  the  kind- 
liness of  his  nature  to  refuse  such  a  one  as  I 
am  describing,  than  to  say  no  to  a  poor  peti- 
tionary rogue  (your  bastard  borrower),  who, 
by  his  mumping  visnomy,^  teUs  you  that  he 
expects  nothing  better ;  and,  therefore,  whose 
preconceived  notions  and  expectations  you  do 
in  reality  so  much  less  shock  in  the  refusal. 

^  Milton,  Coww5,  ii,  151-2  -Genesis,  xxi:  14 
^  treasury  ^  hoary  faith,  i.e.,  a  sign  of  honesty, 
^neid,  i,  292     ^  begging  countenance 


424 


CHARLES    LAMB 


When  I  think  of  this  man ;  his  fiery  glow 
of  heart ;  his  swell  of  feeling ;  how  magnifi- 
cent, how  ideal  he  was  ;  how  great  at  the  mid- 
night hour ;  and  when  I  compare  with  him 
the  companions  with  whom  I  have  associated 
since,  I  grudge  the  saving  of  a  few  idle  ducats, 
and  think  that  I  am  fallen  into  the  society  of 
lenders,  and  little  men. 

To  one  like  Elia,^  whose  treasures  are  rather 
cased  in  leather  covers  than  closed  in  iron 
coffers,  there  is  a  class  of  alienators  more 
formidable  than  that  which  I  have  touched 
upon  ;  I  mean  your  borrowers  of  hooks  —  those 
mutilators  of  collections,  spoilers  of  the  sym- 
metry of  shelves,  and  creators  of  odd  volumes. 
There  is  Comberbatch,^  matchless  in  his  depre- 
dations ! 

That  foul  gap  in  the  bottom  shelf  facing 
you,  like  a  great  eye-tooth  knocked  out  — 
(you  are  now  with  me  in  my  little  back  study 
in  Bloomsbury,  Reader  !)  —  with  the  huge 
Switzer-like  ^  tomes  on  each  side  (like  the 
Guildhall  giants,  in  their  reformed  posture, 
guardant  of  nothing'')  once  held  the  tallest 
of  my  folios,  Opera  Bonaventurae,^  choice  and 
massy  divinity,  to  wliich  its  two  supporters 
(school  divinity  also,  but  of  a  lesser  caKbre, 

—  BeUarmine,^  and  Holy  Thomas')  showed 
but  as  dwarfs,  — ■  itself  an  Ascapart !  ^  — 
that  Comberbatch  abstracted  upon  the  faith 
of  a  theory  he  holds,  which  is  more  easy,  I 
confess,  for  me  to  suffer  by  than  to  refute, 
namely,  that  "the  title  to  property  in  a 
book"  (my  Bonaventure,  for  instance)  "is  in 
exact  ratio  to  the  claimant's  powers  of  under- 
standing and  appreciating  the  same."  Should 
he  go  on  acting  upon  this  theory,  which  of 
our  shelves  is  safe  ? 

The  slight  vacuum  in  the  left-hand  case  — 
two  shelves  from  the  ceiling  —  scarcely  dis- 
tinguishable but  by  the  c^uick  eye  of  a  loser 

—  was  whilom  the  commodious  resting-place 
of  Browne  on  Urn  Burial.  C.  will  hardly 
allege  that  he  knows  more  about  that  treatise 
than  I  do,  who  introduced  it  to  him,  and  was 

'  Lamb's  pen-name  ^  the  name  assumed  by 
Coleridge  when  he  enlisted  as  a  soldier  ^  The 
papal  guard  of  Switzers  was  composed  of  tall  men. 
"•  The  figures  of  (iog  and  Magog,  which  once 
guarded  the  entrance,  had  been  removed  to  the 
back  of  the  hall.  ''St.  Bonaventura  (1221-74), 
a  great  religious  writer  ''  an  Italian  theologian 
(1542-1621)  ^  Cf .  p.  211,  Note  2  *a  giant  in 
the  romance  of  Bevis  of  Hampton 


indeed  the  first  (of  the  moderns)  to  discover 
its  beauties  —  but  so  have  I  known  a  foolish 
lover  to  praise  his  mistress  in  the  presence  of 
a  rival  more  qualified  to  carry  her  off  than 
himself.  —  Just  below,  Dodsley's  dramas ' 
want  their  fourth  volmne,  where  Vittoria 
Corombona  ^  is  !  The  remainder  nine  are  as 
distastefid  as  Priam's  refuse  sons,  when  the 
fates  borrowed  Hector.  Here  stood  the  Anat- 
omy of  Melancholy,^  in  sober  state.  —  There 
loitered  the  Complete  Angler ;  quiet  as  in  life, 
by  some  stream  side.  —  In  yonder  nook,  John 
Buncle,  a  widower- volume,  with  "  eyes  closed," 
mourns  his  ravished  mate.^ 

One  justice  I  must  do  my  friend,  that  if  he 
sometimes,  like  the  sea,  sweeps  away  a  treas- 
ure, at  another  time,  sea-like,  he  throws  up  as 
rich  an  equivalent  to  match  it.  I  have  a  small 
under-collection  of  this  nature  (my  friend's 
gatherings  in  his  various  calls),  picked  up,  he 
has  forgotten  at  what  odd  places,  and  de- 
posited with  as  Httle  memory  at  mine.  I 
take  in  these  orphans,  the  twice-deserted. 
These  proselytes  of  the  gate  ^  are  welcome  as 
the  true  Hebrews.  There  they  stand  in  con- 
jimction ;  natives,  and  naturalised.  The 
latter  seem  as  little  disposed  to  inquire  out 
their  true  lineage  as  I  am.  —  I  charge  no 
ware-house-room  for  these  deodands,^  nor 
shall  ever  put  myself  to  the  ungentlemanly 
trouble  of  advertising  a  sale  of  them  to  pay 
expenses. 

To  lose  a  volume  to  C.  carries  some  sense 
and  meaning  in  it.  You  are  sure  that  he 
will  make  one  hearty  meal  on  your  viands,  if 
he  can  give  no  account  of  the  platter  after  it. 
But  what  moved  thee,  wayward,  spiteful  K.,^ 
to  be  so  importunate  to  carry  off  with  thee,  in 
spite  of  tears  and  adjurations  to  thee  to  for- 
bear, the  Letters  of  that  princely  woman,  the 
thrice  noble  Margaret  Newcastle  ?  *  —  know- 
ing at  the  time,  and  knowing  that  I  knew  also, 
thou  most  assuredly  wouldst  never  turn  over 
one  leaf  of  the  illustrious  folio :  —  what  but 
the  mere  spirit  of  contradiction,  and  childish 

^  a  collection  of  Elizabethan  plays  ^  a  play  by 
John  Webster  ^  a  curious  and  learned  book  by 
Robert  Burton  (162 1)  ^  The  Life  of  John  Buncle, 
Esq.,  a  novel  in  two  volumes,  by  Thomas  Amory 
^  a  late  Rabbinical  title  for  sojourners  in  Israel, 
cf.  Exod.,  xx:  10  *  Used  loosely  for  "forfeited 
objects"  '  James  Kenney,  dramatist  (i 780-1849) 
**  Duchess  of  Newcastle  (i624?-74),  a  talented 
and  learned  woman 


MRS.    BATTLE'S    OPINIONS    ON   WHIST 


425 


love  of  getting  the  better  of  thy  friend  ?  — 
Then,  worst  cut  of  all !  to  transport  it  with 
thee  to  the  Gallican  land  — 

Unworthy  land  to  harbour  such  a  sweetness, 
A  virtue  in  which  aU  ennobling  thoughts  dwelt. 
Pure  thoughts,  kind  thoughts,  high  thoughts,  her 
sex's  wonder !  ^ 

—  hadst  thou  not  thy  play-books,  and  books 
of  jests  and  fancies,  about  thee,  to  keep  thee 
merry,  even  as  thou  keepest  all  companies 
with  thy  quips  and  mirthful  tales  ?  Child  of 
the  Greenroom,  it  was  unkindly,  unkindly 
done  of  thee.  Thy  wife,  too,  that  part- 
French,  better-part-English  woman  !  —  that 
she  could  fix  upon  no  other  treatise  to  bear 
away,  in  kindly  token  of  remembering  us, 
than  the  works  of  Fulke  Greville,  Lord  Brook ^ 

—  of  which  no  Frenchman,  nor  woman  of 
France,  Italy,  or  England,  was  ever  by  nature 
constituted  to  comprehend  a  tittle !  Was 
there  not  Zimmerniann  ^  on  Solitude  ? 

Reader,  if  haply  thou  art  blessed  with  a 
moderate  collection,  be  shy  of  showing  it ;  or 
if  thy  heart  overfloweth  to  lend  them,  lend 
thy  books;  but  let  it  be  to  such  a  one  as 
S.  T.  C.^  —  he  will  return  them  (generally 
anticipating  the  time  appointed)  with  usury ; 
enriched  with  annotations,  tripling  their  value. 
I  have  had  experience.  JMany  are  these 
precious  Mss.  of  his  —  (in  matter  oftentimes, 
and  almost  in  quantity  not  tmfrequently,  vying 
with  the  originals)  in  no  very  clerkly  hand  — • 
legible  in  my  Daniel ;  ^  in  old  Burton ;  in  Sir 
Thomas  Browne ;  and  those  abstruser  cogi- 
tations of  the  Greville,  now.  alas !  wandering 
in  Pagan  lands.  —  I  counsel  thee,  shut  not 
thy  heart,  nor  thy  library,  against  S.  T.  C. 


MRS.  BATTLE'S  OPINIONS  ON  WHIST 

"A  clear  fire,  a  clean  hearth,  and  the  rigour 
of  the  game."  This  was  the  celebrated w-'iV/ 
of  old  Sarah  Battle®  (now  with  God),  who, 
next  to  her  devotions,  loved  a  good  game  of 
whist.  She  was  none  of  your  lukewarm 
gamesters,  your  half-and-half  players^,  who 
hav6  no  objection  to  take  a  hand,  if  you  want 
one  to  make  up  a  rubber ;    who  affirm  that 

^  apparently  composed  by  Lamb  himself  -  Sir 
Philip  Sidney's  friend  ^  a  Swiss  philosopher 
(1728-95)  ''Coleridge  *  Samuel  Daniel  ^  an 
imaginary  name  and  person 


they  have  no  pleasure  in  winning ;  that  they 
like  to  win  one  game  and  lose  another ;  that 
they  can  while  away  an  hour  very  agreeably 
at  a  card-table,  but  are  indifferent  whether 
the>^  play  or  no  ;  and  will  desire  an  adversary 
who  has  slipped  a  wrong  card,  to  take  it  up 
and  play  another.  These  insufferable  trillers 
are  the  curse  of  a  table.  One  of  these  flies 
will  spoil  a  whole  pot.^  Of  such  it  may  be 
said  that  they  do  not  play  at  cards,  but  only 
play  at  playing  at  them. 

Sarah  Battle  was  none  of  that  breed.  She 
detested  them,  as  I  do,  from  her  heart  and 
soul ;  and  would  not,  save  upon  a  striking 
emergency,  willingly  seat  herself  at  the  same 
table  with  them.  She  loved  a  thorough-paced 
partner,  a  determined  enemy.  She  took,  and 
gave,  no  concessions.  She  hated  favours. 
She  never  made  a  revoke,  nor  ever  passed  it 
over  in -her  adversary  without  exacting  the 
utmost  forfeiture.  She  fought  a  good  fight : 
cut  and  thrust.  She  held  not  her  good  sword 
(her  cards)  "like  a  dancer."-  She  sat  bolt 
upright ;  and  neither  showed  you  her  cards, 
nor  desired  to  see  yours.  All  people  have 
their  blind  side  —  their  superstitions  ;  and  I 
have  heard  her  declare,  mider  the  rose,  that 
Hearts  was  her  favourite  suit. 

I  never  in  my  Hfe  —  and  I  knew  Sarah 
Battle  many  of  the  best  years  of  it  —  saw  her 
take  out  her  snuff-box  when  it  was  her  turn 
to  play ;  or  snuff'  a  candle  in  the  middle  of  a 
game ;  or  ring  for  a  servant,  till  it  was  fairly 
over.  She  never  introduced,  or  connived  at, 
miscellaneous  conversation  during  its  process. 
As  she  emphatically  observed,  cards  were 
cards;  and  if  I  ever  saw  unmingled  distaste 
in  her  fine  last-century  countenance,  it  was  at 
the  airs  of  a  young  gentleman  of  a  literary 
turn,  who  had  been  with  difficulty  persuaded 
to  take  a  hand;  and  who,  in  his  excess  of 
candour,  declared,  that  he  thought  there  was 
no  harm .  in  unbending  the  mind  now  and 
then,  after  serious  studies,  in  recreations  of 
that  kind!  She  could  not  bear  to  have  her 
noble  occupation,  to  which  she  woimd  up  her 
faculties,  considered  in  that  light.  It  was  her 
business,  her  duty,  the  thing  she  came  into 
the  world  to  do,  —  and  she  did  it.  She  un- 
bent her  mind  afterwards  —  over  a  book. 

Pope  was  her  favourite  author:  his  Rape 
of  the  Lock  her  favourite  work.     She  once 


1  Cf.  Eccles.,  x:   i 
3S-6 


Cf.  Atit.  atid  Chop.,  Ill,  xi, 


426 


CHARLES    LAMB 


did  me  the  favour  to  play  over  with  me  (with 
the  cards)  his  celebrated  game  of  Ombre  in 
that  poem ;  and  to  explain  to  me  how  far  it 
agreed  with,  and  in  what  points  it  would  be 
found  to  differ  from,  tradrille.  Her  illusfra- 
tions  were  apposite  and  poignant ;  and  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  sending  the  substance  of  them 
to  Air.  Bowles  ;  ^  but  I  suppose  they  came  too 
late  to  be  inserted  among  his  ingenious  notes 
upon  that  author. 

Quadrille,"  she  has  often  told  me,  was  her 
first  love  ;  but  whist  had  engaged  her  maturer 
esteem.  The  former,  she  said,  was  showy  and 
specious,  and  likely  to  allure  young  persons. 
The  uncertainty  and  quick  shifting  of  partners 

—  a  thing  which  the  constancy  of  whist  ab- 
hors ;  the  dazzling  supremacy  and  regal  in- 
vestiture of  Spadille  ^  —  absurd,  as  she  justly 
observed,  in  the  pure  aristocracy  of  whist, 
where  his  crown  and  garter  give  him  ri'o  proper 
power  ab'ove  his  brother-nobility  of  the  Aces ; 

—  the  giddy  vanity,  so  taking  to  the  inexperi- 
enced, of  playing  alone ;  "*  above  all,  the  ox'er- 
powering  attractions  of  a  Sans  Prendre  Vole,^ — 
to  the  triumph  of  which  there  is  certainly 
nothing  parallel  or  approaching,  in  the  contin- 
gencies of  whist ;  —  all  these,  she  would  say, 
make  ciuadrille  a  game  of  captivation  to  the 
young  and  enthusiastic.  But  whist  was  the 
solider  game :  that  was  her  word.  It  was  a 
long  meal;  not  like  quadriUe,  a  feast  of 
snatches.  One  of  .  two  rubbers  might  co- 
extend  in  duration  with  an  evening.  They 
gave  time  to  form  rooted  friendships,  to 
cultivate  steady  enmities.  She  despised  the 
chance-started,  capricious,  and  ever-fluctuat- 
ing alliance's  of  the  other.  The  skirmishes  of 
quadrille,  she  would  say,  reminded  her  of  the 
petty  ephemeral  embroilments  of  the  little 
Italian  states,  depicted  by  Machiavel :  ®  per- 
petually changing  postures  and  connections ; 
bitter  foes  to-day,  sugared  darlings  to-morrow ; 
kissing  and  scratching  in  a  breath ;  —  but 
the  wars  of  whist  were  comparable  to  the 
long,  steady,  deep-rooted,  rational  antipa- 
thies of  the  great  French  and  English  nations. 

A  grave  simplicity  was  what  she  chiefly 
admired  in  her  favourite  game.  There  was 
nothing  silly  in  it,  like  the  nob  '  in  cribbage  — 

*  He  edited  Pope  in  1806.  ^  a  variety  of  ombre 
'  Cf.  p.  279,  n.  4  ''  Cf.  p.  279,  11.  25ff.  ^  a  term  in 
quadrille  for  a  hand  able  to  take  all  the  tricks 
*  a  famous  historian  of  Italy  (1469-1527)  '  the 
knave  turned,  in  cribbage 


nothing  superfluous.  No  flushes  —  that  most 
irrational  of  all  pleas  that  a  reasonable  being 
can  set  up :  —  that  any  one  should  claim  four 
by  virtue  of  holding  cards  of  the  same  mark 
and  colour,  without  reference  to  the  playing 
of  the  game,  or  the  individual  worth  or  pre- 
tensions of  the  cards  themselves !  She  held 
this  to  be  a  solecism ;  as  pitiful  an  ambition 
at  cards  as  alliteration  is  in  authorship.  She 
despised  superficiality,  and  looked  deeper  than 
the  colours  of  things.  —  Suits  were  soldiers, 
she  would  say,  and  must  have  a  uniformity  of 
array  to  distinguish  them :  but  what  should 
we  say  to  a  foolish  squire,  who  should  claim 
a  merit  from  dressing  up  his  tenantry  in  red 
jackets,  that  never  were  to  be  marshalled  — 
never  to  take  the  field  ?  —  She  even  wished 
that  whist  were  more  simple  than  it  is ;  and, 
in  my  mind,  would  have  stripped  it  of  some 
appendages,  which,  in  the  state  of  human 
frailty,  may  be  venially,  and  even  commend- 
ably,  allowed  of.  She  saw  no  reason  for  the 
deciding  of  the  trump  by  the  turn  of  the  card. 
Why  not  one  suit  always  trumps?  — Why 
two  colours,  when  the  mark  of  the  suit  would 
have  sufi&ciently  distinguished  them  without 
it? 

"But  the  eye,  mj^  dear  madam,  is  agree- 
ably refreshed  with  the  variety.  Man  is  not 
a  creature  of  pure  reason  —  he  must  have  his 
senses  delightfully  appealed  to.  We  see  it  in 
Roman  Catholic  countries,  where  the  music 
and  the  paintings  draw  in  many  to  worship, 
whom  your  quaker  spirit  of  unsensualising 
would  have  kept  out.  —  You,  yoiu-self,  have  a 
pretty  collection  of  paintings  —  but  confess  to 
me,  whether,  walking  in  your  gallery  at  Sand- 
ham,i  among  those  clear  Vandykes,"  or  among 
the  Paul  Potters  ^  in  the  ante-room,  you  ever 
felt  your  bosom  glow  with  an  elegant  delight, 
at  all  comparable  to  that  you  have  it  in  your 
power  to  experience  most  evenings  over  a 
well-arranged  assortment  of  the  court-cards? 

—  the  pretty  antic  habits,  like  heralds  in  a 
procession  —  the  gay  triumph-assuring  scar- 
lets —  the    contrasting    deadly-kiUing   sables 

—  the  '  hoary  majesty  of  spades '  —  Pam  in 
all  his  glory  !  —  * 

"All  these  might  be  dispensed  with;    and 

^  an  imaginary  mansion  ^  pictures  by  the 
famous  Dutch  portrait  painter.  Sir  Anthony 
Vandyke  (1599-1641)  ^  Paul  Potter,  a  Dutch 
painter  of  animals  (1625-54)  *  Cf.  Rape  of  the 
Lock,  iii,  56,  61. 


MRS.    BATTLE'S   OPINIONS    ON   WHIST 


427 


with  their  naked  names  upon  the  drab  paste- 
board, the  game  might  go  on  very  well,  pic- 
tureless ;  but  the  beauty  of  cards  would  be 
extinguished  forever.  Stripped  of  all  that  is 
imaginative  in  them,  they  must  degenerate 
into  mere  gambhng.  Imagine  a  dull  deal 
board,  or  drum  head,  to  spread  them  on,  in- 
stead of  that  nice  verdant  carpet^  (next  to 
nature's),  fittest  arena  for  those  courtly  com- 
batants to  play  their  gallant  jousts  and  tour- 
neys in  !  —  Exchange  those  delicatcly-tumed 
ivory  markers  —  (work  of  Chinese  artist, 
unconscious  of  their  symbol,  —  or  as  pro- 
fanely shghting  their  true  application  as  the 
arrantest  Ephesian  joiu-neyman^  that  tiu"ned 
out  those  little  shrines  for  the  goddess)  — 
exchange  them  for  little  bits  of  leather  (our 
ancestors'  money),  or  chalk  and  a  slate  !"  — 

The  old  lady,  with  a  smile,  confessed  the 
soundness  of  my  logic  ;  and  to  her  approbation 
of  my  arguments  on  her  favourite  topic  that 
evening  I  have  alv/ays  fancied  myself  indebted 
for  the  legacy  of  a  curious  cribbage-board, 
made  of  the  finest  Sienna  marble,  which  her 
maternal  uncle  (old  Walter  Plumer,  whom  I 
have  elsewhere  celebrated)  brought  with  him 
from  Florence :  —  this,  and  a  trifle  of  five 
hundred  pounds,  came  to  me  at  her  death. 

The  former  bequest  (which  I  do  not  least 
value)  I  have  kept  with  religious  care  ;  though 
she  herself,  to  confess  a  truth,  was  never 
greatly  taken  with  cribbage.  It  was  an  essen- 
tially vulgar  game,  I  have  heard  her  say,  — 
disputing  with  her  uncle,  who  was  very  par- 
tial to  it.  She  could  rfever  heartily  bring  her 
mouth  to  pronounce  "Go,"  or  ^'That's  a  go." 
She  called  it  an  ungrammatical  game.  The 
pegging  teased  her.  I  once  knew  her  to  for- 
feit a  rubber  (a  five-dollar  stake)  because  she 
would  not  take  advantage  of  the  turn-up 
knave,  which  would  have  given  it  her,  but 
which  she  must  have  claimed  by  the  disgrace- 
ful tenure  of  declaring  "/wo  for  his  heels." 
There  is  something  extremely  genteel  in  this 
sort  of  self-denial.  Sarah  Battle  was  a  gentle- 
woman born. 

Piquet  she  held  the  best  game  at  the  cards 
for  two  persons,  though  she  would  ridicule  the 
pedantry  of  the  terms  —  such  as  pique  —  re- 
pique  —  the  capot  —  they  savoured  (she 
thought)  of  affectation.  But  games  for  two, 
or  even  three,  she  never  greatly  cared  for. 
She  loved  the  quadrate,  or  square.     She  would 


argue  thus :  —  Cards  are  warfare :  the  ends 
are  gain,  with  glory.  But  cards  are  war,  in 
disguise  of  a  sport :  when  single  adversaries 
encounter,  the  ends  proposed  are  too  palpable. 
By  themselves,  it  is  too  close  a  fight ;  with 
spectators,  it  is  not  much  bettered.  No 
looker-on  can  be  interested,  except  for  a  bet, 
and  then  it  is  a  mere  affair  of  mioney;  he 
cares  not  for  your  luck  sympathetically,  or  for 
your  play.  —  Three  are  still  worse ;  a  mere 
naked  war  of  every  man  against  every  man, 
as  in  cribbage,  without  league  or  alliance ;  or 
a  rotation  of  petty  and  contradictory  interests, 
a  succession  of  heartless  leagues,  and  not 
much  more  hearty  infractions  of  them,  as  in 
tradrille.^  —  But  in  square  games  {she  meant 
whist),  aU  that  is  possible  to  be  attained  in 
card-playing  is  accomplished.  There  are  the 
incentives  of  profit  with  honoiu-,  common  to 
every  species  —  though  the  latter  can  be  but 
very  imperfectly  enjoyed  in  those  other  games, 
where  the  spectator  is  only  feebly  a  partici- 
pator. But  the  parties  in  whist  are  specta- 
tors and  principals  too.  They  are  a  theatre 
to  themselves,  and  a  looker-on  is  not  wanted. 
He  is  rather  worse  than  nothing,  and  an  im- 
pertinence. Whist  abhors  neutrality,  or  in- 
terests beyond  its  sphere.  You  glory  in  some 
svuprising  stroke  of  skill  or  fortune,  not  be- 
cause a  cold  —  or  even  an  interested  —  by- 
stander witnesses  it,  but  because  your  partner 
sympathises  in  the  contingency.  You  win 
for  two.  You  triumph  for  two.  Two  are 
exalted.  Two  again  are  mortified;  which 
dixades  their  disgrace,  as  the  conjunction 
doubles  (by  taking  off  the  invidiousness)  your 
glories.  Two  losing  to  two  are  better  recon- 
ciled, than  one  to  one  in  that  close  butchery. 
The  hostile  feeling  is  weakened  by  multiply- 
ing the  channels.  War  becomes  a  civil  game. 
By  such  reasonings  as  these  the  old  lady  Avas 
accustomed  to  defend  her  favourite  pastime. 
No  inducement  could  ever  prevail  upon  her 
to  play  at  any  game,  where  chance  entered 
into  the  composition,  for  nothing.  Chance, 
she  would  argue  —  and  here  again,  admire 
the  subtlety  of  her  conclusion ;  —  chance  is 
nothing,  but  where  something  else  depends 
upon  it.  It  is  obvious,  that  cannot  be  glory. 
What  rational  cause  of  exultation  could  it 
give  to  a  man  to  turn  up  size  ^  ace  a  hundred 
times  together  by  himself?  or  before  specta- 
tors, where  no  stake  was  depending?  —  ;Make 


^  Cf.  ibid.,  iii,  44,  80.     ^  Cf.  Acts,  xix:  24,  25. 


'  a  variety  of  ombre 


428 


CHARLES    LAMB 


a  lottery  of  a  hundred  thousand  tickets  with 
but  one  fortunate  number  —  and  what  pos- 
sible principle  of  our  nature,  except  stupid 
wonderment,  could  it  gratify  to  gain  that 
number  as  many  times  successively  without  a 
•  prize  ?  Therefore  she  disliked  the  mixture  of 
chance  in  backgammon,  where  it  was  not 
played  for  money.  She  called  it  foolish,  and 
those  people  idiots,  who  were  taken  with  a 
lucky  hit  under  such  circumstances.  Games 
of  pure  skill  were  as  little  to  her  fancy. 
Played  for  a  stake,  they  were  a  mere  system 
of  overreaching.  Played  for  glory,  they  were 
a  mere  setting  of  one  man's  wit,  —  his  mem- 
ory, or  combination-faculty  rather  —  against 
another's;  like  a  mock-engagement  at  a 
review,  bloodless  and  profitless.  She  could 
not  conceive  a  ga^ne  wanting  the  spritely 
infusion  of  chance,  the  handsome  excuses 
of  good  fortune.  Two  people  playing  at 
chess  in  a  corner  of  a  room,  whUst  whist  was 
stirring  in  the  centre,  would  inspire  her  with 
insufferable  horror  and  ennui.  Those  well- 
cut  similitudes  of  Castles  and  Knights,  the 
imagery  of  the  board,  she  wovJd  argue  (and 
I  think  in  this  case  justly),  were  entirely 
misplaced  and  senseless.  Those  hardhead 
contests  can  in  no  instance  ally  with  the  fancy. 
They  reject  form  and  colour.  A  pencil  and 
dry  slate  (she  used  to  say)  were  the  proper 
arena  for  such  combatants. 

To  those  puny  objectors  against  cards,  as 
nurturing  the  bad  passions,  she  would  retort, 
that  man  is  a  gaming  animal.  He  must  be 
always  trying  to  get  the  better  in  something 
or  other  :  —  that  this  passion  can  scarcely  be 
more  safely  expended  than  upon  a  game  at 
cards :  that  cards  are  a  temporary  illusion ; 
in  truth,  a  mere  drama;  for  we  do  but  play 
at  being  mightily  concerned,  where  a  few  idle 
shillings  are  at  stake,  yet,  during  the  illusion, 
we  are  as  mightily  concerned  as  those  whose 
stake  is  crowns  and  kingdoms.  They  are  a 
sort  of  dream-fighting;  much  ado;  great 
battling,  and  little  bloodshed  ;  mighty  means 
for  disproportioned  ends :  quite  as  diverting, 
and  a  great  deal  more  innoxious,  than  many 
of  those  more  serious  games  of  life,  which  men 
play  without  esteeming  them  to  be  such. 

With  great  deference  to  the  old  lady's  judg- 
ment in  these  matters,  I  think  1  have  experi- 
enced some  moments  in  my  life  when  playing 
at  cards  for  nothing  has  even  been  agreeable. 
When  I  am  in  sickness,  or  not  in  the  best 
spirits,  I  sometimes  call  for  the  cards,  and 


play  a  game  at  f)iquet  for  love  with  my  cousin 
Bridget  ^  —  Bridget  Elia. 

I  grant  there  is  something  sneaking  in  it ; 
but  with  a  tooth-ache,  or  a  sprained  ankle,  — 
when  you  are  subdued  and  humble,  —  you 
are  glad  to  put  up  with  an  iiaferior  spring 
of  action. 

There  is  such  a  thing  in  nature,  I  am  con- 
vinced, as  sick  whist. 

I  grant  it  is  not  the  highest  style  of  man  —  I 
deprecate  the  manes  ^  of  Sarah  Battle  —  she 
lives  not,  alas!  to  whom  I  should  apologise. 

At  such  times,  those  terms  which  my  old 
friend  objected  to,  come  in  as  something  ad- 
missible —  I  love  to  get  a  tierce  or  a  quatorze, 
though  they  mean  nothing.  I  am  subdued  to 
an  inferior  interest.  Those  shadows  of  win- 
ning amuse  me. 

That  last  game  I  had  with  my  sweet  cousin 
(I  capotted  her)  —  (dare  I  tell  thee,  how 
foolish  I  am  ?)  —  I  wished  it  might  have  lasted 
forever,  though  we  gained  nothing,  and  lost 
nothing,  though  it  was  a  mere  shade  of  play : 
I  would  be  content  to  go  on  in  that  idle  folly 
for  ever.  The  pipkin  should  be  ever  boiling, 
that  was  to  prepare  the  gentle  lenitive  to  my 
foot,  which  Bridget  was  doomed,  to  apply  after 
the  game  was  over :  and,  as  I  do  not  much 
relish  appliances,  there  it  should  ever  bubble. 
Bridget  and  I  should  be  ever  playing. 


A  CHAPTER  ON  EARS 

I  have  no  ear.  — 

Mistake  me  not,  Reader  —  nor  imagine  that 
I  am  by  nature  destitute  of  those  exterior 
twin  appendages,  hanging  ornaments,  and 
(architecturally  speaking)  handsome  volutes  ^ 
to  the  human  capital.  Better  my  mother  had 
never  borne  me.  —  I  am,  I  think,  rather  deli- 
cately than  copiously  provided  with  those 
conduits ;  and  I  feel  no  disposition  to  envy 
the  mule  for  his  plenty,  or  the  mole  for  her 
exactness,  in  those  ingenious  labyrinthine  in- 
lets —  those  indispensable  side-intelligencers. 

Neither  have  I  incurred,  or  done  anything 
to  incur,  with  Defoe,  that  hideous  disfigure- 
ment, which  constrained  him  to  draw  upon 
assurance  —  to  feel  "  quite  unabashed,"  •''and 

^  that  is,  his  sister  Mary  ^  spirit  ^  spiral  orna- 
ments on  the  capital  of  an  Ionic  pillar  ^  "Ear- 
less, on  hij;h,  stood  unabashed  Defoe,"  Dunciad, 
ii,  147 ;    but  Defoe  did  not  lose  his  ears'. 


A    CHAPTER    ON   EARS 


429 


at  ease  upon  that  article.  I  was  never,  I 
thank  my  stars,  in  the  pillory ;  nor,  if  I  read 
them  aright,  is  it  within  the  compass  of  my 
destiny,  that  I  ever  should  be. 

When  therefore  I  say  that  I  have  no  ear, 
you  wiU  understand  me  to  mean  — jor  music. 
To  say  that  this  heart  never  melted  at  the 
concord  of  sweet  sounds,  would  be  a  foul  self- 
libel.  ^^ Water  parted  from  the  sea"^  never 
fails  to  move  it  strangely.  So  does  "In  in- 
fancy."^  But  they  were  used  to  be  svmg  at 
her  harpsichord  (the  old-fashioned  instrument 
in  vogue  in  those  days)  by  a  gentlewoman  — 
the  gentlest,  sure,  that  ever  merited  the  ap- 
pellation —  the  s\veetest  —  why  should  I  hesi- 
tate to  name  Mrs.  S ,  once  the  blooming 

Fanny  Weatheral  of  the  Temple  ^  — who  had 
power  to  thrill  the  soul  of  Elia,  sriiall  imp  as 
he  was,  even  in  his  long  coats ;  and  to  make 
him  glow,  tremble,  and  blush  with  a  passion, 
that  not  faintly  indicated  the  dayspring  of 
that  absorbing  sentiment  which  was  after- 
wards destined  to  overwhelm  and  subdue  his 
nature  quite  for  Alice  W n.^ 

I  even  think  that  sentimentally  I  am  dis- 
posed to  harmony.  But  organically  I  am  in- 
capable of  a  tune.  I  have  been  practising 
"God  save  the  King"  all  my  life;  whistling 
and  humming  of  it  over  to  myself  m  solitary 
corners ;  and  am  not  yet  arrived,  they  tell 
me,  within  many  quavers  of  it.  Yet  hath  the 
loyalty  of  Elia  never  been  impeached. 

I  am  not  without  suspicion,  that  I  have 
an  undeveloped  faculty  of  music  within  me. 
For,  thrumming,  in  my  wild  way,  on  my  friend 
A.'s  piano,  the  other  morning,  while  he  was 
engaged  in  an  adjoining  parlour,  —  on  his  re- 
turn he  was  pleased  to  say,  "he  thought  it 
could  not  be  the  maid!"  On  his  first  surprise 
at  hearing  the  keys  touched  in  somewhat  an 
airy  and  mast  erf  iil  way,  not  dreaming  of  me, 
his  suspicions  had  lighted  on  Jenny.  But  a 
grace,  snatched  from  a  superior  refinement, 
soon  convinced  him  that  some  being  —  tech- 
nically perhaps  deficient,  but  higher  informed 
from  a  principle  common  to  all  the  fine  arts 
—  had  swayed  the  keys  to  a  mood  which 
Jenny,  with  all  her  (less  cultivated)  enthu- 
siasm, could  never  have  elicited  from  them. 
I  mention  this  as  a  proof  of  my  friend's  pene- 

^  Songs  in  Arta.xerxes,  an  opera  he  heard  when 
six  years  old  —  his  first  play  -  Cf .  Spenser's 
Prothalamion,  11.  132-5.  ^a  feigned  name  for  the 
love  of  his  youth 


tration,  and  not  with  any  view  of  disparaging 
Jenny. 

Scientifically  I  could  never  be  made  to 
understand  (yet  have  I  taken  some  pains) 
what  a  note  in  music  is ;  or  how  one  note 
should  differ  from  another.  ^luch  less  in 
voices  can  I  distinguish  a  soprano  from  a 
tenor.  Only  sometimes  the  thorough-bass  I 
contrive  to  guess  at,  from  its  being  super- 
eminently harsh  and  disagreeable.  I  tremble, 
however,  for  my  misapplication  of  the  simplest 
terms  of  that  which  I  disclaim.  While  I 
profess  my  ignorance,  I  scarce  know  what 
to  say  I  am  ignorant  of.  I  hate,  perhaps,  by 
misnomers.  Sosten-uto  and  adagio  stand  in 
the  like  relation  of  obscurity  to  me ;  and 
Sol,  Fa,  Mi,  Re,  is  as  conjuring  as  Baralipton.^ 

It  is  hard  to  stand  alone  in  an  age  like  this, 
—  (constituted  to  the  quick  and  critical  per- 
ception of  all  harmonious  combinations,  I 
verily  believe,  beyond  all  preceding  ages,  since 
Jubal"  stumbled  upon  the  gamut,)  to  remain, 
as  it  were,  singly  imimpressible  to  the  magic 
influences  of  an  art,  which  is  said  to  have 
such  an  especial  stroke  at  soothing,  elevating, 
and  refining  the  passions.  —  Yet,  rather  than 
break  the  candid  current  of  my  confessions,  I 
must  avow  to  you  that  I  have  received  a  great 
deal  more  pain  than  pleasure  from  this  so 
cried-up  faculty. 

I  am  constitutionally  susceptible  of  noises. 
A  carpenter's  hammer,  in  a  warm  summer 
noon,  will  fret  me  into  more  than  midsum- 
mer madness.  But  those  unconnected,  unset 
sounds  are  nothing  to  the  measured  malice 
of  music.  The  ear  is  passive  to  those  single 
strokes ;  willingly  enduring  stripes,  while  it 
hath  no  task  to  con.  To  music  it  cannot  be 
passive.  It  will  strive  —  mine  at  least  will  — 
spite  of  its  inaptitude,  to  thrid  the  maze  ;  like 
an  unskilled  eye  painfully  poring  upon  hiero- 
glyphics. I  have  sat  through  an  Italian 
Opera,  till,  for  sheer  pain,  and  inexplicable 
anguish,  I  have  rushed  out  into  the  noisiest 
places  of  the  crowded  streets,  to  solace  myself 
with  sounds,  which  I  was  not  obliged  to  follow, 
and  get  rid  of  the  distracting  torment  of  end- 
less, fruitless,  barren  attention  !  I  take  refuge 
in  the  unpretending  assemblage  of  honest 
common-life  sounds ;  —  and  the  purgatory  of 
the  Enraged  Musician  ^  becomes  my  paradise. 

^  technical  term  in  logic  ^  the  traditional 
inventor  of  musical  instruments, cf.  Genesis,  iv:  21. 
^  a  picture  by  William  Hogarth  (1697-1764) 


430 


CHARLES    LAMB 


I  have  sat  at  an  Oratorio  (that  profanation 
of  the  purposes  of  the  cheerfid  playhouse) 
watching  the  faces  of  the  auditory  in  the  pit 
(what  a  contrast  to  Hogarth's  Laughing  Au- 
dience !)  immovable,  or  affecting  some  faint 
emotion  —  till  (as  some  have  said,  that  our 
occupations  in  the  next  world  will  be  but  a 
shadow  of  what  delighted  us  in  this)  I  have 
imagined  myself  in  some  cold  Theatre  in 
Hades,  where  some  of  the  forms  of  the  earthly 
one  should  be  kept  us,  with  none  of  the 
enjoyment  ;  or  like  that 

—  Party  in  a  parlour 

All  silent,  and  all  damned.^ 

Above  all,  those  insufferable  concertos,  and 
pieces  of  music,  as  they  are  called,  do  plague 
and  embitter  my  apprehension.  —  Words  are 
something ;  but  to  be  exposed  to  an  endless 
battery  of  mere  sounds  ;  to  be  long  a-dying ; 
to  lie  stretched  upon  a  rack  of  roses ;  to  keep 
up  languor  by  unintermitted  effort ;  to  pUe 
honey  upon  sugar,  and  sugar  upon  honey,  to 
an  interminable  tedious  sweetness;  to  fill  up 
sound  with  feeling,  and  strain  ideas  to  keep 
pace  with  it ;  to  gaze  on  empty  frames,  and 
be  forced  to  make  the  pictures  for  yourself ; 
to  read  a  book,  all  stops,'^  and  be  obliged  to 
supply  the  verbal  matter ;  to  invent  extem- 
pore tragedies  to  answer  to  the  vague  gestures 
of  an  mexplicable  rambling  mime  ^  —  these  are 
faint  shadows  of  what  I  have  undergone  from 
a  series  of  the  ablest-executed  pieces  of  this 
empty  instrumental  music. 

I  deny  not,  that  in  the  opening  of  a  concert, 
I  have  experienced  something  vastly  lulling 
and  agreeable :  —  afterwards  foUoweth  the 
languor  and  the  oppression.  Like  that  dis- 
appointing book  in  Patmos;*  or,  like  the 
comings  on  of  melancholy,  described  by  Bur- 
ton, doth  music  make  her  first  insinuating 
approaches:  —  "Most  pleasant  it  is  to  such 
as  are  melancholy  given,  to  walk  alone  in 
some  solitary  grove,  betwixt  wood  and  water, 
by  some-  brook  side,  and  to  meditate  upon 
some  delightsome  and  pleasant  subject,  which 
shall  affect  him  most,  amabilis  insania,^  and 
mentis  gratissimus  error.''  A  most  incompa- 
rable delight  to  build  castles  in  the  air,  to  go 

^  From  a  suppressed  stanza  of  Wordsworth's 
Peter  Bell,  -punctuation  marks  ^a  pantomim- 
ist  *  Cf.  Revelation,  x  :  lo  .  '•'  pleasant  lunacy 
*  most  delightful  mental  delusion 


smiling  to  themselves,  acting  an  infinite 
variety  of  parts,  which  they  suppose,  and 
strongly  imagine,  they  act,  or  that  they  see 
done.  —  So  delightsome  these  toys'-  at  first, 
they  coidd  spend  whole  days  and  nights  with- 
out sleep,  even  whole  years  in  such  contem- 
plations, and  fantastical  meditations,  which 
are  like  so  many  dreams,  and  will  hardly 
be  drawn  from  them  —  winding  and  unwind- 
ing themselves  as  so  many  clocks,  and  still 
pleasing  their  humours,  until  at  the  last  the 
scene  turns  upon  a  sudden,  and  they  being 
now  habitatecl  to  such  meditations  and  soli- 
tary places,  can  endure  no  company,  can  think 
of  nothing  but  harsh  and  dist-asteful  subjects. 
Fear,  sorrow,  suspicion,  sicbrusticus  pudor,^ 
discontent,  cares,  and  weariness  of  life,  sur- 
prise them  on  a  sudden,  and  they  can  think 
of  nothing  else :  continually  suspectin.g,  no 
sooner  are  their  eyes  open,  but  this  infernal 
plague  of  melancholy  seizeth  on  them,  and 
terrifies  their  souls,  representing  some  dis- 
mal object  to  their  minds ;  which  now,  by 
no  means,  no  labour,  no  persuasions,  they 
can  avoid,  they  cannot  be  rid  of,  they  cannot 
resist." 

Something  like  this  "scene  turning"  I  have 
experienced   at   the  evening  parties,  at   the 

house  of  my  good  Catholic  friend  Nov ;  ^ 

-who,  by  the  aid  of  a  capital  organ,  himself 
the  most  finished  of  players,  converts  his 
drawing-room  uito  a  chapel,  his  week  days 
into  Sundays,  and  these  latter  into  minor 
heavens. 

When  my  friend  commences  upon  one  of 
those  solemn  anthems,  which  peradventure 
struck  upon  my  heedless  ear,  rambling  in  the 
side  aisles  of  the  dim  Abbey,  some  five-and- 
thirty  years  since,  waking  a  new  sense,  and 
putting  a  soul  of  old  religion  into  my  young 
apprehension  — ■  (whether  it  be  that,  in  which 
the  Psalmist,  weary  of  the  persecutions  of 
bad  men,  wisheth  to  himself  dove's  wings  — 
or  that  other  which,  with  a  like  measure  of  so- 
briety and  pathos,  inquireth  by  what  means 
the  young  man  shall  best  cleanse  his  mind)  — • 
a  holy  calm  pervadeth  me.  —  I  am  for  the 
time 

—  rapt  above  earth, 
And  possess  joys  not  promised  at  my  birth.* 

^  trifles  ^  almost  clownish  shame  ^  Vincent 
Novcllo,  organist  of  the  Portuguese  embassy 
chapel  ■*  By  an  unknown  author ;  quoted  in 
Walton's  Complete  Angler. 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL 


431 


But  when  this  master  of  the  spell,  not  con- 
tent to  have  laid  a  soul  prostrate,  goes  on,  in 
his  power,  to  intlict  more  bliss  than  lies  in  her 
capacity  to  receive  —  impatient  to  overcome 
her  "earthly"  with  his  "heavenly," — ^ still 
pouring  in,  for  protracted  hours,  fresh  waves 
and  fresh  from  the  sea  of  sound,  or  from  that 
inexhausted  German  ocean,^  above  which,  in 
triumphant  progress,  dolphin-seated,  ride 
those  Arions  -  Haydn  and  Mozart,  with  their 
attendant  Tritons,^  Bach,  Beethoven,  and  a 
countless  tribe,  whom  to  attempt  to  reckon 
up  would  but  plunge  me  again  in  the  deeps,  — 
I  stagger  under  the  weight  of  harmony,  reel- 
ing to  a,nd  fro  at  my  wits'  end ;  —  clouds, 
as  of  frankincense,  oppress  me  —  priests, 
altars,  censers  dazzle  before  me  —  the  gem'us 
of  his  religion  hath  me  in  her  toUs  —  a  shad- 
owy triple  tiara  invests  the  brow  of  my  friend, 
late  so  naked,  so  ingenuous  —  he  is  Pope,  — 
and  by  him  sits,  Uke  as  in  the  anomaly  of 
dreams,  a  she-Pope  too,  —  tri-coroneted  like 
himself !  —  I  am  converted,  and  yet  a  Prot- 
estant ;  — ■  at  once  malleus  hcreticoritm,*  and 
myself  grand  heresiarch :  or  three  heresies 
centre  in  my  person  :  —  I  am  IMarcion,  Ebion, 
and  Cerinthus^  —  Gog  and  Magog^  —  what 
not?  —  till  the  coming  in  of  the  friendly 
supper-tray  .dissipates  the  figment,  and  a 
draught  of  true  Lutheran  beer  (in  which 
chiefly  my  friend  shows  himself  no  bigot) 
at  once  reconciles  me  to  the  rationalities  of  a 
purer  faith ;  and  restores  to  me  the  genuine 
unterrifying  aspects  of  my  pleasant-counte- 
nanced host  and  hostess. 

THE  OLD  F.AMILIAR  FACES 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
Li  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school- 
days ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  famihar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom 

cronies ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces.  6 

^  of  music  "  Arion,  a  Greek  lyric  poet,  is  fabled 
to  have  been  thrown  into  the  sea  by  sailors  and 
carried  safely  ashore  b}-  dolphins  who  had  gathered 
to  listen  to  his  music.  ^  Cf.  note  on  Wordsworth's 
sonnet,  The  world  is  too  much  with  us,  1.  14. 
■*  Hammer  of  Heretics,  title  of  a  book  by  Johann 
Faber  (1478-1541)  °  typical  heresiarchs  ®  Cf. 
Revelation,  xx  :  8 


I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women ; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see 

her  — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,'  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man ; 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly ; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces.  12 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my 

childhood, 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  famihar  faces. 

Friend    of   my    bosom,-  thou    more   than    a 

brother, 
Why   wert   not   thou   born    in   my    father's 

dwelling  ? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  famihar  faces  —  18 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they 
have  left  me. 

And  some  are  taken  from  me ;  all  are  de- 
parted ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL    (i 777-1844) 

YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND 

A   XAVAL  ODE 

Ye  mariners  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas, 

Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 

The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe, 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  10 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  frotn  every  wave!  — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave  : 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

Whfle  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

Whfle  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  20 

^  Charles  Lloyd        ^  Coleridge 


432 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL 


Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep  ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below  — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  30 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name. 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow.  40 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone ; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 

In  a  bold  determin'd  hand. 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on.  9 

Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine, 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line : 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime : 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time.  18 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene, 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between  — 

"Hearts  of  oak,"  our  captains  cried,  when 

each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun.  27 


Again  !  again  !  again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack. 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back  ;  — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom :  — 

Then  ceased  —  and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail. 

Or  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom.  36 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then. 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave ; 

"Ye  are  brothers !  ye  are  men ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save ; 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring : 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet 

With  the  crews  at  England's  feet. 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King."  45 

Then  Denmark  blest  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief. 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day ; 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away.  *  54 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise ! 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might. 

By  the  festal  cities'  blaze. 

While  the  wine  cup  shines  in  light ; 

And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 

FuU  many  a  fathom  deep. 

By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore !  63 

Brave  hearts !  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true. 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died,  — 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou,^ 

Soft   sigh   the   winds   of   heaven   o'er   their 

grave ! 
While  the  billow  mournfid  rolls. 
And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles. 
Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave  !  7  2 

^  Capt.  Edward  Riou,  distinguished  for  his  skill 
and  courage  in  this  battle,  was  cut  in  two  by  a 
cannon  shot. 


THOMAS    MOORE 


433 


THOMAS  MOORE   (1779-185 2 j 

THE    TIME    I'VE    LOST    IN    WOOING 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing, 
In  watching  and  pursuing 

The  light,  that  lies 

In  woman's  eyes. 
Has  been  my  heart's  undoing. 
Tho'  Wisdom  oft  has  sought  me, 
I  scorn'd  the  lore  she  brought  me, 

My  only  books 

Were  woman's  looks, 
And  folly's  all  they've  taught  me.  10 

Her  smile  when  Beauty  granted, 
I  hung  with  gaze  enchanted. 

Like  him  the  Sprite, 

Whom  maids  by  night 
Oft  meet  in  glen  that's  haunted. 
Like  him,  too,  Beauty  won  me,. 
But  while  her  eyes  were  on  me ; 

If  once  their  ray 

Was  turned  away, 
Oh,  winds  could  not  outnm  me.  20 

And  are  those  follies  going? 
And  is  my  proud  heart  growing 

Too  cold  or  wise 

For  brilliant  eyes 
Again  to  set  it  glowing? 
No,  vain,  alas  !   th'  endeavour 
From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever ; 

Poor  Wisdom's  chance 

Against  a  glance 
Is  now  as  weak  as  ever. 


When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  link'd  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather ; 
I  feel  hke  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled. 
Whose  garlands  dead. 
And  all  but  he  departed  ! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me. 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


'TIS    THE    LAST    ROSE    OF    SUMMER 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer, 

Left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone  ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred. 

No  rosebud,  is  nigh 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh  !  8 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one, 

To  pine  on  the  stem  ; 
Since  the  lovely  are- sleeping. 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them  ; 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 


16 


30 


OFT,   IN  THE   STILLY  NIGHT 

Oft,  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me  ; 
The  smiles,  the  tears. 
Of  boyhood's  years. 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken ; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken  ! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


So  soon  may  I  follow, 

When  friendships  decay. 
And  from  love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away  ! 
When  true  hearts  lie  withered. 

And  fond  ones  are  flowTi, 
O,  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone  ! 


24 


THE    HARP    THAT    ONCE    THROUGH 
TARA'S   IL\LLS 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls  ^ 
The  soul  of  music  shed,  , 

Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 
As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 

^  the  palace  of  the  high  kings  of  Ireland 


434 


THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 


So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more  !  8 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells  ; 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives.  i6 


LEIGH  HUNT   (i 784-1859) 

RONDEAU. 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met. 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in  ; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in : 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad,  5 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add, 

Jenny  kissed  me. 


FAIRIES'   SONG 

We  the  fairies  blithe  and  antic, 

Of  dimensions  not  gigantic. 

Though  the  moonshine  mostly  keep  us 

Oft  in  orchards  frisk  and  peep  us.  4 

Stolen  sweets  are  always  sweeter ; 
Stolen  kisses  much  completer ; 
Stolen  looks  are  nice  in  chapels ; 
Stolen,  stolen  be  your  apples.  8 

When  to  bed  the  world  are  bobbing, 
Then's  the  time  for  orchard-robbing; 
Yet  the  fruit  were  scarce  worth  peeling 
Were  it  not  for  stealing,  stealing.  1 2 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  (i 785-1859) 

From  CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  ENGLISH 
OPIUM-EATER 

INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  PAINS  OF  OPIUM 

If  any  man,  poor  or  rich,  were  to  say  that 
he  would  tell  us  what  had  been  the  happiest 
day  in  his  life,  and  the  why  and  the  wherefore, 
I  suppose  that  we  should  all  cry  out.  Hear 
him  !  hear  him  !  As  to  the  happiest  day,  that 
must  be  very  difficult  for  any  wise  man  to 
name ;  because  any  event,  that  could  occupy 
so  distinguished  a  place  in  a  man's  retrospect 
of  his  life,  or  be  entitled  to  have  shed  a  special 
felicity  on  any  one  day,  ought  to  be  of  such 
an  enduring  character,  as  that  (accidents 
apart)  it  should  have  continued  to  shed  the 
same  felicity,  or  one  not  distinguishably  less, 
on  man/  years  together.  To  the  happiest 
lustrum,  however,  or  even  to  the  happiest 
year,  it  may  be  allowed  to  any  man  to  point 
without  discountenance  from  wisdom.  This 
year,  in  my  case,  reader,  was  the  one  which 
we  have  now  reached ;  though  it  stood,  I 
confess,  as  a  parenthesis  between  years  of  a 
gloomier  character.  It  was  a  year  of  brilliant 
water  (to  speak  after  the  manner  of  jewellers), 
set,  as  it  were,  and  insulated,  in  the  gloom  and 
cloudy  melancholy  of  opium.  Strange  as  it 
may  sound,  I  had  a  little  before  this  time 
descended  suddenly,  and  without  any  con- 
siderable effort,  from  three  hundred  and 
twenty  grains  of  opium  (that  is,  eight  thou- 
sand drops  of  laudanum)  per  day,  to  forty 
grains,  or  one-eighth  part.  Instantaneously, 
and  as  if  by  magic,  the  cloud  of  profoundest 
melancholy  which  rested  upon  my  brain,  like 
some  black  vapours  that  I  have  seen  roll 
away  from  the  summits  of  mountains,  drew 
off  in  one  day ;  passed  off  with  its  murky 
banners  as  simultaneously  as  a  ship  that  has 
been  stranded,  and  is  floated  off  by  a  spring 
tide,  — 

That  moveth  altogether,  if  it  move  at  all.^ 

Now,  then,  I  was  again  happy ;  I  now  took 
only  one  thousand  drops  of  laudanum  per 
day,  —  and  what  was  that  ?  A  latter  spring 
had  come  to  close  up  the  season  of  youth : 

'  Wordsworth,  Resolution  and  Independence, 
1.  77;  altogether  should  he  all  together 


CONFESSIONS    OF    AN   ENGLISH   OPIUM-EATER 


435 


my  brain  performed  its  functions  as  healthily 
as  ever  before.  I  read  Kant  ^  again,  and  again 
I  imderstood  him,  or  fancied  that  I  did. 
Again  my  feeUngs  of  pleasure  expanded  them- 
selves to  all  around  me  ;  and,  if  any  man  from 
Oxford  or  Cambridge,  or  from  neither,  had 
been  announced  to  me  in  my  unpretending 
cottage,  I  should  have  welcomed  him  with  as 
sumptuous  a  reception  as  so  poor  a  man  could 
offer.  Whatever  else  was  wanting  to  a  wise 
man's  happiness,  of  laudanum  I  would  have 
given  him  as  much  as  he  wished,  and  in  a 
golden  cup.  And,  by  the  way,  now  that  I 
speak  of  gi\'ing  laudanum  away,  I  remember, 
about  this  time,  a  little  incident,  which  I 
mention,  because,  trifling  as  it  was,  the  reader 
will  soon  meet  it  again  in  my  dreams,  which  it 
influenced  more  fearfully  than  could  be  im- 
agined. One  day  a  IMalay  knocked  at  my 
door.  What  business  a  IMalay  could  have  to 
transact  amongst  English  mountains,  I  cannot 
conjecture ;  but  possibly  he  was  on  his  road 
to  a  seaport  about  forty  miles  distant. 

The  servant  who  opened  the  door  to  him 
was  a  young  girl,  born  and  bred  amongst  the 
mountains,  who  had  never  seen  an  Asiatic 
dress  of  any  sort :  his  turban,  therefore,  con- 
founded her  not  a  little ;  and  as  it  turned  out 
that  his  attainments  in  English  were  exactly 
of  the  same  extent  as  hers  in  the  Malay,  there 
seemed  to  be  an  impassable  gulf  fixed  between 
all  communication  of  ideas,  if  either  party  had 
happened  to  possess  any.  In  this  dilemma, 
the  girl,  recollecting  the  reputed  learning  of 
her  master  (and,  doubtless,  gixang  me  credit 
for  a  knowledge  of  all  the  languages  of  the 
earth,  besides,  perhaps,  a  few  of  the  lunar 
ones),  came  and  gave  me  to  understand  that 
there  was  a  sort  of  demon  below,  whom  she 
clearly  imagined  that  my  art  would  exorcise 
from  the  house.  I  did  not  immediately  go 
down ;  but  when  I  did,  the  group  which  pre- 
sented itself,  arranged  as  it  was  by  accident, 
though  not  very  elaborate,  took  hold  of  my 
fancy  and  my  eye  in  a  way  that  none  of  the 
statuesque  attitudes  exhibited  in  the  ballets 
at  the  opera-house,  though  so  ostentatiously 
complex,  had  ever  done.  In  a  cottage  kitchen 
but  panelled  on  the  wall  with  dark  wood,  that 
from  age  and  rubbing  resembled  oak,  and  look- 
ing more  like  a  rustic  haU  of  entrance  than  a 
kitchen,  stood  the  Malay,  his  turban  and 
loose  trousers  of   dingy  white  relieved  upon 

^  a  profound  German  philosopher  (1724-1804) 


the  dark  panelling ;  he  had  placed  himself 
nearer  to  the  girl  than  she  seemed  to  relish, 
though  her  native  spirit  of  mountain  intrepid- 
ity contended  with  the  feeling  of  simple  awe 
which  her  countenance  expressed,  as  she  gazed 
upon  the  tiger-cat  before  her.  And  a  more 
striking  picture  there  could  not  be  imagined, 
than  the  beautiful  English  face  of  the  girl, 
and  its  exquisite  fairness,  together  with  her 
erect  and  independent  attitude,  contrasted 
with  the  sallow  and  bilious  skin  of  the  ^lalay, 
enamelled  or  veneered  with  mahogany  by 
marine  air,  his  small,  fierce,  restless  eyes,  thin 
lips,  slavish  gestures,  and  adorations.  Half 
hidden  by  the  ferocious-looking  Malay,  was 
a  little  cTiild  from  a  neighbouring  cottage,  who 
had  crept  in  after  him,  and  was  now  in  the  act 
of  reverting  its  head  and  gazing  upwards  at 
the  turban  and  the  fiery  eyes  beneath  it, 
whilst  with  one  hand  he  caught  at  the  dress 
of  the  young  woman  for  protection. 

INIy  knowledge  of  the  Oriental  tongues  is  not 
remarkably  extensive,  being,  indeed,  confined 
to  two  words,  —  the  Arabic  word  for  barley, 
and  the  Turkish  for  opium  (madjoon),  which 
I  have  learnt  from  Anastasius.^  And,  as  I  had 
neither  a  Malay  dictionary,  nor  even  Adelung's 
Mitkridafes,'^  which  might  have  helped  me  to  a 
few  words,  I  addressed  him  in  some  lines  from 
the  Iliad;  considering  that,  of  such  language 
as  I  possessed,  the  Greek,  in  point  of  longitude, 
came  geographically  nearest  to  an  Oriental 
one.  He  worshipped  me  in  a  devout  manner, 
and  replied  in  what  I  suppose  was  Malay.  In 
this  way  I  saved  my  reputation  with  my  neigh- 
bours ;  for  the  Malay  had  no  means  of  betray- 
ing the  secret.  He  lay  down  upon  the  floor 
for  about  an  hour,  and  then  pursued  his  jour- 
ney. On  his  departure,  I  presented  him  wath 
a  piece  of  opium.  To  him,  as  an  Orientahst, 
I  concluded  that  opium  must  be  familiar,  and 
the  expression  of  his  face  convinced  me  that 
it  was.  Nevertheless,  I  was  struck  with  some 
little  consternation  when  I  saw  him  suddenly 
raise  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  and  (in  the  school- 
boy phrase)  bolt  the  whole,  divided  into  three 
pieces,  at  one  mouthfid.  The  quantity  was 
enough  to  kill  three  dragoons  and  their  horses, 
and  I  felt  some  alarm  for  the  poor  creature ; 
but  W'hat  could  be  done?     I  had  given  him 

^  Anastasius:  or,  Memoirs  of  a  Greek  (1819) 
by  Thomas  Hope  ^  Mitkridales,  oder  Mgemeine 
Sprachenkunde  (1806),  by  J.  C.  Adelung,  contains 
specimens  of  many  languages. 


436 


THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 


the  opium  in  compassion  for  his  soUtary  Hfe, 
on  recollecting  that,  if  he  had  travelled  on  foot 
from  London,  it  must  be  nearly  three  weeks 
since  he  could  have  exchanged  a  thought  with 
any  human  being.  I  could  not  think  of  vio- 
lating the  laws  of  hospitality  by  having  him 
seized  and  drenched  with  an  emetic,  and  thus 
frightening  him  into  a  notion  that  we  were 
going  to  sacrifice  him  to  some  English  idol. 
No ;  there  was  clearly  no  help  for  it.  He 
took  his  leave,  and  for  some  days  I  felt 
anxious ;  but,  as  I  never  heard  of  any  Malay 
being  found  dead,  I  became  convinced  that  he 
was  used  to  opium,  and  that  I  must  have  done 
him  the  service  I  designed,  by  giving  him  one 
night  of  respite  from  the  pains  of  wandering. 
This  incident  I  have  digressed  to  mention, 
because  this  Malay  (partly  from  the  pictur- 
esque exhibition  he  assisted  to  frame,  partly 
from  the  anxiety  I  connected  with  his  image 
for  some  days)  fastened  afterwards  upon  my 
dreams,  and  brought  other  Malays  with  him 
worse  than  himself,  that  ran  "a-muck"  at 
me,  and  led  me  into  a  world  of  troubles.  But, 
to  quit  this  episode,  and  to  return  to  my  inter- 
calary year  of  happiness.  I  have  said  already, 
that  on  a  subject  so  important  to  us  all  as 
happiness,  we  should  listen  with  pleasure  to 
any  man's  experience  or  experiments,  even 
though  he  were  but  a  ploughboy,  who  cannot 
be  supposed  to  have  ploughed  very  deep  in 
such  an  intractable  soil  as  that  of  human  pains 
and  pleasures,  or  to  have  conducted  his  re- 
searches upon  any  very  enlightened  principles. 
But  I,  who  have  taken  happiness,  both  in  a 
solid  and  a  liquid  shape,  both  boiled  and  un- 
boiled, both  East  India  and  Turkey,  —  who 
have  conducted  my  experiments  upon  this  in- 
teresting subject  with  a  sort  of  galvanic  bat- 
tery, —  and  have,  for  the  general  benefit  of 
the  world,  inoculated  myself,  as  it  were,  with 
the  poison  of  eight  hundred  drops  of  laudanum 
per  day  (just  for  the  same  reason  as  a  French 
surgeon  inoculated  himself  lately  with  a  can- 
cer, —  an  English  one,  twenty  years  ago,  with 
plague,  —  and  a  third,  I  know  not  of  what 
nation,  with  hydrophobia),  —  I,  it  will  be 
admitted,  must  surely  know  what  happiness 
is,  if  anybody  does.  And  therefore  I  will  here 
lay  down  an  analysis  of  happiness ;  and,  as 
the  most  interesting  mode  of  communicating 
it,  I  will  give  it,  not  didactically,  but  wrapt 
up  and  involved  in  a  picture  of  one  evening, 
as  I  spent  every  evening  during  the  intercalary 
year  when  laudanum,  though  taken  daily,  was 


to  me  no  more  than  the  elixir  of  pleasure. 
This  done,  I  shall  quit  the  subject  of  happi- 
ness altogether,  and  pass  to  a  very  different 
one,  —  the  pains  of  opium. 

Let  there  be  a  cottage,  standing  in  a  valley, 
eighteen  mUes  from  any  town ;  no  spacious 
valley,  but  about  two  miles  long  by  three 
quarters  of  a  mile  in  average  width,  —  the 
benefit  of  which  provision  is,  that  all  the  fami- 
lies resident  within  its  circuit  will  compose,  as 
it  were,  one  larger  household,  personally 
familiar  to  your  eye,  and  more  or  less  interest- 
ing to  your  affections.  Let  the  mountains  be 
real  mountains,  between  three  and  four  thou- 
sand feet  high,  and  the  cottage  a  real  cottage, 
not  (as  a  witty  author  has  it)  "a  cottage  with 
a  double  coach-house"  ;  let  it  be,  in  fact  (for 
I  must  abide  by  the  actual  scene),  a  white 
cottage,  embowered  with  flowering  shrubs,  so 
chosen  as  to  unfold  a  succession  of  flowers 
upon  the  walls,  and  clustering  around  the 
windows,  through  all  the  months  of  spring, 
summer,  and  autumn  ;  beginning,  in  fact,  with 
May  roses,  and  ending  with  jasmine.  Let  it, 
however,  not  be  spring,  nor  summer,  nor 
autumn ;  but  winter,  in  its  sternest  shape. 
This  is  a  most  important  point  in  the  science  of 
happiness.  And  I  am  surprised  to  see  people 
overlook  it,  and  think  it  matter  of  congratu- 
lation that  winter  is  going,  or,  if  coming,  is  not 
likely  to  be  a  severe  one.  On  the  contrary,  I 
put  up  a  petition,  annually,  for  as  much  snow, 
hail,  frost,  or  storm  of  one  kind  or  other,  as 
the  skies  can  possibly  afford  us.  Surely  every- 
body is  aware  of  the  divine  pleasures  which 
attend  a  winter  fireside,  —  candles  at  four 
o'clock,  warm  hearth-rugs,  tea,  a  fair  tea- 
maker,  shutters  closed,  curtains  flowing  in 
ample  draperies  on  the  floor,  whilst  the  wind 
and  rain  are  raging  audibly  without. 

And  at  the  doors  and  windows  seem  to  call 
As  heaven  and  earth  they  would  together  mell ; 
Yet  the  least  entrance  find  they  none  at  all ; 
Whence  sweeter  grows  our  rest  secure  in  massy  hall. 
—  Castle  of  Indolence. 

All  these  are  items  in  the  description  of  a 
winter  evening  which  must  surely  be  familiar 
to  everybody  born  in  a  high  latitude.  And  it 
is  evident  that  most  of  these  delicacies,  like 
ice-cream,  require  a  very  low  temperature  of 
the  atmosphere  to  produce  them :  they  are 
fruits  which  cannot  be  ripened  without  weather 
stormy  or  inclement,  in  some  way  or  other.  I 
am  not  ''particular,'"  as  people  say,  vvhether 


CONFESSIONS    OF    AN   ENGLISH   OPIUM-EATER 


437 


it  be  snow,  or  black  frost,  or  wind  so  strong 

that  (as  Mr. says)  "you  may  lean  your 

back  against  it  like  a  post."  I  can  put  up 
even  with  rain,  provided  that  it  rains  cats 
and  dogs ;  but  something  of  the  sort  I  must 
have;  and  if  I  have  not,  I  think  myself  in  a 
manner  iU  used :  for  why  am  I  called  on  to 
pay  so  heavily  for  winter,  in  coals,  and  candles, 
and  various  privations  that  will  occur  even 
to  gentlemen,  if  I  am  not  to  have  the  article 
good  of  its  kind  ?  No :  a  Canadian  winter, 
for  my  money  ;  or  a  Russian  one,  where  every 
man  is  but  a  co-proprietor  with  the  north 
wind  in  the  fee-simple  of  his  own  ears.  In- 
deed, so  great  an  epicure  am  I  in  this  matter, 
that  I  cannot  rehsh  a  winter  night  fully,  if  it 
be  much  past  St.  Thomas'  day,^  and  have  de- 
generated into  disgusting  tendencies  to  vernal 
appearances ;  —  no,  it  must  be  divided  by  a 
thick  wall  of  dark  nights  from  all  return  of 
light  and  sunshine.  From  the  latter  weeks 
of  October  to  Christmas-eve,  therefore,  is  the 
period  during  which  happiness  is  in  season, 
which,  in  my  judgment,  enters  the  room  with 
the  tea-tray;  for  tea,  though  ridiculed  by 
those  who  are  naturally  of  coarse  nerves,  or 
are  become  so  from  wine-drinking,  and  are  not 
susceptible  of  influence  from  so  refined  a  stim- 
ulant, will  always  be  the  favourite  beverage 
of  the  intellectual ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  would 
have  joined  Dr.  Johnson  in  a  bellum  intcr- 
necinum  ^  against  Jonas  Hanway,^  or  any  other 
impious  person  who  should  presume  to  dispar- 
age it.  But  here,  to  save  myself  the  trouble 
of  too  much  verbal  description,  I  wiU  intro- 
duce a  painter,  and  give  him  directions  for  the 
rest  of  the  picture.  Painters  do  not  like  white 
cottages,  unless  a  good  deal  weather-stained; 
but,  as  the  reader  now  imderstands  that  it  is 
a  winter  night,  his  sen.'ices  will  not  be  re- 
quired except  for  the  inside  of  the  house. 

Paint  me,  then,  a  room  seventeen  feet  by 
twelve,  and  not  more  than  seven  and  a  half 
feet  high.  This,  reader,  is  somewhat  am- 
bitiously styled,  in  my  famil)^  the  drawing- 
room  ;  but  being  contrived  ''a  double  debt  to 
pay,"^  it  is  also,  and  more  justly,  termed  the 
library  ;  for  it  happens  that  books  are  the  only 
article  of  property  in  which  I  am  richer  than 
my  neighbours.     Of  these  I  have  about  five 

^  Dec.  21  or  Dec.  29  ^  war  to  the  death  ^  a 
violent  opponent  of  tea,  who  got  into  conflict 
on  the  subject  with  Dr.  Johnson,  who  was  a  great 
tea-drinker     ^  Cf.  The  Deserted  Village,  1.  229 


thousand,  collected  gradually  since  my  eigh- 
teenth year.  Therefore,  painter,  put  as  many 
as  you  can  into  this  room.  Make  it  populous 
with  books,  and,  furthermore,  paint  me  a  good 
fire  ;  and  furniture  plain  and  modest,  befitting 
the  unpretending  cottage  of  a  scholar.  And 
near  the  fire  paint  me  a  tea-table  ;  and  (as  it  is 
clear  that  no  creature  can  come  to  see  one, 
such  a  stormy  night)  place  only  two  cups  and 
saucers  on  the  tea-tray ;  and,  if  you  know 
how  to  paint  such  a  thing  symbolically,  or 
otherwise,  paint  me  an  eternal  tea-pot,  — 
eternal  a  parte  ante,  and  a  parte  post ;  ^  for  I 
usually  drink  tea  from  eight  o'clock  at  night 
to  four  in  the  morning.  And,  as  it  is  very  un- 
pleasant to  make  tea,  or  to  pour  it  out  for 
one's  self,  paint  me  a  lovely  young  woman, 
sitting  at  the  table.  Paint  her  arms  like 
Aurora's,^  and  her  smUes  like  Hebe's ;  ^  —  but 
no,  dear  M.,  not  even  in  jest  let  me  insinuate 
that  thy  power  to  illuminate  my  cottage  rests 
upon  a  tenure  so  perishable  as  mere  personal 
beauty ;  or  that  the  witchcraft  of  angelic 
smiles  lies  within  the  empire  of  any  earthly 
pencil.  Pass,  then,  my  good  painter,  to  some- 
thing more  within  its  power ;  and  the  next 
article  brought  forward  should  naturally  be 
myself,  —  a  picture  of  the  Opium-eater,  with 
his  "little  golden  receptacle  of  the  pernicious 
drug" *  lying  beside  him  on  the  table.  As  to 
the  opium,  I  have  no  objection  to  see  a  picture 
of  that,  though  I  would  rather  see  the  original ; 
you  may  paint  it,  if  you  choose  ;  but  I  apprise 
you  that  no  "little"  receptacle  would,  even  in 
1S16,  answer  my  purpose,  who  was  at  a  dis- 
tance from  the  "stately  Pantheon,"*  and  all 
druggists  (mortal  or  otherwise).  No:  .you 
may  as  well  paint  the  real  receptacle,  which 
was  not  of  gold,  but  of  glass,  and  as  much  like 
a  wine-decanter  as  possible.  Into  this  you 
may  put  a  quart  of  ruby-coloured  laudanum ; 
that,  and  a  book  of  German  metaphysics 
placed  by  its  side,  wiU  sufficiently  attest  my 
being  in  the  neighbourhood  ;  but  as  to  myself, 
there  I  demur.  I  admit  that,  naturally,  I 
ought  to  occupy  the  foreground  of  the  picture ; 
that  being  the  hero  of  the  piece,  or  (if  you 
choose)   the  criminal  at   the  bar,   my  body 

1  eternal  from  both  directions  ^  the  goddess  of 
morning  ^  the  goddess  of  eternal  youth  ^  Such  as 
Anastasius  had  *  Cf .  Wordsworth,  The  Power  of 
Music,  11.  3,  4;  De  Quincey  bought  his  first 
opium  from  a  druggist  near  the  Pantheon,  who 
seemed  to  him  hardlj^  mortal. 


438 


THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 


should  be  had  into  court.  This  seems  reason- 
able ;  but  why  should  I  confess,  on  this  point, 
to  a  painter?  or,  why  confess  at  all?  If  the 
public  (into  whose  private  ear  I  am  con- 
fidentially whispering  my  confessions,  and 
not  into  any  painter's)  should  chance  to  have 
framed  some  agreeable  picture  for  itself  of  the 
Opium-eater's  exterior,  —  should  have  as- 
cribed to  him,  romantically,  an  elegant  per- 
son, or  a  handsome  face,  why  should  I  bar- 
barously tear  from  it  so  pleasing  a  delusion, 
—  pleasing  both  to  the  public  and  to  me  ? 
No  :  paint  me,  if  at  all,  accorcUng  to  your  own 
fancy;  and,  as  a  painter's  fancy  should  teem 
with  beautiful  creations,  I  cannot  fail,  in  that 
way,  to  be  a  gainer.  And  now,  reader,  we  have 
run  through  aU  the  ten  categories^  of  my  con- 
dition, as  it  stood  about  1816-1817,  up  to  the 
middle  of  which  latter  year  I  judge  myseM  to 
have  been  a  happy  man ;  and  the  elements 
of  that  happiness  I  have  endeavoured  to  place 
before  you,  in  the  above  sketch  of  the  interior 
of  a  scholar's  library,  —  in  a  cottage  among 
the  mountains,  on  a  stormy  winter  evening. 

But  now  farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  happi- 
ness, winter  or  summer !  farewell  to  smiles 
and  laughter  !  farewell  to  peace  of  mmd  !  fare- 
well to  hope  and  to  tranquil  dreams,  and  to 
the  blessed  consolations  of  sleep !  For  more 
than  three  years  and  a  half  I  am  summoned 
away  from  these;  I  am  now  arrived  at  an 
IHad  of  woes :  for  I  have  now  to  record 

THE   PAINS   OF  OPIUIM 

...  as  when  some  great  painter  dips 

His  pencil  in  the  gloom  of  earthquake  and  eclipse. 

Shelley's  Revolt  of  Islam  (V.  23). 


I  now  pass  to  what  is  the  main  subject  of 
these  latter  confessions,  to  the  history  and 
journal  of  what  took  place  in  my  dreams ; 
for  these  were  the  immediate  and  proximate 
cause  of  my  acutest  suffering. 

The  first  notice  I  had  of  any  important 
change  going  on  in  this  part  of  my  physical 
economy,  was  from  the  re-awaking  of  a  state 
of  eye  generally  incident  to  childhood,  or 
exalted  states  of  irritability.  I  know  not 
whether  my  reader  is  aware  that  many  chil- 
dren, perhaps  most,  have  a  power  of  painting, 

1  .'Vristotle's  ten  classes  into  which  all  things 
may  be  distributed 


as  it  were,  upon  the  darkness,  all  sorts  of  phan- 
toms :  in  some  that  power  is  simply  a  me- 
chanic affection  of  the  eye ;  others  have  a 
voluntary  or  semi-voluntary  power  to  dismiss 
or  summon  them ;  or,  as  a  child  once  said  to 
me,  when  I  questioned  him  on  this  matter, 
"I  can  tell  them  to  go,  and  they  go;  but 
sometimes  they  come  when  I  don't  tell  them 
to  come."  Whereupon  I  told  him  that  he 
had  almost  as  unlimited  a  command  over 
apparitions  as  a  Roman  centurion  over  his 
soldiers.  In  the  middle  of  1817,  I  think  it 
was,  that  this  faculty  became  positively  dis- 
tressing to  me :  at  night,  when  I  lay  awake  in 
bed,  vast  processions  passed  along  in  mourn- 
ful pomp ;  friezes  of  never-ending  stories, 
that  to  my  feelings  were  as  sad  and  solemn 
as  if  they  were  stories  drawn  from  times  before 
(Edipus'^  or  Priam,^  before  Tyre,^  before  Mem- 
phis.'* And,  at  the  same  time,  a  corresponding 
change  took  place  in  my  dreams ;  a  theatre 
seemed  suddenly  opened  and  lighted  up  within 
my  brain,  which  presented,  nightly,  spectacles 
of  more  than  earthly  splendour.  And  the  four 
following  facts  may  be  mentioned,  as  notice- 
able at  this  time: 

I.  That,  as  the  creative  state  of  the  eye 
increased,  a  sympathy  seemed  to  arise  between 
the  waking  and  the  dreaming  states  of  the 
brain  in  one  point,  —  that  whatsoever  I 
happened  to  caU  up  and  to  trace  by  a  volun- 
tary act  upon  the  darkness  was  very  apt  to 
transfer  itself  to  my  dreams ;  so  that  I  feared 
to  exercise  this  faculty ;  for,  as  ]\Iidas  turned 
all  things  to  gold,  that  yet  baffled  his  hopes 
and  defrauded  his  human  desires,  so  whatso- 
ever things  capable  of  being  visually  repre- 
sented I  did  but  think  of  in  the  darkness,  im- 
mediately shaped  themselves  into  phantoms 
of  the  eye ;  and,  by  a  process  apparently  no 
less  inevitable,  when  thus  once  traced  in  famt 
and  visionary  colours,  like  writings  in  sym- 
pathetic ink,  they  were  drawn  out,  by  the 
fierce  chemistry  of  my  dreams,  into  insuffer- 
able splendour  that  fretted  my  heart. 

II.  For  this,  and  all  other  changes  in  my 
dreams,  were  accompanied  by  deep-seated 
anxiety  and  gloomy  melancholy,  such  as  are 
wholly  incommunica'ole  by  words.  I  seemed 
every  night  to  descend  —  not  metaphorically, 
but  literally  to  descend  —  into  chasms  and 

1  King  of  Thebes  ^  King  of  Troy  ^  already 
famous  in  the  time  of  Solomon  ■*  the  ancient 
capital  of  Egypt 


CONFESSIONS    OF   AN   ENGLISH   OPIUM-EATER 


439 


sunless  abysses,  depths  below  depths,  from 
which  it  seemed  hopeless  that  I  could  ever  re- 
ascend.  Nor  did  I,  by  waking,  feel  that  I  had 
re-ascended.  This  I  do  not  dwell  upon  ;  be- 
cause the  State  of  gloom  which  attended  these 
gorgeous  spectacles,  amounting  at  last  to  utter 
darkness,  as  of  some  suicidal  despondency, 
cannot  be  approached  by  words. 

III.  The  sense  of  space,  and  in  the  end  the 
sense  of  time,  were  both  powerfully  affected. 
Buildings,  landscapes,  etc.,  were  exhibited  in 
proportions  so  vast  as  the  bodily  eye  is  not 
fitted  to  receive.  Space  swelled,  and  was 
amphfied  to  an  extent  of  unutterable  infinity. 
This,  however,  did  not  disturb  me  so  much 
as  the  vast  expansion  of  time.  I  sometimes 
seemed  to  have  lived  for  seventy  or  one  hun- 
dred years  in  one  night ;  nay,  sometimes  had 
feelings  representative  of  a  millennium,  passed 
in  that  time,  or,  however,  of  a  duration  far 
beyond  the  limits  of  any  human  experience. 

IV.  The  minutest  incidents  of  childhood,  or 
forgotten  scenes  of  later  years,  were  often  re- 
vived. I  could  not  be  said  to  recollect  them  ; 
for  if  I  had  been  told  of  them  when  waking, 
I  should  not  have  been  able  to  acknowledge 
them  as  parts  of  my  past  experience.  But 
placed  as  they  were  before  me,  in  dreams  like 
intuitions,  and  clothed  in  aU  their  evanescent 
circumstances  and  accompanying  feelings,  I 
recognised  them  instantaneously.  I  was  once 
told  by  a  near  relative  of  mine,  that  having 
in  her  childhood  fallen  into  a  river,  and  being 
on  the  very  verge  of  death  but  for  the  critical 
assistance  which  reached  her,  she  saw  in  a 
moment  her  whole  hfe,  in  its  minutest  inci- 
dents, arrayed  before  her  simultaneously  as 
in  a  mirror ;  and  she  had  a  faculty  developed 
as  suddenly  for  comprehending  the  whole  and 
every  part.  This,  from  some  opium  experi- 
ences of  mine,  I  can  believe ;  I  have,  indeed, 
seen  the  same  thing  asserted  twice  in  modem 
books,  and  accompanied  by  a  remark  which  I 
am  convinced  is  true,  namely,  that  the  dread 
book  of  account,  which  the  Scriptures  speak 
of,  is,  in  fact,  the  mind  of  each  individual. 
Of  this,  at  least,  I  feel  assured,  that  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  forgetting  possible  to  the 
mind;  a  thousand  accidents  may  and  wiU 
interpose  a  veil  between  our  present  conscious- 
ness and  the  secret  inscriptions  on  the  mind. 
Accidents  of  the  same  sort  will  also  rend  away 
this  veil ;  but  alike,  whether  veiled  or  un- 
veiled, the  inscription  remains  forever:  just 
as  the  stars  seem  to  withdraw  before  the  com- 


mon light  of  day,  whereas,  in  fact,  we  all  know 
that  it  is  the  light  which  is  drawn  over  them 
as  a  veil ;  and  that  they  are  waiting  to  be  re- 
vealed, when  the  obscuring  daylight  shall  have 
withdrawn. 

Having  noticed  these  four  facts  as  memo- 
rably distinguishing  my  dreams  from  those  of 
health,  I  shall  now  cite  a  case  illustrative  of 
the  first  fact ;  and  shall  then  cite  any  others 
that  I  remember,  either  in  their  chronological 
order,  or  any  other  that  may  give  them  more 
effect  as  pictures  to  the  reader. 

I  had  been  in  youth,  and  even  since,  for 
occasional  amusement,  a  great  reader  of  Livy, 
whom  I  confess  that  I  prefer,  both  for  style 
and  matter,  to  any  other  of  the  Roman  his- 
torians ;  and  I  had  often  felt  as  most  solemn 
and  appalling  sounds,  and  most  emphatically 
representative  of  the  majesty  of  the  Roman 
people,  the  two  words  so  often  occurring  in 
Livy  —  Consid  Romantis  ;  especially  when  the 
consul  is  introduced  in  his  military^  character. 
I  mean  to  say,  that  the  words  king,  sultan, 
regent,  etc.,  or  any  other  titles  of  those  who 
embody  in  their  o^^•n  persons  the  collective 
majesty  of  a  great  people,  had  less  power  over 
my  reverential  feelings.  I  had,  also,  though 
no  great  reader  of  history,  made  myself 
minutely  and  critically  familiar  with  one 
period  of  English  histon.',  namely,  the  period 
of  the  Parliament  an,-  War,  having  been  at- 
tracted by  the  moral  grandeur  of  some  who 
figured  in  that  day,  and  by  the  many  interest- 
ing memoirs  which  survive  those  unquiet  times. 
Both  these  parts  of  my  lighter  reading,  having 
furnished  me  often  with  matter  of  reflection, 
now  furnished  me  with  matter  for  my  dreams. 
Often  I  used  to  see,  after  painting  upon  the 
blank  darkness,  a  sort  of  rehearsal  whilst 
waking,  a  crowd  of  ladies,  and  perhaps  a  festi- 
val and  dances.  And  I  heard  it  said,  or  I  said 
to  myself,  "These  are  English  ladies  from  the 
unhappy  times  of  Charles  I.  These  are  the 
wives  and  daughters  of  those  who  met  in 
peace,  and  sat  at  the  same  tables,  and  were 
allied  by  marriage  or  by  blood ;  and  yet, 
after  a  certain  day  in  August,  1642,^  never 
smiled  upon  each  other  again,  nor  met  but  in 
the  field  of  battle ;  and  at  ^Marston  Moor,  at 
Newbury,  or  at  Naseby,-  cut  asunder  all  ties 
of  love  by  the  cruel  sabre,  and  washed  away 
in  blood  the  memory  of  ancient  friendship." 


^  August  22, 1642,  when  the  war  began 
of  the  Parliamentary  War 


■  battles 


440 


THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 


The  ladies  danced,  and  looked  as  lovely  as 
the  court  of  George  IV.  Yet  I  knew,  even 
in  my  dream,  that  they  had  been  in  the  grave 
for  nearly  two  centuries.  This  pageant  would 
suddenly  dissolve ;  and,  at  a  clapping  of 
hands,  would  be  heard  the  heart-quaking 
sound  of  Consul  Romanus  ;  and  immediately 
came  "sweeping  by,"^  in  gorgeous  paluda- 
ments,2  Paul  us  or  Marius,-^  girt  around  by  a 
company  of  centurions,  with  the  crimson  tunic 
hoisted  on  a  spear,  and  followed  by  the  alalag- 
mos  ^  of  the  Roman  legions. 

Many  years  ago,  when  I  was  looking  over 
Piranesi's  Antiquities  of  Rome,  Mr.  Coleridge, 
who  was  standing  by,  described  to  me  a  set 
of  plates  by  that  artist,  called  his  Dreams,^  and 
which  record  the  scenery  of  his  own  visions 
during  the  delirium  of  a  fever.  Some  of  them 
(I  describe  only  from  memory  of  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge's account)  represented  vast  Gothic  halls ; 
on  the  floor  of  which  stood  all  sorts  of  engines 
and  machinery,  wheels,  cables,  pulleys,  levers, 
catapults,  etc.,  expressive  of  enormous  power 
put  forth,  and  resistance  overcome.  Creep- 
ing along  the  sides  of  the  walls,  you  perceived 
a  staircase ;  and  upon  it,  groping  his  way  up- 
wards, was  Piranesi  himself.  Follow  the  stairs 
a  little  further,  and  you  perceive  it  to  come  to 
a  sudden,  abrupt  termination,  without  any 
balustrade,  and  allowing  no  step  onwards  to 
him  who  had  reached  the  extremity,  except 
into  the  depths  below.  Whatever  is  to  be- 
come of  poor  Piranesi,  you  suppose,  at  least, 
that  his  labours  must  in  some  way  terminate 
here.  But  raise  your  eyes,  and  behold  a 
second  flight  of  stairs  still  higher;  on  which 
again  Piranesi  is  perceived,  by  this  time  stand- 
ing on  the  very  brink  of  the  abyss.  Again 
elevate  your  eye,  and  a  still  more  aerial  flight 
of  stairs  is  beheld ;  and  again  is  poor  Piranesi 
busy  on  his  aspiring  labours ;  and  so  on,  until 
the  unfinished  stairs  and  Piranesi  both  are  lost 
in  the  upper  gloom  of  the  hall.  With  the  same 
power  of  endless  growth  and  self-reproduction 
did  my  architecture  proceed  in  dreams.  In 
the  early  stage  of  my  malady,  the  splendours 
of  my  dreams  were  indeed  chiefly  architec- 
tural ;  and  I  beheld  such  pomp  of  cities  and 
palaces  as  was  never  yet  beheld  by  the  waking 
eye,  unless  in  the  clouds.  From  a  great 
modern  poet  I  cite  the  part  of  a  passage  which 

^  Cf.  //  Penseroso,  1.  98.  -  military  cloaks 
'  two  famous  consuls  and  generals  ^  noise  of  the 
war-cries   ^  There  was  no  such  publication. 


describes,  as  an  appearance  actually  beheld  in 
the  clouds,  what  in  many  of  its  circumstances 
I  saw  frequently  in  sleep  : 

The  appearance,  instantaneously  disclosed, 

Was  of  a  mighty  city  —  boldly  say 

A  wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 

And  self-withdrawn  into  a  wondrous  depth, 

Far  sinking  into  splendour  —  without  end  ! 

Fabric  it  seemed  of  diamond,  and  of  gold, 

With  alabaster  domes  and  silver  spires. 

And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 

Uplifted ;   here,  serene  pavilions  bright. 

In  avenues  disposed ;   there  towers  begirt 

With  battlements  that  on  their  restless  fronts 

Bore  stars  —  illumination  of  all  gems  ! 

By  earthly  nature  had  the  effect  been  wrought 

Upon  the  dark  materials  of  the  storm 

Now  pacified ;   on  them,  and  on  the  coves. 

And  mountain-steeps  and  summits,  whereunto 

The  vapours  had  receded  —  taking  there 

Their  station  under  a  cerulean  sky,  etc.,  etc.^ 

The  sublime  circumstance  —  "battlements 
that  on  their  restless  fronts  bore  stars"  — ■ 
might  have  been  copied  from  my  architectural 
dreams,  for  it  often  occurred.  We  hear  it  re- 
ported of  Dryden,  and  of  Fuseli  ^  in  modern 
times,  that  they  thought  proper  to  eat  raw 
meat  for  the  sake  of  obtaining  splendid 
dreams :  how  much  better,  for  such  a  purpose, 
to  have  eaten  opium,  which  yet  I  do  not  re- 
member that  any  poet  is  recorded  to  have 
done,  except  the  dramatist  Shadwell ;  ^  and  in 
ancient  days.  Homer  is,  I  think,  rightly  re- 
puted to  have  known  the  virtues  of  opium.  • 

To  my  architecture  succeeded  dreams  of 
lakes,  and  silvery  expanses  of  water :  these 
haunted  me  so  much,  that  I  feared  (though 
possibly  it  will  appear  ludicrous  to  a  medical 
man)  that  some  dropsical  state  or  tendency 
of  the  brain  might  thus  be  making  itself  (to 
use  a  metaphysical  word)  objective,  and  the 
sentient  organ  project  itself  as  its  own  object. 
For  two  months  I  suffered  greatly  in  my  head 
—  a  part  of  my  bodily  structure  which  had 
hitherto  been  so  clear  from  all  touch  or  taint 
of  weakness  (physicaUy,  I  mean),  that  I  used 
to  say  of  it,  as  the  last  Lord  Orford  ^  said  of  his 
stomach,  that  it  seemed  likely  to  survive  the 
rest  of  my  person.     Till  now  I  had  never  felt 

^  From  Wordsworth's  Excursion  ^  a  Swiss 
painter  (1741-1825),  who  painted  many  subjects 
from  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  'a  second-rate 
dramatist  of  the  Restoration  period  *  Horace 
Walpolc,  a  distinguished  dilettante  (1717-97) 


CONFESSIONS    OF    AN   ENGLISH   OPIUM-EATER 


441 


a  headache  even,  or  any  the  slightest  pain, 
except  rheumatic  pains  Caused  by  my  own 
folly.  However,  I  got  over  this  attack,  though 
it  must  have  been  verging  on  something  very 
dangerous. 

The  waters  now  changed  their  character,  — 
from  translucent  lakes,  shining  like  mirrors, 
they  now  became  seas  and  oceans.  And  now 
came  a  tremendous  change,  which,  unfolding 
itself  slowly  like  a  scroll,  through  many 
months,  promised  an  abiding  torment ;  and, 
in  fact,  it  never  left  me  until  the  winding  up 
of  my  case.  Hitherto  the  human  face  had 
often  mixed  in  my  dreams,  but  not  despoti- 
cally, nor  with  any  special  power  of  tormenting. 
But  now  that  which  I  have  called  the  tyranny 
of  the  human  face,  began  to  imfold  itself. 
Perhaps  some  part  of  my  London  life  might 
be  answerable  for  this.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
now  it  was  that  upon  the  rocking  waters  of 
the  ocean  the  human  face  began  to  appear; 
the  sea  appeared  paved  with  innumerable 
faces,  upturned  to  the  heavens ;  faces,  im- 
ploring, \\Tathful,  despairing,  surged  upwards 
by  thousands,  by  myriads,  by  generations,  by 
centuries :  my  agitation  was  infinite,  my  mind 
tossed  and  surged  with  the  ocean. 

May,  1818.  —  The  Malay  has  been  a  fear- 
ful enemy  for  months.  I  have  been  every 
night,  through  his  means,  transported  into 
Asiatic  scenes.  I  know  not  whether  others 
share  in  my  feelings  on  this  point ;  but  I  have 
often  thought  that  if  I  were  compelled  to 
forego  England,  and  to  live  in  China,  and 
among  Chinese  manners  and  modes  of  life 
and  scenery-,  I  should  go  mad.  The  causes 
of  my  horror  lie  deep,  and  some  of  them  must 
be  common  to  others.  Southern  Asia,  in 
general,  is  the  seat  of  awful  images  and  asso- 
ciations. As  the  cradle  of  the  human  race,  it 
would  alone  have  a  dim  and  reverential  feel- 
ing connected  with  it.  But  there  are  other 
reasons.  No  man  can  pretend  that  the  wild, 
barbarous,  and  capricious  superstitions  of 
Africa,  or  of  savage  tribes  elsewhere,  affect 
him  in  the  way  that  he  is  affected  by  the 
ancient,  monumental,  cruel,  and  elaborate 
religions  of  Indostan,  etc.  The  mere  antiq- 
uity of  Asiatic  things,  of  their  institutions, 
histories,  modes  of  faith,  etc.,  is  so  impressive, 
that  to  me  the  vast  age  of  the  race  and  name 
overpowers  the  sense  of  youth  in  the  indi- 
vidual. A  yoimg  Chinese  seems  to  me  an 
antediluvian  man  renewed.  Even  English- 
men, though  not  bred  in  any  knowledge  of 


such  institutions,  cannot  but  shudder  at  the 
mystic  sublimity  of  castes  that  have  flowed 
apart,  and  refused  to  mix,  through  such  im- 
memorial tracts  of  time ;  nor  can  any  man 
fail  to  be  awed  by  the  names  of  the  Ganges, 
or  the  Euphrates.  It  contributes  much  to 
these  feelings,  that  Southern  Asia  is,  and  has 
been  for  thousands  of  years,  the  part  of  the 
earth  most  swarming  with  human  life,  the 
great  ojjicina  gentium}  IVIan  is  a  weed  in 
those  regions.  The  vast  empires,  also,  into 
which  the  enormous  population  of  Asia  has 
always  been  cast,  give  a  further  sublimity  to 
the  feelings  associated  with  all  oriental  names 
or  images.  In  China,  over  and  above  what  it 
has  in  common  with  the  rest  of  Southern 
Asia,  I  am  terrified  by  the  modes  of  life,  by 
the  manners,  and  the  barrier  of  utter  abhor- 
rence, and  want  of  sympathy,  placed  between 
us  by  feelings  deeper  than  I  can  analyse.  I 
could  sooner  live  with  lunatics,  or  brute  ani- 
mals. All  this,  and  much  more  than  I  can 
say,  or  have  time  to  say,  the  reader  must 
enter  into,  before  he  can  comprehend  the 
unimaginable  horror  which  these  dreams  of 
oriental  imagery,  and  mythological  tortures, 
impressed  upon  me.  Under  the  connecting 
feeling  of  tropical  heat  and  vertical  sunlights, 
I  brought  together  all  creatures,  birds,  beasts, 
reptiles,  all  trees  and  plants,  usages  and  ap- 
pearances, that  are  found  in  all  tropical 
regions,  and  assembled  them  together  in 
China  or  Indostan.  From  kindred  feelings,  I 
soon  brought  Egypt  and  aU  her  gods  under 
the  same  law.  I  was  stared  at,  hooted  at, 
grinned  at,  chattered  at,  by  monkeys,  by  paro- 
quets, by  cockatoos.  I  ran  into  pagodas,  and 
was  fixed,  for  centuries,  at  the  summit,  or  in 
secret  rooms :  I  was  the  idol ;  I  was  the  priest ; 
I  was  worshipped;  I  was  sacrificed.  I  fled 
from  the  wrath  of  Brama^  through  all  the 
forests  of  Asia  :  Vishnu  hated  me ;  Seeva  laid 
wait  for  me.  I  came  suddenly  upon  Isis  and 
Osiris :  ^  I  had  done  a  deed,  they  said,  which 
the  ibis  and  the  crocodile  trembled  at.  I  was 
buried,  for  a  thousand  years,  in  stone  coffins, 
with  mummies  and  sphinxes,  in  narrow  cham- 
bers at  the  heart  of  eternal  pyramids.  I  was 
kissed,  with  cancerous  kisses,  by  crocodiles; 
and   laid,   confoimded   with   all   imutterable 

^  laboratory  of  the  nations  ^  Brahma,  A'ishnu, 
and  Siva,  Hindu  deities  embodying  the  creative, 
preservative,  and  destructive  principles  ^  Cf. 
Milton's  Hymn  on  the  Nativity,  11.  212,  213. 


442 


THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 


slimy    things,    amongst    reeds    and    Nilotic 
mud. 

I  thus  give  the  reader  some  slight  abstrac- 
tion of  my  oriental  dreams,  which  always 
filled  me  with  such  amazement  at  the  mon- 
strous scenery,  that  horror  seemed  absorbed, 
for  a  while,  in  sheer  astonishment.  Sooner  or 
later  came  a  reflux  of  feeling  that  swallowed 
up  the  astonishment,  and  left  me,  not  so 
much  in  terror,  as  in  hatred  and  abomination 
of  what  I  saw.  Over  every  form,  and  threat, 
and  punishment,  and  dim  sightless  incarcera- 
tion, brooded  a  sense  of  eternity  and  infinity 
that  drove  me  into  an  oppression  as  of  mad- 
ness. Into  these  dreams  only,  it  was,  with 
one  or  two  slight  exceptions,  that  any  circum- 
stances of  physical  horror  entered.  AU  before 
had  been  moral  and  spiritual  terrors.  But 
here  the  main  agents  were  ugly  birds,  or 
snakes,  or  crocodiles,  especially  the  last.  The 
cursed  crocodile  became  to  me  the  object  of 
more  horror  than  almost  all  the  rest.  I  was 
compelled  to  live  with  him ;  and  (as  was 
always  the  case,  almost,  in  my  dreams)  for 
centuries.  I  escaped  sometimes,  and  found 
myself  in  Chinese  houses  with  cane  tables,  etc. 
All  the  feet  of  the  tables,  sofas,  etc.,  soon 
became  instinct  with  life :  the  abominable 
head  of  the  crocodile,  and  his  leering  eyes, 
looked  out  at  me,  multipHed  into  a  thousand 
repetitions ;  and  I  stood  loathing  and  fasci- 
nated. And  so  often  did  this  hideous  reptUe 
haunt  my  dreams,  that  many  times  the  very 
same  dream  was  broken  up  in  the  very  same 
way :  I  heard  gentle  voices  speaking  to  me 
(I  hear  everything  when  I  am  sleeping),  and 
instantly  I  awoke :  it  was  broad  noon,  and 
my  children  were  standing,  hand  in  hand,  at 
my  bedside ,  come  to  show  me  their  coloured 
shoes,  or  new  frocks,  or  to  let  me  see  them 
dressed  for  going  out.  I  protest  that  so  awful 
was  the  transition  from  the  damned  crocodile, 
and  the  other  unutterable  monsters  and  abor- 
tions of  my  dreams,  to  the  sight  of  innocent 
Imman  natures  and  of  infancy,  that,  in  the 
mighty  and  sudden  revulsion  of  mind,  I  wept, 
and  could  not  forbear  it,  as  I  kissed  their  faces. 
June,  1819.  ****** 
1  thought  that  it  was  a  Sunday  morning  in 
May ;  that  it  was  Easter  Sunday,  and  as  yet 
very  early  in  the  morning.  I  was  standing, 
as  it  seemed  to  me,  at  the  door  of  my  own 
cottage.  Right  before  me  lay  the  very  scene 
which  could  really  be  commanded  from  that 
situation,   but   exalted,   as   was   usual,   and 


solemnised  by  the  power  of  dreams.  There 
were  the  same  mountains,  and  the  same  lovely 
valley  at  their  feet ;  but  the  mountains  were 
raised  to  more  than  Alpine  height,  and  there 
was  interspace  far  larger  between  them  of 
meadows  and  forest  lawns ;  the  hedges  were 
rich  with  white  roses ;  and  no  living  creature 
was  to  be  seen,  excepting  that  in  the  green 
church-yard  there  were  cattle  tranquilly  repos- 
ing upon  the  verdant  graves,  and  particularly 
romad  about  the  grave  of  a  child  whom  I  had 
tenderly  loved,  just  as  I  had  really  beheld 
them,  a  little  before  sunrise,  in  the  same 
summer,  when  that  child  died.  I  gazed  upon 
the  well-known  scene,  and  I  said  aloud  (as  I 
thought)  to  myself,  "It  yet  wants  much  of 
sunrise ;  and  it  is  Easter  Sunday  ;  and  that  is 
the  day  on  which  they  celebrate  the  first  fruits 
of  resurrection.  I  will  walk  abroad ;  old 
griefs  shall  be  forgotten  to-day ;  for  the  air 
is  cool  and  still,  and  the  hills  are  high,  and 
stretch  away  to  heaven ;  and  the  forest  glades 
are  as  quiet  as  the  church-yard ;  and  with  the 
dew  I  can  wash  the  fever  from  my  forehead, 
and  then  I  shall  be  unhappy  no  longer."  And 
I  turned,  as  if  to  open  my  garden  gate ;  and 
immediately  I  saw  upon  the  left  a  scene  far 
different ;  but  which  yet  the  power  of  dreams 
had  reconciled  into  harmony  with  the  other. 
The  scene  was  an  oriental  one ;  and  there  also 
it  was  Easter  Sunday,  and  very  early  in  the 
morning.  And  at  a  vast  distance  were  visible, 
as  a  stain  upon  the  horizon,  the  domes  and 
cupolas  of  a  great  city  —  an  image  or  faint 
abstraction,  caught,  perhaps,  in  childhood, 
from  some  picture  of  Jerusalem.  And  not  a 
bow-shot  from  me,  upon  a  stone,  and  shaded 
by  Judean  palms,  there  sat  a  woman ;  and  I 
looked,  and  it  was  —  Ann  !  ^  She  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  me  earnestly ;  and  I  said  to  her, 
at  length,  "So,  then,  I  have  found  you,  at 
last."  I  waited  ;  but  she  answered  me  not  a 
word.  Her  face  was  the  same  as  when  I  saw 
it  last,  and  yet,  again,  how  different !  Seven- 
teen years  ago,  when  the  lamp-light  fell  upon 
her  face,  as  for  the  last  time  I  kissed  her  lips 
(lips,  Ann,  that  to  me  were  not  polluted!), 
her  eyes  were  streaming  with  tears ;  —  her 
tears  were  now  wiped  away  ;  ^  she  seemed  more 
beautiful  than  she  was  at  that  time,  but  in 
all  other  points  the  same,  and  not  older.     Her 

^  a  poor  girl  who  had  befriended  him  when 
he  ran  away  from  school  and  came  to  London 
^  Cf.  Revelation,  vii:  17  and  xxi:  4. 


LORD    BYRON 


443 


looks  were  tranquil,  but  with  unusual  solem- 
nity of  expression,  and  I  now  gazed  upon  her 
with  some  awe ;  but  suddenly  her  counte- 
nance grew  dim,  and,  turning  to  the  moimtains, 
I  perceived  vapours  rolling  between  us ;  in  a 
moment,  all  ha,d  vanished;  thick  darkness 
came  on ;  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  I 
was  far  away  from  mountains,  and  by  lamp- 
light in  Oxford-street,  walking  again  with  Ann 
—  just  as  we  walked  seventeen  years  before, 
when  we  were  both  children. 

As  a  final  specimen,  I  cite  one  of  a  different 
character,  from  1820. 

The  dream  commenced  with  a  music  which 
now  I  often  heard  in  dreams  —  a  music  of 
preparation  and  of  awakening  suspense ;  a 
music  like  the  opening  of  the  Coronation 
Anthem,^  and  which,  like  that,  gave  the  feeling 
of  a  vast  march,  of  infinite  cavalcades  filing 
ofif,  and  the  tread  of  innumerable  armies. 
The  morning  was  come  of  a  mighty  day  —  a 
day  of  crisis  and  of  final  hope  for  human 
nature,  then  suffering  some  mysterious  eclipse, 
and  labouring  in  some  dread  extremity. 
Somewhere,  I  knew  not  where  —  somehow, 
I  knew  not  how  —  by  some  beings,  I  knew  not 
whom  —  a  battle,  a  strife,  an  agony,  was  con- 
ducting, —  was  evolving  Kke  a  great  drama, 
or  piece  of  music ;  with  which  my  sympathy 
was  the  more  insupportable  from  my  confusion 
as  to  its  place,  its  cause,  its  nature,  and  its 
possible  issue.  I,  as  is  usual  in  dreams  (where, 
of  necessity,  we  make  ourselves  central  to 
every  movement),  had  the  power,  and  yet 
had  not  the  power,  to  decide  it.  I  had  the 
power,  if  I  could  raise  myself,  to  will  it ;  and 
yet  again  had  not  the  power,  for  the  weight  of 
twenty  Atlantics  was  upon  me,  or  the  oppres- 
sion of  inexpiable  guilt.  "Deeper  than  ever 
plummet  sounded,"  ^  I  lay  inactive.  Then,  like 
a  chorus,  the  passion  deepened.  Some  greater 
interest  was  at  stake;  some  mightier  cause 
than  ever  yet  the  sword  had  pleaded,  or  trum- 
pet had  proclaimed.  Then  came  sudden 
alarms ;  hurrymgs  to  and  fro ;  trepidations  of 
innumerable  fugitives.  I  knew  not  whether 
from  the  good  cause  or  the  bad ;  darkness  and 
lights  ;  tempest  and  human  faces ;  and  at  last, 
with  the  sense  that  all  was  lost,  female  forms, 
and  the  features  that  were  worth  all  the  world 
to  me,  and  but  a  moment  allowed,  —  and 

^  The  music  was  written  in  1727  by  Handel 
for  the  coronation  of  George  II.  ^  Cf.  The  Tem- 
pest, III,  iii,  loi. 


clasped  hands,  and  heart-breaking  partings, 
and  then  —  everlasting  farewells !  and,  with 
a  sigh,  such  as  the  caves  of  hell  sighed  when 
the  incestuous  mother  uttered  the  abhorred 
name  of  death,^  the  sound  was  reverberated  — 
everlasting  farewells !  and  again ,  and  yet 
again  reverberated  —  everlasting  farewells ! 

And  I  awoke  in  struggles,  and  cried  aloud 
—  ''I  will  sleep  no  more!" 


GEORGE  NOEL  GORDON,  LORD 
BYRON  (i  788-1824) 

From  ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH 
REVIEWERS 


A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every  trade, 
Save  censure  —  critics  all  are  ready  made. 
Take  hackney'd  jokes  from  Miller,-  got  by  rote, 
With  just  enough  of  learning  to  misquote;  66 
A  mind  well  skill'd  to  find  or  forge  a  fault ; 
A  turn  for  punnmg,  call  it  Attic  salt ; 
To  Jeffrey  ^  go,  be  silent  and  discreet, 
His  pay  is  just  ten  sterling  pounds  per  sheet : 
Fear  not  to  lie,  'twill  seem  a  lucky  hit ;        71 
Shrink  not  from  blasphemy,  'twill  pass  for  wit : 
Care  not  for  feeling  — •  pass  your  proper  jest, 
And  stand  a  critic,  hated  yet  caress'd. 

And  shall  we  own  such  judgment  ?  no  —  as 
soon 
Seek  roses  in  December,  ice  in  June  ; 
Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  corn  in  chaff, 
Believe  a  woman,  or  an  epitaph. 
Or  any  other  thing  that's  false,  before 
You  trust  in  critics  who  themselves  are  sore ; 
Or  yield  one  single  thought  to  be  misled      81 
By  Jeffrey's  heart,  or  Lambe's  ■*  Boeotian  head.* 


Behold!    in  various  throngs  the  scribbling 
crew. 
For  notice  eager,  pass  in  long  review ; 
Each  spurs  his  jaded  Pegasus  apace. 
And  rhyme  and  blank  maintain  an  equal  race, 

1  Par.  Lost,  II,  648-814.  ^  Joe  Miller's  Jest- 
book,  pub.  1730  and  taany  times  reprinted  — 
proverbial  for  stale  jokes  ^  Francis  Lord  Jeffrey, 
editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  ''  Byron  said : 
"Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Lambe  are  the  Alpha  and 
Omega  of  the  Edinburgh  Review."  *The  Boeotians 
were  proverbial  for  stupidity. 


444 


LORD    BYRON 


Sonnets  on  sonnets  crowd,  and  ode  on  ode ;  141 
And  tales  of  terror  jostle  on  the  road ; 
Immeasurable  measures  ^  move  along ; 
For  simpering  Folly  loves  a  varied  song, 
To  strange  mysterious  Dullness  still  the  friend, 
Admires  the  strain  she  cannot  comprehend. 
Thus  Lays  of  Minstrels  —  may  they  be  the 

last! 
On  half-strung  harps  whine  mournful  to  the 

blast. 
While  mountain  spirits  prate  to  river  sprites. 
That   dames  may  listen   to   their   sound   at 

night ; 
And  goblin  brats  of  Gilpin  Horner's  brood,- 151 
Decoy  young  border-nobles  through  the  wood. 
And  skip  at  every  step,  Lord  knows  how  high, 
And  frighten  fooUsh  babes,  the  Lord  knows 

why; 
While  high-born  ladies  in  their  magic  ceU, 
Forbidding  knights  to  read  who  cannot  spell, 
Despatch  a  courier  to  a  wizard's  grave, 
And  fight  with  honest  men  to  shield  a  knave. 
Next  view  in  state,  proud  prancing  on  his 
roan. 
The  golden -crested  haughty  Marmion,       160 
Now  forging  scrolls,  now  foremost  in  the  fight, 
Not  quite  a  felon,  yet  but  half  a  knight, 
The  gibbet  or  the  field  prepared  to  grace  — 
A  mighty  mixture  of  the  great  and  base. 
And  think'st  thou,  Scott !  by  vain  conceit  per- 
chance. 
On  public  taste  to  foist  thy  stale  romance. 
Though  Murray  with  his  Miller  ^  may  combine 
To  yield  thy  muse  just  half-a-crown  per  line? 
No!   when  the  sons  of  song  descend  to  trade. 
Their  bays  are  sear,  their  former  laurels  fade. 
Let  such  forego  the  poet's  sacred  name,      171 
Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre,  not  for  fame : 
Low  may  they  sink  to  merited  contempt, 
And  scorn  remunerate  the  mean  attempt! 
Such  be  their  meed,  such  still  the  just  reward 
Of  prostituted  muse  and  hireling  bard! 
For  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son. 
And  bid  a  long  "good  night  to  Marmion."* 
These  are  the  themes  that  claim  our  plau- 
dits now ; 
These  are  the  bards  to  whom  the  muse  must 
bow :  1 80 

^  A  jibe  at  the  metres  of  Scott,  Coleridge,  etc. 
^  Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  was  suggested  by 
a  folk-tale  of  a  goblin  called  Gilpin  Horner. 
^  Constable,  Murray,  and  Miller  were  Scott's 
publishers.  ''  Originally  spoken  with  sorrow  by 
Henry  Blount  on  reading  the  death  of  Marmion 


While  Milton,  Dry  den,  Pope,  alike  forgot, 
Resign  their  hallow'd  bays  to  Walter  Scott. 


With  eagle  pinions  soaring  to  the  skies,      195 
Behold  the  ballad  monger,  Southey,  rise ! 
To  him  let  Camoens,^  Milton,  Tasso,^  yield. 
Whose  annual  strains,  like  armies,  take  the 

•     field.. 
First  in  the  ranks  see  Joan  of  Arc '  advance, 
The  scourge  of  England,  and  the  boast  of 

France !  200 

Though  burnt  by  wicked  Bedford  for  a  witch, 
Behold  her  statue  placed  in  glory's  niche. 
Her   fetters   burst,    and   just    released   from 

prison, 
A  virgin  Phoenix  from  her  ashes  risen. 
Next  see  tremendous  Thalaba^  come  on, 
Arabia's  monstrous,  wild,  and  wondrous  son ; 
Domdaniel's'*  dread  destroyer,  who  o'erthrew 
More  mad  magicians  than  the  world  e'er  knew. 
Immortal  hero  !   all  thy  foes  o'ercome. 
Forever  reign  — ■  the  rival  of  Tom  Thumb  ! 
Since  startled  metre  fled  before  thy  face,    211 
Well  wert  thou  doom'd  the  last  of  all  thy  race ! 
Well  might  triumphant  Genii  bear  thee  hence. 
Illustrious  conqueror  of  common  sense ! 
Now,  last  and  greatest,  Madoc^  spreads  his 

sails. 
Cacique  ^  in  Mexico,  and  Prince  in  Wales ; 
Tells  us  strange  tales,  as  other  travellers  do. 
More  old  than  JNIandeviUe's,  and  not  so  true. 
Oh !     Southey,    Southey !    cease    thy   varied 

song! 
A  Bard  may  chaunt  too  often  and  too  long  1220 
As  thou  art  strong  in  verse,  in  mercy  spare ! 
A  fourth,  alas!  were  more  than  we  could  bear. 
But  if,  in  spite  of  all  the  world  can  say. 
Thou  still  wilt  verseward  plod  thy  weary  way ; 
If  still  in  Berkley  ballads,^  most  uncivil, 
Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil. 
The  babe  unborn  thy  dread  intent  may  rue; 
"God  help  thee,"  Southey,  and  thy  readers 

too. 
Next  comes  the  dull  disciple  of  thy  school, 
That  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule,  230 

^  a  famous  Portuguese  epic  poet  (1524-80) 
^  a  famous  Italian  epic  poet  (1544-95)  ^  epics  by 
Southey  *  a  seminary  for  evil  magicians  held  in  a 
cave  in  Arabia ;  its  destruction  is  the  theme  of 
Thalaba  ^  chief  «  "  The  Old  Woman  of  Berkley, 
a  ballad  by  Southey,  wherein  an  aged  gentle- 
woman is  carried  away  by  Beelzebub,  on  a  'high- 
trotting  horse.'"  —  Byron's  note. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE 


44S 


The  simple  Wordsworth,  framer  of  a  lay- 
As  soft  as  evening  in  his  favourite  May ; 
Who  warns  his  friend  "to  shake  off  toil  and 

trouble ; 
And   quit   his   books,    for    fear   of   growing 

double;" 
\\'ho,  both  by  precept  and  example,  shows 
That  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  is  merely  prose, 
Convincing  all,  by  demonstration  plain. 
Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane ; 
And  Christmas  stories,  tortured  into  rhyme. 
Contain  the  essence  of  the  true  subUme :    240 
Thus  when  he  teUs  the^tale  of  Betty  Foy, 
The  idiot  mother  of  "an  idiot  Boy;" 
A  moon-struck  silly  lad  who  lost  his  way. 
And,  like  his  bard,  confounded  night  with  day ; 
So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells. 
And  each  adventure  so  sublimely  tells. 
That  all  who  view  the  "idiot  in  his  glory," 
Conceive  the  Bard  the  hero  of  the  story. 

ShaU  gentle  Coleridge  pass  unnoticed  here, 
To  turgid  ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear?       250 
Though  themes  of  innocence  amuse  him  best, 
Yet  stiU  obscurity's  a  welcome  guest. 
If  Inspiration  should  her  aid  refuse 
To  him  who  takes  a  Pixy  for  a  JMuse,^ 
Yet  none  in  lofty  numbers  can  surpass 
The  bard  who  soars  to  elegize  an  ass. 
How  well  the  subject  suits  his  noble  mind ! 
"A  feUow-feeUng  makes  us  wondrous  kind!" 


CfflLDE   HAROLD'S   PILGRIjVIAGE 
THE   FAREWELL:  From   CANTO  I 

Oh,  thou !    in  Hellas  deem'd  of  heavenly 

birth. 
Muse !    form'd  or  fabled  at  the  minstrel's 

will! 
Since  shamed  full  oft  by  later  lyres  on  earth, 
Mine  dares  not  call  thee  from  thy  sacred 

hill; 
Yet  there  I've  wander 'd  by  thy  vaunted 

rill; 
Yes!     sigh'd    o'er    Delphi's    long-deserted 

shrine. 
Where,  save  that  feeble  fountain,  all  is  still ; 
Nor  mote  my  shell  awake  the  weary  Nine  8 
To  grace  so  plain  a  tale  —  this  lowly  lay  of 

mine. 

^  In  Songs  of  the  Pixies;  one  of  the  poems  is 
entitled  To  a  Young  Ass. 


Whilome  in  Albion's  isle  there  dwelt  a  youth 
Who  ne  in  virtue's  ways  did  take  deUght ; 
But  spent  his  days  in  riot  most  uncouth. 
And  vex'd  with  mirth  the  drowsy  ear  of 

Night. 
Ah,  me!  in  sooth  he  was  a  shameless  wight, 
Sore  given  to  revel  and  ungodly  glee ; 
Few  earthly  things  found  favour  in  his  sight 
Save  concubines  and  carnal  companie  17 
And  flaunting  wassailers  of  high  and  low  de- 
gree. 

Childe  Harold  was  he  hight :  —  but  whence 

his  name 
And  lineage  long,  it  suits  me  not  to  say ; 
Suffice  it,  that  perchance  they  were  of  fame, 
And  had  been  glorious  in  another  day : 
But  one  sad  losel  soils  a  name  for  aye. 
However  mighty  in  the  olden  time ; 
Nor  all  that  heralds  rake  from  coffin 'd  clay, 
Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honey'd  lies  of  rhyme, 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crime. 

Childe  Harold  bask'd  him  in  the  noontide 
sun,  28 

Disporting  there  like  any  other  fly. 
Nor  deem'd  before  his  little  day  was  done 
One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 
But  long  ere  scarce  a  third  of  his  pass'd  by, 
Worse  than  adversity  the  Childe  befell ; 
He  felt  the  fuUness  of  satiety : 
Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell, 
Which  seem'd  to  him  more  lone  than  Eremite's 
sad  cell.  36 

For  he  through  Sin's  long  labyrinth  had  run, 
Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss. 
Had  sigh'd  to  many,  though  he  loved  but 

one, 
And  that  lov'd  one,  alas,  could  ne'er  be  his. 
Ah,  happy  she!   to  'scape  from  him  whose 

kiss 
Had  been  pollution  unto  aught  so  chaste ; 
Who  soon  had  left  her  charms  for  vulgar 

bHss, 
And  spoil'd  her  goodty  lands  to  gild  his 

waste. 
Nor  calm  domestic  peace  had  ever  deign'd  to 

taste.  45 

And  now  Childe  Harold  was  sore  sick  at 

heart. 
And  from  his  fellow  bacchanals  would  flee ; 
'Tis  said,  at  times  the  sullen  tear  would 

start, 


446 


LORD    BYRON 


But  Pride  congeal'd  the  drop  within  his  e'e ; 
Apart  he  stalk'd  in  joyless  reverie, 
And  from  his  native  land  resolv'd  to  go, 
And  visit  scorching  climes  beyond  the  sea : 
With  pleasure  drugg'd,  he  almost  long'd  for 

woe. 
And  e'en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  the 

shades  below.  54 

The  Childe  departed  from  his  father's  hall ; 

It  was  a  vast  and  venerable  pile ; 

So  old,  it  seemed  only  not  to  fall, 

Yet  strength  was  pillar'd  in  each  massy  aisle. 

Monastic  dome!   condemn'd  to  uses  vile! 

Where  Superstition  once  had  made  her  den. 

Now  Paphian  girls  were  known  to  sing  and 

smile;  6i 

And  monks  might  deem  their  time  was  come 

agen. 
If  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy 


Yet  ofttimes,  in  his  maddest  mirthful  mood, 
Strange   pangs   would   flash   along   Childe 

Harold's  brow. 
As  if  the  memory  of  some  deadly  feud 
Or  disappointed  passion  lurk'd  below : 
But  this  none  knew,  nor  haply  cared  to 

know ; 
For  his  was  not  that  open,  artless  soul 
That  feels  relief  by  bidding  sorrow  flow ; 
Nor  sought  he  friend  to  counsel  or  condole, 
Whate'er  this  grief  mote  be,  which  he  could 

not  control.  72 

And  none  did  love  him  —  though  to  hall  and 

bower 
He  gather'd  revellers  from  far  and  near. 
He  knew  them  flatterers  of  the  festal  hour ; 
The  heartless  parasites  of  present  cheer. 
Yea!    none  did  love  him  —  not  his  lemans 

dear  — 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman 's  care. 
And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a  feere  ; 
Maidens,  like  moths,  are  ever  caught  by 

glare,  80 

And  Mammon  wins  his  way  where  Seraphs 

might  despair. 

Childe  Harold  had  a  mother  —  not  forgot. 
Though  parting  from  that  mother  he  did 

shun : 
A  sister  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  pilgrimage  begun  : 
If  friends  he  had,  he  bade  adieu  to  none, 


Yet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of 

steel ; 
Ye,  who  have  known  what  'tis  to  dote  upon 
A  few  dear  objects,  wiU  in  sadness  feel 
Such  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly 

hope  to  heal.  90 

His  house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  lands. 
The  laughing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight. 
Whose  large  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  snowy 

hands. 
Might  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite, 
And  long  had  fed  hij  youthful  appetite ; 
His  goblets  brimm'd  with  every  costly  wine, 
And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite, 
Without  a  sigh  he  left  to  cross  the  brine, 
And  traverse  Paynim  shores,  and  pass  Earth's 

central  line. 

The  sails  were  fill'd,  and  fair  the  light  winds 

blew,  100 

As  glad  to  waft  him  from  his  native  home ; 
And  fast  the  white  rocks  faded  from  his 

view. 
And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam ; 
And  then,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 
Repented  he,  but  in  his  bosom  slept        105 
The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did 

come 
One  word  of  wail,  whilst  others  sate  and 

wept. 
And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moaning 

kept. 

But  when  the  sun  was  sinking  in  the  sea. 
He  seized  his  harp,  which  he  at  times  could 
string,  no 

And  strike,  albeit  with  untaught  melody, 
When  deem'd  he  no  strange  ear  was  listen- 
ing; 
And  now  his  fingers  o'er  it  he  did  fling. 
And  tuned  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twilight, 
While  flew  the  vessel  on  her  snowy  wing, 
And  fleeting  shores  receded  from  his  sight, 
Thus  to  the  elements  he  pour'd  his  last  "  Good 
Night."  117 

Adieu,  adieu  !   my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue  ; 
The  night -winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 

And_ shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee. 

My  native  land  —  Goodnight!  125 


CHILDE    IL^ROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE 


447 


A  few  short  hours,  and  he  will  rise, 

To  give  the  morrow  birth ; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies. 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  hearth  is  desolate  ; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall, 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate.  133 


And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone, 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea ; 
But  why  should  I  for  others  groan. 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me  ? 
Perchance  my  dog  will  whine  in  vain, 

Till  fed  by  stranger  hands  ; 
But  long  ere  I  come  back  again 

He'd  tear  me  where  he  stands.  189 

With  thee,  my  bark,  I'll  swiftly  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine  ; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bear'st  me  to, 

So  not  again  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark  blue  waves  ! 

i\.nd  when  you  fail  my  sight, 
Welcome,  ye  deserts,  and  ye  caves  ! 

My  native  land  —  Good  night !  197 


WATERLOO:   From  C-\NT0  III 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave 

men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake 

again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell; 
But  hush  !   hark  !   a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a 

rising  knell !  ■  189 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?  —  No  ;  'twas  but  the 
wind. 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 

On  with  the  dance  !   let  joy  be  unconfined ; 

No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleas- 
ure meet 

To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying 
feet.  — 

But  hark  !  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once 
more. 

As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 


And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 
Arm  !  arm  !  it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  open- 


nig  roar 


Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brmiswick's  fated  chieftain ;    he  did 

hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic 

ear. 
And  when  they  smUed  because  he  deem'd  it 

near. 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier. 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could 
queU.  206 

He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fight- 
ing, fell. 

Ah !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and 
fro, 

And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  dis- 
tress. 

And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 

Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveli- 
ness ; 

And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as 
press 

The  life  from  out  yoimg  hearts,  and  chok- 
ing sighs 

WTiich  ne'er  might  be  repeated :  who  could 
guess 

If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 

Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn 

could  rise  !  216 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  :    the 

steed. 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering 

car. 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
.\nd  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
WTiile    tlurong'd    the    citizens    with    terror 

dumb. 
Or  whispering  ^^ith  white  lips  —  "The  foe! 

They  come  !  they  come  !"  225 

And  wild  and  high  the  "Cameron's  Gather- 
ing" rose, 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon 
foes; 


448 


LORD    BYRON 


How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills 
Savage  and  shrill !     But   with  the  breath 

which  fills 
Their  mountain  pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clans- 


man s  ears 


234 


And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green 

leaves. 
Dewy  with  Nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave,  —  alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall 

grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder 

cold  and  low.  243 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life. 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay. 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of 

strife. 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms  —  the 

day 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when 

rent 
The  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay. 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and 

pent, 
Rider  and  horse  —  friend,  foe,  —  in  one  red 

burial  blent !  252 

MAN  AND   NATURE:   From   CANTO   III 

Lake  Leman  ^  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face. 
The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  mountains 

view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 
Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height  and 

hue; 
There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look 

through 
With  a  fit  mind  the  might  which  I  behold ; 
But  soon  in  me  shall  Loneliness  renew 
Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cherish'd  than 

of  old. 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penn'd  me  in 

their  fold.  612 

^  Lake  Geneva 


To  lly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  mankind ; 
All  are  not  fit  with  them  to  stir  and  toil, 
Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 
Deep  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 
In  the  hot  throng,  where  we  become  the 

spoU 

Of  our  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 

We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  the  coil, 

In  wretched  interchange  of  wrong  for  wrong 

'Midst  a  contentious  world,   striving  where 

none  are  strong.  621 

There,  in  a  moment,  we  may  plunge  our 

years 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears, 
And  colour  things  to  come  with  hues  of 

Night : 
The  race  of  life  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To  those  that  walk  in  darkness ;  on  the  sea 
The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  in- 
vite. 
But  there  are  wanderers  o'er  Eternity 
Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchor'd 
ne'er  shall  be.  630 

Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone, 
And  love  Earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake? 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone, 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake. 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fair  but  froAvard  infant  her  own  care. 
Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake ;  — 
Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to  wear, 
Than  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doom'd  to  in- 
flict or  bear  ?  639 

I  live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become 
Portion  of  that  around  me :  and  to  me. 
High  mountains  are  a  feelmg,  but  the  hum 
Of  human  cities  torture  ;  I  can  see 
Nothing  to  loathe  in  Nature,  save  to  be 
A  link  reluctant  in  a  fleshly  chain,  645 

Class'd  among  creatures,  when  the  soul  can 

flee. 
And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving 

plain 
Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  in  vain. 

And  thus  I  am  absorb'd,  and  this  is  life : 
I  look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past. 
As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife, 
Where,  for  some  sin,  to  Sorrow  I  was  cast, 
To  act  and  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 
With  a  fresh  pinion  ;  which  I  feel  to  spring, 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE 


449 


Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous  as  the 

blast 
Which  it  would  cope  with,  on  delighted 

wing, 
Spurning  the  clay-cold  bonds  which  round  our 

being  cling.  657 

And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be  all 

free 
From  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded  form, 
Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm,  — 
When  elements  to  elements  conform. 
And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not 
Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm? 
The  bodiless  thought?    the  Spirit  of  each 
spot? 
'  Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the  im- 
mortal lot  ?  666 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies,  a 

part 
Of  me  and  of  my  sold,  as  I  of  them  ? 
Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  my  heart 
With  a  pure  passion  ?  should  I  not  contemn 
All  objects,  if  compared  with  these?    and 

stem 
A  tide  of  suffering  rather  than  forego 
Such   feelings   for   the   hard   and   worldly 

phlegm 
Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  turn'd  below, 
Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with  thoughts  which 

dare  not  glow?  675 

ROME:   From   CANTO  IV 

O  Rome  !  my  country  !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee. 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  !   and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?     Come 

and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your 

way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  — 

Ye! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day  — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay.  702 

The  Niobe  ^  of  nations  !    there  she  stands. 
Childless  anc^crownless  in  her  voiceless  woe  ; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands. 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scatter'd  long  ago  ; 


The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers :   dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber  !   through  a  marble  wilderness  ? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her 
distress.  711 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood, 

and  Fire, 
Have    dealt    upon    the   seven-hill'd   city's 

pride : 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire. 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride, 
Where  the  car  ^  climb 'd  the  Capitol ;  far  and 

wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a 

site :  — 
Chaos  of  ruins  !   who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light. 
And   say,    "Here   was,   or   is,"   where   all  is 

doubly  night?  720 

LOVE:   From   CANTO  IV 

0  Love  !  no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art  — 
An  unseen  seraph,  we  believe  in  thee,  — 
A  faith  whose  martyrs  are  the  broken  heart, 
But  never  yet  hath  seen,  nor  e'er  shall  see. 
The  naked  eye,  thy  form,  as  it  should  be : 
The  mind  hatla  made  thee,  as  it  peopled 

heaven. 
Even  with  its  own  desiring  phantasy, 
And  to  a  thought  such  shape  and  image 

given, 
As  haunts  the  unquench'd  soul  —  parch'd  — 

wearied  —  wrung  —  and  riven.  1089 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  mind  diseased. 
And  fevers  into  false  creation  ;  —  where. 
Where  are  the  forms  the  sculptor's  soul  hath 

seized  ? 
In  him  alone.     Can  Nature  show  so  fair? 
Where  are  the  charms  and  virtues  which  we 

dare- 
Conceive  in  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men, 
The  unreach'd  Paradise  of  our  despair. 
Which  o'er-informs  the  pencil  and  the  pen. 
And    overpowers    the    page  where  it  would 

bloom  again?  1098 

Who  loves,  raves  —  'tis  youth's  frenzy  — 

but  the  cure 
Is  bitterer  still ;  as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 


^  The  children  of  Niobe  were  slain  by  Apollo. 


^  chariot 


45° 


LORD    BYRON 


Which  robed  our  idols,  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the 

mind's 
Ideal  shape  of  such ;  yet  still  it  binds 
The  fatal  spell,  and  still  it  draws  us  on, 
Reaping  the  whirlwind  from  the  oft-sown 

winds ; 
The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchemy  begun. 
Seems  ever  near  the  prize  —  wealthiest  when 

most  undone.  1107 

We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away  — 
Sick  —  sick  ;  unfound  the  boon  —  unslaked 

the  thirst. 
Though  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay, 
Some  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought  at 

first  — 
But  all  too  late,  —  so  are  we  doubly  curst. 
Love,   fame,   ambition,   avarice  —  'tis   the 

same  — 
Each  idle,  and  all  ill,  and  none  the  worst  — 
For  all  are  meteors  with  a  different  name, 
And  Death  the  sable  smoke  where  vanishes  the 

flame.  1116 

Few  —  none  —  find  what  they  love  or  could 

have  loved : 
Though  accident,   blind   contact,   and  the 

strong 
Necessity  of  loving,  have  removed 
Antipathies  —  but  to  recur,  ere  long, 
Envenom'd  with  irrevocable  wrong ; 
And  Circumstance,  that  unspiritual  god 
And  miscreator,  makes  and  helps  along 
Our  coming  evils  with  a  crutch-like  rod. 
Whose  touch  turns  Hope  to  dust  —  the  dust 

we  all  have  trod.  11 25 

MAN  AND  NATURE:  From  CANTO  IV 

Oh  !  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister. 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race. 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her  ! 
Ye  Elements  !  —  in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted  —  can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being?     Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot  ? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be 
our  lot.  1593 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore. 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes. 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar : 


I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before. 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel  1601 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  con- 
ceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  — 
roll! 

Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 

Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  con- 
trol 

Stops  with  the  shore ;  —  upon  the  watery 
plain 

The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  re- 
main 

A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 

When  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 

He  sinks   into  thy  depths  with  bubbling 
groan. 
Without  a  grave,   unknell'd,  uncoffin'd  and 
unknown,  16 11 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths  —  thy 

fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him  —  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee  ;  the  vile  strength 

he  wields  , 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  de- 
spise. 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful 

spray. 
And  howhng,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth  —  there  let 
him  lay.  1620 

The  armaments  which   thunderstrike   the 

walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals. 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war ; 
These  are  thy  toys,   and,   as   the    snowy 

flake. 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which 

mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafal- 

gar.i  • 

'  The  uninjured  ships  of  the  Armada  are  con- 
trasted with  those  broken  in  the  battle  of  Tra- 
falgar. 


THE    PRISONER    OF    CHILLON 


451 


Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save 

thee —  1630 

Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are 

they? 
Thy  waters  washed  them  power  while  they 

were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since :  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave  or  savage ;   their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts :  —  not  so 

thou, 
Unchangeable    save    to    thy    wild    waves' 

play  — 
Time   writes   no    wrinkle   on    thine   azure 

brow  — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  roUest 

now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's 

form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  :  in  all  tim.e,   1640 
Calm  or  convulsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or 

storm. 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving ;  —  boundless,    endless,    and 

sublime  — 
The  image  of  Eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible ;   even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;   each 
zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathom- 
less, alone.  1647 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :    from  a 

boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  deUght ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror  —  'twas  a  pleasing  fear. 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near. 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do 

here.  .       1656 

SONNET   ON.  CHILLON 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind ! 

Brightest  in  dimgeons.  Liberty  !   thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart  — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind ; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd  — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless 

gloom. 
Their  country  conquers  uath  their  martyr- 
dom, 


And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every 

wind. 
Chillon  !  ^  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar  —  for  'twas  trod. 

Until  his  ver}'^  steps  have  left  a  trace  1 1 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod. 

By    Bonnivard !     May    none    those    marks 

efface ! 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 

THE  PRISONER  OF   CHLLLON 

My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  from  years ; 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night, 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears : 
I\Iy  limbs  are  bow'd,  though  net  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose, 
For  the\^  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann'd,  and  barr'd  — -  forbidden  fare ;    lo 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffer'd  chains  and  courted  death : 
That  father  perish'd  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  foimd  a  dwelling-place. 
We  were  seven  —  who  now  are  one ; 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finish'd  as  they  had  begun. 

Proud  of  Persecution's  rage  ;  20 

One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field. 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  seal'd 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied ;  — 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon 's  dungeon  deep  and  old ; 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray. 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprison'd  ray,  30 

A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left : 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp : 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing. 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 

^  The  castle  of  Chillon  covers  a  huge  rock  at 
the  eastern  end  of  Lake  Geneva  (Lake  Leman). 


452 


LORD    BYRON 


With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away,  40 

Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes. 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years  —  I  cannot  count  them  o'er ; 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  droop'd  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

They  chain'd  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 

And  we  were  three  —  yet  each  alone  ; 

We  could  not  move  a  single  pace,  50 

We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 

But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 

That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight : 

And  thus  together  —  yet  apart, 

Fetter'd  in  hand,  but  join'd  in  heart, 

'Twas  still  some  solace  in  the  dearth 

Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth. 

To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 

And  each  turn  comforter  to  each. 

With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old,  60 

Or  song  heroically  bold  ; 

But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 

Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone. 

An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone, 

A  grating  sound  —  not  full  and  free, 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be : 
It  might  be  fancy  —  but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three ; 

And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest  70 

I  ought  to  do  —  and  did  —  my  best, 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him  —  with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven,  — 

For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved. 
And  truly  might  it  be  distress'd 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day  — 

(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me  80 

As  to  young  eagles,  being  free)  — 

A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer's  gone, 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light. 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun  : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright. 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay. 
With,  tears  for  naught  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain  rills. 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe  90 

Which  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 


The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind. 
But  form'd  to  combat  with  his  kind ; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perish'd  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy  —  but  not  in  chains  to  pine  : 
His  spirit  wither'd  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline  — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine ;       100 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills. 

Had  foUow'd  there  the  deer  and  wolf ; 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fetter'd  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls : 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow ; 
Thus  much  the  fathom  line  was  sent  no 

From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement, 

Which  round  about  the  wave  enthralls  : 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made  —  and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay. 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day ; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knock'd ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky  ;  121 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock'd, 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshock'd, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 

I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined. 

He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food : 

It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude. 

For  we  were  used  to  hunters'  fare,  130 

And  for  the  like  had  little  care : 

The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 

Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat ; 

Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 

Have  moisten 'd  many  a  thousand  years, 

Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men 

Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den ; 

But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him? 

These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb ; 

My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould  140 

Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 

Had  his  free-breathing  been  denied 

The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side. 

But  why  delay  the  truth?  —  he  died. 

I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 


■  THE    PRISONER   OF    CHILLON 


453 


Nor  reach  his  dying  hand  —  nor  dead  — 

Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 

To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 

He  died  —  and  they  unlock'd  his  chain 

And  scoop'd  for  him  a  shallow  grave  150 

Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 

I  begg'd  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 

His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 

Might  shine  —  it  was  a  foolish  thought, 

But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought. 

That  even  in  death  his  free-born  breast 

In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 

I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer  — 

They  coldly  laugh'd  —  and  laid  him  there  : 

The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above  160 

The  being  we  so  much  did  love ; 

His  empty  chain  above  it  leant. 

Such  murder's  fitting  monument ! 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherish'd  since  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face. 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  martyr'd  father's  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be  170 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free ; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired  — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  away. 

O  God  !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood  :  — 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean  180 

Strive  with  a  swoll'n  convulsive  motion, 

I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread : 

But  these  were  horrors  —  this  was  woe 

Unmix'd  with  such,  —  but  sure  and  slow : 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek. 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak. 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender,  —  kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind ;  ' 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom     190 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray  — 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light. 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur  —  not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot ! 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence  —  lost  200 


In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most : 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness. 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less. 

I  hsten'd,  but  I  could  not  hear  — 

I  call'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear ; 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished  ; 

I  call'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound  — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound,   210 

And  rush'd  to  him  ;  —  I  found  him  not ; 

/  only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot, 

/  only  lived  —  /  only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew ; 

The  last,  —  the  sole,  —  the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath  — 

My  brothers  —  both  had  ceased  to  breath : 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still ;  221 

Alas,  my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive  — 

A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die ; 
I  had  no  earthly  hope  —  but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death.  230 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 
I  know  not  well  —  I  never  knew  :  — 
First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too  : 
I  had  no  thought ,  no  feeling  —  none  — 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone. 
And  was  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist. 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 
For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray, 
It  was  not  night  — •  it  was  not  day  ;  240 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight. 
But  vacancy  absorbing  space. 
And  fixedness,  without  a  place : 
There  were  no  stars,  — no  earth,  —  no  time,  — 
No    check,  • —  no    change,  —  no    good,  —  no 

crime,  — 
But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death ; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness. 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless  !     250 

A  Hght  broke  in  upon  my  brain  — 
It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird ; 


454 


LORD    BYRON 


It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard ; 
And  mine  was  thankful,  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery ; 
But  then  by  duU  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track,  260 

I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done. 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perch'd,  as  fond  and  tame,- 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree  ; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings, 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things. 

And  seem'd  to  say  them  all  for  me!        270 
I  never  saw  its  hke  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more : 
It  seem'd,  like  me,  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate. 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 
And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink, 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free. 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine,         280 
But  knowing  well  captivity. 

Sweet  bird,  I  could  not  wish  for  thine ! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise  ; 
For  —  Heaven  forgive  that  thought,  the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile  — 
I  sometimes  deem'd  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me ; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 
And  then  'twas  mortal  —  well  I  knew,       290 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown. 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone  — 
Lone,  —  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud ; 
Lone,  —  as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day. 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere. 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue  and  earth  is  gay. 


A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate. 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate  : 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe ; 
But  so  it  was  —  my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten'd  did  remain, 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 


300 


320 


Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 

And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart. 

And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 

And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one,  310 

Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 

Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 

My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod ; 

For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 

My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 

My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick. 

And  my  crush'd  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape. 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all 
Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape ; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me  : 
No  child  —  no  sire  —  no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery ; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad. 
For  thought  of  them  had  ^  made  me  mad ; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr'd  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high,         330 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

I  saw  them  ^  and  they  were  the  same. 

They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame ; 

I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 

On  high  —  their  wide  long  lake  below, 

And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow ; 

I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 

O'er  channell'd  rock  and  broken  bush ; 

I  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town. 

And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down ;  340 

And  then  there  was  a  little  isle, 

Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile. 

The  only  one  in  view : 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seem'd  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor ; 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees. 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze. 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing. 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue.  350 

The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seem'd  joyous,  each  and  all; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Mcthought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly, 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled  —  and  would  fain 

^  would  have 


ODE 


455 


I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain ; 

And  when  I  did  descend  again, 

The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode  360 

Fell  on  me  as  a  heavj^  load ; 

It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 

Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save. 

And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest, 

Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count  —  I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise. 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote ; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free,  370 

I  ask'd  not  why,  and  reck'd  not  where ; 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fetter'd  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learn'd  to  love  despair. 
And  thus,  when  they  appear'd  at  last, 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast. 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage  —  and  all  my  own  ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home :  380 

With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made. 
And  watch'd  them  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they  ? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill  —  yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learn'd  to  dwell  — 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends  390 

To  make  us  what  we  are  :  —  even  I 
Regain 'd  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 

ODE 
I 

Oh  Venice  !  Venice  !  when  thy  marble  walls 

Are  level  with  the  waters,  there  shaU  be 
A  cry  of  nations  o'er  thy  sunken  halls, 
A  loud  lament  along  the  sweeping  sea  ! 
If  I,  a  northern  wanderer,  weep  for  thee, 
What  should  thy  sons  do  ?  —  any  thing  but 

weep : 
And  yet  they  only  murmur  in  their  sleep. 
In    contrast    with    their    fathers  —  as    the 

slime, 
The  dull  green  ooze  of  the  receding  deep, 
Is  with  the  dashing  of  the  spring-tide  foam. 
That  drives  the  sailor  shipless  to  his  home. 
Are  they  to  those  that  were ;   and  thus  they 

creep,  12 


Crouching  and  crab-like,  through  their  sap- 
ping streets. 
Oh  !  agony  —  that  centuries  should  reap 
No  mellower  harvest !    Thirteen  hvmdred  years 
Of  wealth  and  glory  turn'd  to  dust  and  tears ; 
And  every  monument  the  stranger  meets, 
Church,  palace,  pillar,  as  a  mourner  greets ; 
And  even  the  Lion  all  subdued  appears. 
And  the  harsh  sound  of  the  barbarian  drum, 
With  dull  and  daily  dissonance,  repeats        2 1 
The  echo  of  thy  tyrant's  voice  along 
The  soft  waves,  once  all  musical  to  song. 
That  heaved  beneath  the  moonlight  with  the 

throng 
Of  gondolas  —  and  to  the  busy  hum 
Of  cheerful  creatures,  whose  most  sinful  deeds 
Were  but  the  overheating  of  the  heart, 
And  flow  of  too  much  happiness,  which  needs 
The  aid  of  age  to  turn  its  course  apart 
From  the  luxuriant  and  voluptuous  flood     30 
Of  sweet  sensations  battling  with  the  blood. 
But  these  are  better  than  the  gloomy  errors. 
The  weeds  of  nations  in  their  last  decay. 
When  -vice  walks  forth  with  her  unsoften'd 

terrors, 
And  mirth  is  madness,  and  but  smiles  to  slay ; 
And  hope  is  nothing  but  a  false  delay, 
The  sick  man's  lightning  half  an  hour  ere 

death. 
When  faintness,  the  last  mortal  birth  of  pain, 
And  apathy  of  limb,  the  dull  beginning 
Of  the  cold  staggering  race  which  death  is 

winning,  40 

Steals  vein  by  vein  and  pulse  by  pulse  away ; 
Yet  so  relieving  the  o'ertortured  clay. 
To  him  appears  renewal  of  his  breath. 
And    freedom    the    mere    numbness    of    his 

chain ;  — 
And  then  he  talks  of  life,  and  how  again 
He  feels  his  spirit  soaring,  albeit  weak. 
And  of  the  fresher  air,  which  he  would  seek ; 
And  as  he  whispers  knows  not  that  he  gasps. 
That  his  thin  finger  feels  not  what  it  clasps. 
And  so  the  film  comes  o'er  him  —  and  the 

dizzy  50 

Chamber    swims    round    and    round  —  and 

shadows  busy, 
At  which  he  vainly  catches,  flit  and  gleam. 
Till  the  last  rattle  chokes  the  strangled  scream. 
And  all  is  ice  and  blackness,  —  and  the  earth 
That  which  it  was  the  moment  ere  our  birth. 


II 

There  is  no  hope  for  nations  ! 
Of  many  thousand  years  — 


Search  the  page 
the  daily  scene, 


456 


LORD    BYRON 


The  flow  and  ebb  of  each  recurring  age, 
The  everlasting  to  be  which  hath  been, 
Hath  taught  us  nought  or  little :    still  we 

lean  60 

On  things  that  rot  beneath  our  weight,  and 

wear 
Our  strength  away  in  wrestling  with  the  air ; 
For    'tis   our   nature   strikes   us   down :     the 

beasts 
Slaughter'd  in  hourly  hecatombs  for  feasts 
Are  of  as  high  an  order  —  they  must  go 
Even  where  their  driver  goads  them,  though 

to  slaughter. 
Ye  men,  who  pour  your  blood  for  kings  as 

water, 
What  have  they  given  your  children  in  return  ? 
A  heritage  of  servitude  and  woes, 
A  blindfold  bondage  where  your  hire  is  blows. 
What?  do  not  yet  the  red-hot  ploughshares 

burn,  71 

O'er  which  you  stumble  in  a  false  ordeal, 
And  deem  this  proof  of  loyalty  the  real ; 
Kissing  the  hand  that  guides  you  to  your  scars. 
And  glorying  as  you  tread  the  glowing  bars? 
All  that  your  sires  have  left  you,  all  that  time 
Bequeaths  of  free,  and  history  of  sublime. 
Spring  from  a  different  theme !  —  Ye  see  and 

read. 
Admire   and   sigh,    and   then   succumb    and 

bleed ! 
Save  the  few  spirits,  who,  despite  of  all,       80 
And  worse  than  all,  the  sudden  crimes  en- 

gender'd 
By  the  down-thundering  of  the  prison-wall. 
And    thirst    to    swallow    the    sweet    waters 

tender'd, 
Gushing    from    freedom's    fountains  —  when 

the  crowd. 
Madden 'd  with  centuries  of  drought,  are  loud, 
And  trample  on  each  other  to  obtain 
The  cup  which  brings  olilivion  of  a  chain 
Heavy  and  sore,  —  in  v/hich  long  yoked  they 

plough 'd 
The  sand,  —  or  if  there  sprung  the  yellow 

grain, 
'Twas  not   for  them,   their  necks  were   too 

much  bow'd,  90 

And  their  dead  palates  chew'd  the  cud  of 

pain  :  — 
Yes!  the  few  spirits  —  who,  despite  of  deeds 
Which   they   abhor,  confound   not  with   the 

cause 
Those  momentary  starts  from  Nature's  laws. 
Which,  like  the  pestUence  and  earthquake, 

smite 


But  for  a  term,  then  pass,  and  leave  the  earth 
With  all  her  seasons  to  repair  the  blight 
With  a  few  summers,  and  again  put  forth 
Cities  and  generations  —  fair,  when  free  — 
For,    tyranny,    there    blooms    no    bud    for 
thee! 

Ill 

Glory  and  empire !  once  upon  these  towers 

With  freedom  —  godlike  triad !  how  ye  sate ! 

The  league  of  mightiest  nations,  in  those  hours 

When  Venice  was  an  envy,  might  abate. 

But  did  not  quench,  her  spirit  —  in  her  fate 

All  were  enwrapp'd:    the  feasted  monarchs 

knew 
And  loved  their  hostess,  nor  could  learn 

to  hate. 
Although   they   humbled  —  with   the  kingly 

few 
The  many  felt,  for  from  all  days  and  climes 
She  was  the  voyager's  worship ;  —  even  her 

crimes  1 1  o 

Were  of  the  softer  order  —  born  of  love. 
She  drank  no  blood,  nor  fatten'd  on  the  dead, 
But  gladden 'd  where  her  harmless  conquests 

spread ; 
For  these  restored  the  cross,  that  from  above 
Hallow'd  her  sheltering  banners,   which  in- 
cessant . 
Flew  between  earth  and  the  unholy  crescent, 
Which,  if  it  waned  and  dwindled,  earth  may 

thank 
The  city  it  has  clothed  in  chains,  which  clank 
Now,  creaking  in  the  ears  of  those  who  owe 
The  name  of  freedom  to  her  glorious  struggles  ; 
Yet  she  but  shares  with  them  a  common  woe. 
And  call'd  the  "kingdom"  of  a  conquering 

foe, —  122 

But  knows  what  all  —  and,  most  of  all,  we 

know  — 
With  what  set  gilded  terms  a  tyrant  juggles ! 

IV 

The  name  of  commonwealth  is  past  and  gone 
O'er  the  three  fractions  of   the  groaning 
globe ; 
Venice  is  crush'd,  and  Holland  deigns  to  own 

A  sceptre,  and  endures  the  purple  robe ; 
If  the  free  Switzcr  yet  bestrides  alone 
His  chainless  mountains,  'tis  but  for  a  time, 
For  tyranny  of  late  is  cunning  grown,         131 
And  in  its  own  good  season  tramples  down 
The  sparkles  of  our  ashes.     One  great  clime, 
Whose  vigorous  offspring  by  dividuig  ocean, 


so,    WE'LL    GO   NO    MORE    A   ROVING 


457 


Are  kept  apart  and  nursed  in  the  devotion 
Of  freedom,  which  their  fathers  fought  for, 

and 
Bequeath'd  —  a  heritage  of  heart  and  hand, 
And  proud  distinction  from  each  other  land, 
Whose  sons  must  bow  them  at  a  monarch's 

motion, 
As  if  his  senseless  sceptre  were  a  wand       140 
Full  of  the  magic  of  exploded  science  — 
StiU  one  great  clime,  in  full  and  free  defiance, 
Yet  rears  her  crest,  unconquer'd  and  sublime. 
Above  the  far  Atlantic  !  —  She  has  taught 
Her  Esau-brethren  ^  that  the  haughty  flag, 
The  floating  fence  of  Albion's  feebler  crag, 
May  strike  to  those  whose  red  right  hands 

have  bought 
Rights  cheaply  earn'd  with  blood.     Still,  still, 

forever 
Better,  though  each  man's  life-blood  were  a 

river,  149 

That  it  should  flow,  and  overflow,  than  creep 
Through  thousand  lazy  channels  in  our  veins, 
Damn'd  like  the  dull  canal  with  locks  and 

chains, 
And  moving,  as  a  sick  man  in  his  sleep, 
Three  paces,  and  then  faltering  :  —  better  be 
Where  the  extinguish'd  Spartans  still  are  free. 
In  their  proud  charnel  of  Thermopylae, 
Than  stagnate  in  our  marsh, — or  o'er  the 

deep 
Fly,  and  one  current  to  the  ocean  add. 
One  spirit  to  the  souls  our  fathers  had. 
One  freeman  more,  America,  to  thee!         160 


KNOW  YE   THE   LAND? 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and 

myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their 

clime  ? 
W^here  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the 

turtle,^ 
Now   melt   Into   sorrow,   now   madden   to 

crime  ? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine. 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams 

ever  shine ; 
Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppress'd 

with  perfume, 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of   Gul  ^  in  her 

bloom ; 

^  Those  who  have  sold  their  birth-right,  Liberty. 
*  dove     ^  the  rose 


W^here   the  citron   and   olive  are   fairest    of 

fruit. 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is 

mute :  10 

Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of 

the  sky, 
In  colour  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie. 
And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  dye ; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they 

twine. 
And  aU,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine? 
'Tis  the  clime  of  the  East ;   'tis  the  land  of  the 

Sun  — 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children 

have  done? 
Oh  !  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales 

which  they  tell.  19 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies ; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
j\Ieet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that?  tender  light  5 

Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less. 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 

Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face ;  10 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear,  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent. 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  w^hose  love  is  innocent !  18 


SO,  WE'LL   GO  NO  MORE  A  ROVING 

So,  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 

So  late  into  the  night. 
Though  the  heart  be  still  as  loving, 

And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 

For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath,  s 

And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast. 

And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe, 
And  love  itself  have  rest. 


45^ 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY 


Though  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 
And  the  day  returns  too  soon, 

Yet  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 
By  the  light  of  the  moon. 


CHARLES  WOLFE  (i  791-1823) 

THE   BURIAL   OF   SIR  JOHN  MOORE 
AT   CORUNNA 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried.     4 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night. 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light. 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning.  8 

No  useless  cofifin  enclosed  his  breast. 

Not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him, 
But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him.  12 

• 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was 
dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow.  16 

We  thought  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed. 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er 
his  head,   . 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  !  20 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him,  — 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him.  24 

But  half  of  our  weary  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing.  28 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down. 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fregh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a 
stone  — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory.       32 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

(1792-1822) 

FromALASTOR;    OR,  THE   SPIRIT  OF 
SOLITUDE 

Nondum  amabam,  at  amare  amabam,  quaerebam 
quid   amarem,    amans   amare,^ 

—  Confess.  St.  August. 

There  was  a  Poet  whose  untimely  tomb  50 
No  human  hands  with  pious  reverence  reared, 
But  the  charmed  eddies  of  autumnal  winds 
Built  o'er  his  mouldering  bones  a  pyramid 
Of  mouldering  leaves  in   the  waste  wilder- 
ness :  — 
A    lovely    youth,  —  no     mourning     maiden 
decked  55 

With    weeping    flowers,    or    votive    cypress 

wreath, 
The  lone  couch  of  his  everlasting  sleep :  — 
Gentle,  and  brave,  and  generous,  —  no  lorn 

bard 
Breathed  o'er  his  dark  fate  one  melodious 

sigh : 
He  lived,  he  died,  he  simg,  in  solitude.       60 
Strangers  have  wept  to  hear  his  passionate 

notes, 
And  virgins,  as  unknown  he  passed,  have  pined 
And  wasted  for  fond  love  of  his  wild  eyes. 
The  fire  of  those  soft  orbs  has  ceased  to  burn, 
And  Silence,  too  enamoured  of  that  voice,  65 
Locks  its  mute  music  in  her  rugged  cell. 

By  solemn  vision,  and  bright  silver  dream, 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.     Every  sight 
And  sound  from  the  vast  earth  and  ambient 

air, 
Sent  to  his  heart  its  choicest  impulses.  70 

The  fountains  of  divine  philosophy 
Fled  not  his  thirsting  lips,  and  all  of  great. 
Or  good,  or  lovely,  which  the  sacred  past 
In  truth  or  fable  consecrates,  hp  felt 
And  knew.     When  early  youth  had  passed, 

he  left  75 

His  cold  fireside  and  alienated  home 
To  seek  strange  truths  in  undiscovered  lands. 
Many  a  wide  waste  and  tangled  wilderness 
Has  lured   his   fearless   steps;     and   he   has 

bought 
With  his  sweet  voice  and  eyes,  from  savage 

men,  80 

^  I  was  not  yet  in  love,  and  I  was  in  love  with 
love,  I  was  seeking  what  I  might  love,  loving  love. 


HYMN   TO    INTELLECTUAL    BEAUTY 


459 


His  rest  and  food.     Nature's  most  secret  steps 

He  like  her  shadow  has  pursued,  where'er 

The  red  volcano  overcanopies 

Its  fields  of  snow  and  pinnacles  of  ice 

With    burning    smoke,    or    where    bitumen 

lakes  •  8  s 

On  black  bare  pointed  islets  ever  beat 
With  sluggish  surge,  or  where  the  secret  caves 
Rugged  and  dark,  winding  among  the  springs 
Of  fire  and  poison,  maccessible 
To  avarice  or  pride,  their  starrj'  domes        90 
Of  diamond  and  of  gold  expand  above 
Numberless  and  immeasurable  halls. 
Frequent    with    crystal    column,    and    clear 

shrines 
Of  pearl,  and  thrones  radiant  with  chrysolite. 
Nor  had  that  scene  of  ampler  majesty  95 

Than  gems  or  gold,  the  varying  roof  of  heaven 
And  the  green  earth,  lost  in  his  heart  its 

claims 
To  love  and  wonder ;   he  woxild  linger  long 
In  lonesome  vales,  making  the  wild  his  home. 
Until  the  doves  and  squirrels  would  partake 
From  his  innocuous  hand  his  bloodless  food, 
Lured  by  the  gentle  meaning  of  his  looks,  102 
And  the  wild  antelope,  that  starts  whene'er 
The  dry  leaf  rustles  in  the  brake,  suspend 
Her  timid  steps  to  gaze  upon  a  form  105 

More  graceful  than  her  own. 

His  wandering  step, 
Obedient  to  high  thoughts,  has  visited 
The  awfid  ruins  of  the  days  of  old : 
Athens,  and  Tyre,  and  Balbec,^  and  the  waste 
Where  stood  Jerusalem,  the  fallen  towers  no 
Of  Babylon,  the  eternal  pyramids, 
Memphis    and    Thebes,    and    whatsoe'er    of 

strange 
Sculptured  on  alabaster  obelisk. 
Or  jasper  tomb,  or  mutilated  sphinx, 
Dark  ^F^thiopia  in  her  desert  hills  115 

Conceals.     Among  the  ruined  temples  there, 
Stupendous  columns,  and  wild  images 
Of  more  than  man,  where  marble  daemons 

watch 
The  Zodiac's  brazen  mystery,  and  dead  men 
Hang  their  mute  thoughts  on  the  mute  walls 

around,  120 

He  lingered,  poring  on  memorials 
Of  the  world's  youth,  through  the  long  burn- 
ing day 
Gazed  on  those  speechless  shapes,  nor,  when 

the  moon 

^  Baalbec,  an  ancient  SjTian  city,  sacred  to  the 
worship  of  Baal,  the  sun  god 


Filled  the  mysterious  halls  with  floating  shades, 
Suspended  he  that  task,  but  ever  gazed      i  -5 
And  gazed,  tUl  meaning  on  his  vacant  mind 
Flashed  like  strong  inspiration,  and  he  saw 
The  thrilling  secrets  of  the  birth  of  time. 


HYMN   TO    INTELLECTUAL   BEAUTY 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats     though     unseen     amongst     us,  — 

visiting 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant  wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to 

flower ;  — 
Like    moonbeams    that    behind    some    piny 
mountain  shower,*  5 

It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance; 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening,  — 

Like  clouds  in  starhght  widely  spread,  — 
Like  memory  of  music  fled,  —  10 

Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 
With  thine  own  hues  aU  thou  dost  shine 

upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form,  —  where  art 
thou  gone  ?  •  15 

W^hy  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our  state, 
This   dim   vast    vale   of    tears,    vacant    and 
desolate  ? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  forever 
Weaves    rainbows    o'er    yon    mountain 
river. 
Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is 
shown,  20 

Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and  birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom,  —  why  man  has  such  a  scope 
For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope? 

No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath  ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given  —  26 
Therefore  the  names  of  Daemon,  Ghost,  and 
Heaven, 
Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavour. 
Frail  spells  —  whose  uttered  charm  might  not 
avail  to  sever. 
From  all  we  hear  and  aU  we  see,  30 

Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 

*  Observe  that  "shower"  is  a  verb. 


460 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


Thy  light  alone  —  like  mist  o'er  mountains 
driven, 
Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent, 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument, 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream,     35 

Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet  dream. 

Love,    Hope,    and    Self-esteem,    like    clouds 
depart 
And  come,   for  some  uncertain   moments 

lent. 
Man  were  immortal,  and  omnipotent,       39 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art. 
Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  state  within 
his  heart. 
Thou  messenger  of  sympathies, 
That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eyes  — 
Thou  —  that  to  human  thought  art  nourish- 
ment. 
Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame!  45 

Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came, 
Depart  not  —  lest  the  grave  should  be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 

While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 
Through  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave 
and  ruin,  50 

And    starlight    wood,    with    fearful    steps 
pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 
I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our 
youth  is  fed, 
I  was  not  heard  —  I  saw  them  not  — 
When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot  55 

Of  life,  at  the  sweet  time  when  winds  are 
wooing 
All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 
News  of  birds  and  blossoming,  — 
Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me ; 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstasy ! 

I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers  61 
To  thee  and  thine  —  have  I  not  kept  the 

vow? 
With   beating   heart   and   streaming   eyes, 
even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave :    they  have  in 
vision  ed  bower  65 

Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 
Outstretched     with     me     the     envious 
night  — 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow 
Unlinked  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst 
free 


This  world  from  its  dark  slavery,  70 

That  thou  —  O  awful  Loveliness, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  cannot 
express. 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When  noon  is  past  — •  there  is  a  harmony 
In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky,  75 

Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  or 

seen, 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been ! 
Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 
Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply  80 

Its  calm  —  to  one  who  worships  thee. 
And  every  form  containing  thee. 
Whom,  Spirit  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 

SONNET 

OZYMANDIAS 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 

Who  said:    Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of 

stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them,  on  the  sand, 
Half   sunk,    a   shattered   visage   lies,    whose 

frown. 
And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command. 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  (stamped  on  these  life- 
less things,)  7 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart 

that  fed : 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear : 
"My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings :    10 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair  ! " 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 

From  LINES   WRITTEN   AMONG   THE 
EUGANEAN  HILLS 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 

In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery. 

Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 

Never  thus  could  voyage  on 

Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day,  5 

Drifting  on  his  dreary  way. 

With  the  solid  darkness  black 

Closing  round  his  vessel's  track ; 

Whilst,  above,  the  sunless  sky, 

Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily,  10 


LINES    WRITTEN   AMONG   THE    EUGANEAN   HILLS 


461 


And  behind,  the  tempest  fleet 

Hurries  on  with  Hghtning  feet, 

Riving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank, 

Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 

Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep ;  15 

And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 

When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 

Weltering  through  eternity ; 

And  the  dim  low  line  before 

Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore  20 

Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 

Longing  with  divided  will, 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 

He  is  ever  drifted  on 

O'er  the  unreposing  wave  25 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

What  if  there  no  friends  will  greet ; 

What  if  there  no  heart  will  meet 

His  with  love's  impatient  beat ; 

Wander  wheresoe'er  he  may,  30 

Can  he  dream  before  that  day 

To  find  refuge  from  distress 

In  friendship's  smile,  in  love's  caress? 


Lo,  the  sim  floats  up  the  sky 

Like  thought-winged  Liberty, 

Till  the  universal  light 

Seems  to  level  plain  and  height ; 

From  the  sea  a  mist  has  spread,  210 

And  the  beams  of  morn  lie  dead 

On  the  towers  of  Venice  now. 

Like  its  glory  long  ago. 

By  the  skirts  of  that  gray  cloud 

Many-domed  Padua  proud  215 

Stands,  a  peopled  solitude, 

'Mid  the  harvest-shining  plain, 

Where  the  peasant  heaps  his  grain 

In  the  garner  of  his  foe. 

And  the  milk-white  oxen  slow  220 

With  the  purple  vintage  strain, 

Heaped  upon  the  creaking  wain, 

That  the  brutal  Celt  may  swill 

Drunken  sleep  with  savage  will ; 

And  the  sickle  to  the  sword  225 

Lies  unchanged,  though  many  a  lord, 

Like  a  weed  whose  shade  is  poison. 

Overgrows  this  region's  foison, 

Sheaves  of  whom  are  ripe  to  come 

To  destruction's  harvest  home  :  230 

Men  must  reap  the  things  they  sow, 

Force  from  force  must  ever  flow, 

Or  worse  ;  but  'tis  a  bitter  woe 

That  love  or  reason  cannot  change 

The  despot's  rage,  the  slave's  revenge.        235 


Padua,  thou  within  whose  walls 

Those  mute  guests  at  festivals. 

Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  Sin, 

Played  at  dice  for  Ezzelin, 

Till  Death  cried,  "I  win,  I  win!  "  240 

And  Sin  cursed  to  lose  the  wager. 

But  Death  promised,  to  assuage  her, 

That  he  would  petition  for 

Her  to  be  made  Vice-Emperor, 

When  the  destined  years  were  o'er,  245 

Over  all  between  the  Po 

And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow. 

Under  the  mighty  Austrian. 

Sin  smiled  so  as  Sin  only  can, 

And  since  that  time,  aye,  long  before,         250 

Both  have  ruled  from  shore  to  shore. 

That  incestuous  pair,  who  follow 

Tyrants  as  the  sun  the  swallow. 

As  Repentance  follows  Crime, 

And  as  changes  follow  Time.  255 

In  thine  halls  the  lamp  of  learning, 

Padua,  now  no  more  is  burning; 

Like  a  meteor,  whose  wild  way 

Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day. 

It  gleams  betrayed  and  to  betray:  260 

Once  remotest  nations  came 

To  adore  that  sacred  flame, 

When  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 

On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth : 

Now  new  fires  from  antique  light  265 

Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might ; 

But  their  spark  lies  dead  in  thee. 

Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 

As  the  Norway  woodman  quells. 

In  the  depth  of  piny  dells,  270 

One  light  flame  among  the  brakes. 

While  the  boundless  forest  shakes. 

And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 

By  the  fire  thus  lowly  born : 

The  spark  beneath  his  feet  is  dead,  275 

He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed 

Howling  through  the  darkened  sky 

With  a  myriad  tongues  victoriously, 

And  sinks  down  in  fear :  so  thou, 

O  Tyranny,  beholdest  now  280 

Light  around  thee,  and  thou  hearest 

The  loud  flames  ascend,  and  fearest : 

Grovel  on  the  earth  :  aye,  hide 

In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride  ! 

Noon  descends  aromid  me  now :  285 

'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 
Like  a  vaporous  amethyst. 


462 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


Or  an  air-dissolved  star 

Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far  290 

From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 

To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 

Fills  the  overflowing  sky  ; 

And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 

Underneath,  the  leaves  unsodden  295 

Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 

With  his  morning-winged  feet. 

Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet ; 

And  the  red  and  golden  vines, 

Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines  300 

The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness ; 

The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 

Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 

In  the  windless  air ;   the  flower 

Glimmering  at  my  feet ;   the  line  305 

Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine 

In  the  south  dimly  islanded ; 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun ; 

And  of  living  things  each  one ;  310 

And  my  spirit  which  so  long 

Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song, 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky : 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony,  315 

Odour,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon  320 

Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 

Leading  the  infantine  moon, 

And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 

Almost  seems  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  liglit  she  brings  325 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs : 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn, 

(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

'Mid  remembered  agonies,  330 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being,) 

Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing, 

And  its  ancient  pilot.  Pain, 

Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 


Other  flowering  isles  must  be 

In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony : 

Other  spirits  float  and  flee 

O'er  that  gulph :   even  now,  perhaps, 

On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps, 

With  folded  wings  they  waiting  sit 

For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove. 


335 


340 


Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love, 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built. 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt,  345 

In  a  dell  'mid  lawny  hills. 

Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills. 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing  round. 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine  350 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine : 

We  may  live  so  happy  there, 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air. 

Envying  us,  may  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise  355 

The  polluting  multitude ; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm. 

And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves  360 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies,  365 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  hke  the  breath  of  life, 

AH  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood : 

They,  not  it,  would  change;    and  soon     370 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain. 

And  the  earth  grow  young  again. 

ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 


O,  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's 

being. 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves 

dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter 

fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red. 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes :   O,  thou,        $ 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and 

low. 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

1  Icr  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill  10 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 


THE    INDIAN    SERENADE 


463 


Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;   hear,  O,  hear  ! 

II 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's 
commotion,  15 

Loose  clouds  Hke  earth's  decaying  leaves  are 
shed. 

Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and 
Ocean, 

Angels    of    rain    and    lightning :     there    are 

spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head  20 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim 

verge 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou 

dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre,  25 

Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 


Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst : 
hear ! 


Ill 


O, 


Thou   who    didst    waken    from   his   summer 

dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay,         30 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers  35 
So  sweet,   the  sense  faints  picturing  them ! 

Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which 

wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know         40 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And    tremble    and    despoil    themselves:     0, 
hear ! 


IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee ; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free  46 
Than  thou,  O,  imcontrollable  !     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed  50 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision;    I  would  ne'er  have 
striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh  !  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !     I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and 
bowed  55 

One  too  Hke  thee :  tameless,  and  swift,  and 
proud. 

V 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet   though   in   sadness.     Be   thou,   spirit 
fierce,  61 

My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth ! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse,  65 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy !     0,  wind. 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind?  70 

THE    INDIAN    SERENADE 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 

When  the  winds  are  breathing  low. 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright : 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee,  5 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 

Hath  led  me  —  who  knows  how  ? 

To  thy  chamber  window,  Sweet ! 


464 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY 


The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream  —  10 

The  Champak  ^  odours  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream ; 

The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart ;  — 

As  I  must  on  thine,  15 

O  !  beloved  as  thou  art  ! 

0  lift  me  from  the  grass  ! 

1  die  !  I  faint !  I  fail ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale.  20 

My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas ! 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ;  — 
Oh  !  press  it  to  thine  own  again. 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 


THE   CLOUD 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noon-day  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that 
waken  5 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under,   10 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below. 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white,  15 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers. 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits  ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder,  — 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ;  20 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  i)urple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills,  25 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever    he    dream,    under    mountain    or 
stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 


a   tree  of  India,    belonging  to  the  magnolia 


family 


And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 
Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  30 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes. 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag,  35 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings. 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit 
sea  beneath. 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love,  40 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden,    45 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  imseen  feet. 

Which  only  the  angels  hear,  50 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin 
roof. 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas,  56 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on 
high. 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and 
these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 

The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and 

swim,  61 

When     the     whirlwinds     my     banner 

unfurl. 

From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof,  65 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my 
chair. 
Is  the  million-coloured  bow  ;  70 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove. 
While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing 
below. 


TO    A    SKYLARK 


465 


I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nurshng  of  the  sky ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and 
shores;  75 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain  when,  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavihon  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  con- 
vex gleams 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  80 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from 
the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

TO  A  SKYLARK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
Tliat  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art.       5 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever 
singest.  lo 

In  the  golden  Hghtning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightning. 
Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even  16 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 
In  the  broad  day-light 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill 
delight,  20 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there.  25 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare. 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is 
overflowed.  30 


What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As    from    thy    presence    showers    a    rain    of 
melody.  35 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  hght  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded 
not :  40 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower. 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows 
her  bower :  45 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it 
from  the  view  :  50 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
TiU  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy- 
winged  thieves.  55 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass,. 
Rain-awakened  flowers. 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth 
surpass.  60 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine ; 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That    panted   forth   a   flood   of   rapture  so 
divine :  65 

Chorus  Hymenasal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden 
want.  70 


466 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance 


of  pain: 


75 


With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be  — 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou    lovest  —  but    ne'er    knew    love's    sad 
satiety.  80 

Waking  or  asleep. 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream. 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal 
stream?  85 

We  look  before  and  after 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our   sweetest   songs   are   those   that   tell   of 
saddest  thought.  90 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come 
near.  95 

Better  than  all  measures 
Of  delightful  sound  — 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found  — 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scomer  of  the 
ground !  100 

Teach  mc  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The    world   should    listen    then  —  as   I    am 
listening    now.  105 


TO 


Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory  — 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 


Rose-leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead,  5 

Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone. 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

ADONAIS 

I  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead  ! 

O,  weep  for  Adonais !  though  our  tears 

Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a 

head ! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  com- 
peers, 5 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow,  say : 

"With  me 
Died  Adonais ;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity." 

Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when  he 

lay,  10 

When  thy  Son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft 

which  flies 
In  darkness  ?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died?     With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  Echoes,  m  her  Paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamoured 

breath,  15 

Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies. 
With   which,   like  flowers   that   mock   the 

corse  beneath. 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of 

death. 

O,  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead  ! 

Wake,     melancholy     Mother,     wake     and 


weep 


Yet  wherefore?     Quench  within  their  burn- 
ing bed 

Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep 

Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep; 

For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and 
fair 

Descend ;  —  oh,  dream  not  that  the  amo- 
rous Deep  25 

Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air ; 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at 
our  despair. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again ! 
Lament  anew,  Urania  !  —  He  died,  — 
Who  was  the  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country's 
pride,  31 


ADONAIS 


467 


The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide, 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed 

rite 
Of  lust  and  blood;   he  went,  unterrified. 
Into   the  gulph   of   death ;    but   his   clear 

Sprite     _  35 

Yet  reigns  o'er  earth ;    the  third  among  the 

sons  of  light. 

]Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew ! 
Not   all   to   that   bright   station   dared   to 

climb ; 
And   happier    they   their   happiness    who 

knew% 
Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night 

of  time  40 

In    which    suns    perished ;     others    more 

sublime. 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  God, 
Have    sunk,     extinct    in    their    refulgent 

prime ; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny  road, 
Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to  Fame's 

serene  abode.  45 

But  now,   thy  youngest,   dearest  one  has 

perished, 
The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew, 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden 

cherished. 
And  fed  with  true  love  tears,  instead  of 

dew ; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew !  50 
Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the 

last. 
The  bloom,   whose  petals,   nipped  before 

they  blew, 
Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste; 
The  broken  lily  lies  —  the  storm  is  overpast. 

To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  Death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay. 
He  came  ;  and  bought,  with  price  of  purest 
breath,  57 

A  grave  among  the  eternal.  —  Come  away  ! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  ItaUan  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while  stiU  60 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay ; 
Awake  him  not !  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more !  — 

Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace 

The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the 

door  66 


Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelhng-place ; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness,  and  the  law 
Of  change,  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal 
curtain  draw.  72 

O,  weep  for  Adonais  !  —  The  quick  Dreams, 
The  passion -winged  Ministers  of  thought, 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  Uving 

streams  75 

Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he 

taught 
The   love   which    was   its    music,    wander 

not,  — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to 

brain, 
But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung ;   and 

mourn  their  lot 
Round  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their 

sweet  pain,  80 

They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find  a  home 

again. 

And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps  his 

cold  head. 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonUght  wings,  and 

cries : 
"Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not 

dead ; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes,  85 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 
A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosened  from  his 

brain." 
Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise  ! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own ;    as  with  no 

stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  out  wept 

its  rain.  90 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
Washed  his   light  hmbs   as  if  embalming 

them ; 
Another    clipped    her    profuse    locks,    and 

threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem, 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  be- 
gem ;  _  95 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more 
weak ; 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen 
cheek. 


468 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


Another  Splendour  on  his  mouth  aUt,     loo 
That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw 

the  breath 
Which    gave    it    strength    to    pierce    the 

guarded  wit, 
And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With  hghtning  and  with  music :   the  damp 

death 
Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  hps ;       105 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonhght  vapour,  which  the  cold  night 

chps, 
It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  passed 

to  its  eclipse. 

And'others  came  .  .  .     Desires  and  Adora- 
tions, 
Winged  Persuasions  and  veiled  Destinies, 
Splendours,  and  Glooms,  and  glimmering 
Incarnations  iii 

Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phantasies ; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the 

gleam 
Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes,  115 
Came  in  slow  pomp ;  —  the  moving  pomp 
might  seem 
Like    pageantry    of    mist    on    an    autumnal 
stream. 

All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into  thought, 
From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odour,  and  sweet 

sound. 
Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought  1 20 
Her   eastern   watch-tower,    and    her    hair 

unbound, 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the 

ground, 
Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day ; 
Afar  the'  melancholy  thunder  moaned. 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay,         125 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in 

their  dismay. 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  moun- 
tains. 

And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered 
lay, 

And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  foun- 
tains. 

Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young 
green  spray,  130 

Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day  ; 

Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more 
dear 


Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  pined 
away 

Into  a  shadow  of  aU  sounds :  —  a  drear 
Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  aU  the  wood- 
men hear.  135 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she 

threw  down 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were. 
Or  they  dead  leaves ;    since  her  delight  is 

flown. 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen 

year? 
To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear,    140 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou,  Adonais :   wan  they  stand  and  sere 
Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth, 
With   dew  aU  turned  to  tears;    odour,   to 

sighing  ruth. 

Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale. 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious 

pain ;  1 46 

Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,  and  could  nourish    in    the    sun's 

domain 
Her    mighty    youth    with    morning,    doth 

complain. 
Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty 

nest,  150 

As  Albion   wails   for   thee:     the   curse  of 

Cain 
Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  innocent 

breast, 
And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was  its  earthly 

guest ! 

Ah,  woe  is  me !  Winter  is  come  and  gone, 
But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year; 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous 

tone;  156 

The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  reappear ; 
Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead 

Seasons'  bier ; 
The  amorous  birds  now  pair  m  every  brake. 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and 

brere ;  160 

And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake. 

Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their  trance 

awake. 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and  hill 

and  Ocean 
A  quickening  Ufe  from  the  Earth's  heart  has 

burst, 


ADONAIS 


469 


As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  mo- 
tion, 165 

From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when 
first 

God  dawned  on  Chaos ;  in  its  stream  im- 
mersed 

The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer 
light ; 

All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred 
thirst ; 

Diffuse  themselves ;  and  spend  in  love's 
delight  170 

The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed 
might. 

The  leprous  corpse  touched  by  this  spirit 

tender 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath ; 
Like     incarnations    of     the     stars,     when 

splendour  174 

Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death 
And   mock   the   merry   worm   that   wakes 

beneath ; 
Naught  we  know,  dies.     Shall  that  alone 

which  knows 
Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 
By  sightless  lightning?  —  th'  intense  atom 

glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  cold 

repose.  180 

Alas !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been. 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal !     Woe  is  me  ! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we?  of  what 

scene 
The  actors  or  spectators  ?     Great  and  mean 
Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what  life 

must  borrow.  186 

As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are 

green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the 

morrow. 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year  wake 

year  to  sorrow. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more ! 
"Wake    thou,"    cried    Aliser}^    "childless 

JNIother,  rise  191 

Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's 

core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  with  tears 

and  sighs." 
And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's 

eyes,  194 

AE 


And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's  song 
Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried  :  "  Arise  ! " 
Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory 

stung, 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  Splendour 

sprung. 

She    rose   like    an    autumnal    Night,    that 
springs  199 

Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 
The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings, 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.     Sorrow  and 

fear 

So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania ;      204 

So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 

Of  stormy  mist ;    so  swept  her  on  her  way 

Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais 

lay. 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped, 
Through    camps    and    cities    rough    with 

stone,  and  steel, 
And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  aery  tread 
Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible         210 
Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell : 
And  barbed  tongues,   and  thoughts  more 

sharp  than  they, 
Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel, 
Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears  of 

May,  215 

Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving 

way. 

In  the  death  chamber  for  a  moment  Death, 
Shamed   by    the   presence   of    that   living 

Might, 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Revisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light  220 
Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her 

dear  delight. 
"Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  com- 
fortless, 
As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night ! 
Leave  me  not !"  cried  Urania  :   her  distress 
Roused  Death :    Death  rose  and  smiled,  and 
met  her  vain  caress.  225 

"  Stay  yet  awhile  !  speak  to  me  once  again  ;  _ 
Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live ; 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning 

brain 
That  word,  that  kiss  shall  all  thoughts  else 

survive. 
With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 


4ro 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY 


Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part  231 
Of  thee,  my  Adonais !     I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art ! 
But    I    am    chained    to    Time,    and    cannot 
thence  depart ! 

"Oh  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 
Why  didst  thou  leave   the   trodden  paths 

of  men  236 

Too  soon,   and  with   weak  hands  though 

mighty  heart 
Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,   oh  where  was 

then 
Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the 


spear : 


240 


Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  fUled   its   crescent 

sphere. 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from 

thee  like  deer. 

"The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue; 
The   obscene   ravens,   clamorous   o'er   the 

dead ;  245 

The   vultures   to   the   conqueror's   banner 

true. 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed, 
And  whose  wmgs  rain  contagion  ;  —  how 

they  fled, 
When  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow, 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped  250 
And    smiled !  —  The     spoilers    tempt    no 

second  blow ; 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  them 

lying  low. 

"The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles 

spawn  ; 
He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn,  255 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again ; 
So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men : 
A  godlike  mincl  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 
Waking  earth  bare  and  vciUng  heaven,  and 

when 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  shared 

its  light  260 

Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's  awful 

night." 

Thus  ceased  she :  and  the  mountain  shep- 
herds came, 

Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles 
rent ; 


The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent. 
An  early  but  enduring  monument,  266 

Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 
In  sorrow ;    from  her  wilds  lerne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong, 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music  from 
his  tongue.  270 

Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail 

Form, 
A  phantom  among  men,  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell ;   he,  as  I  guess, 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness, 
Actaeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray        276 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness, 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged 

way, 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father  and 

their  prey. 

A  pardlike  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift  — • 
A  Love  in  desolation  masked ;  —  a  Power 
Girt  round  with  weakness ;  —  it  can  scarce 

uplift  2S2 

The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour ; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow  ;  —  even  whilst  v/e  speak 
Is   it   not   broken?     On   the   withering 

flower  286 

The    killing    sim    smiles    brightly ;     on    a 

cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the 

heart  may  break. 

His   head  was   bound   with  pansies  over- 
blown. 

And   faded   violets,  white,  and   pied,  and 
blue ;  290 

And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress 
cone. 

Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses 
grew 

Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew, 

Vibrated,  as  the  cvcr-beating  heart 

Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it ;   of 
that  crew  295 

He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart ; 
A  herd-abandoned  deer,  struck  by  the  hunter's 
dart. 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled  through  their  tears ;  well  knew  that 
gentle  band 


ADONAIS 


471 


Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own; 

As,  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land,  301 
He  sung  new  sorrow ;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The     Stranger's     mien,     and     murmured : 

"Who  art  thou?" 
He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined 

brow,  305 

Which    was    Hke    Cain's    or    Christ's  —  Oh ! 

that  it  should  be  so ! 

WTiat  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead  ? 

Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle 
thrown  ? 

What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  death- 
bed. 

In  mockery  of  monumental  stone,  310 

The  heav>'  heart  heaving  without  a  moan? 

If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 

Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honoured  the  de- 
parted one. 

Let  me  not  vex  with  inharmonious  sighs 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — -oh!  316 
WTiat  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could 

crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe  ? 
The  nameless  worm  ^\■ould  now  itself  disown  : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone  320 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,   hate,   and 

wrong. 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone, 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 
Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver 

lyre  imstrung. 

Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame  ! 
Live !  fear  no  heavier  chastiseitient  from 

mc,  326 

Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name  ! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be ! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  'oe  thou  free 
To  spQl  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'er- 

flow :  330 

Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling  to 

thee ; 
Hot    Shame   shall   burn    upon    thy   secret 

brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt 

—  as  now. 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream 
below ;  335 


He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead  ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall 

flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it 

came,  339 

A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  wliich  must  glow 

Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably 

'     the  same, 

Whilst    thy   cold   embers    choke    the   sordid 

hearth  of  shame. 

Peace,  peace !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not 

sleep  — 
He    hath    awakened    from    the    dream    of 

Hfe  — 
'Tis  vi'e  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife,     346 
And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  oiu:  spirit's 

knife 
Invulnerable  nothings.  —  We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 
Con\adse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And   cold  hopes   swarm   like   worms   within 

our  living  clay.  351 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 
En\y  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain. 
And  that  mirest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow 

stam  356 

He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  grey  in 

vain ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to 

burn,  359 

With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 

He  lives,  he  wakes  —  'tis  Death  is  dead, 

not  he ; 
Moiu-n    not    for    Adonais.  —  Thou    young 

Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from 

thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentcst  is  not  gone ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan  ! 
Cease  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and 

thou  Air,  366 

Which  like  a  moiu-ning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst 

thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it 

bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  \\-hich  smile  on  its 

despair ! 


472 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


He   is   made   one   with   Nature:     there   is 

heard  37° 

His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet 

bird; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and 

stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may 

move  375 

Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own  ; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never  wearied 

love. 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 

Which  once  he  made  more  lovely :  he  doth 
bear  380 

His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 

Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  com- 
pelling there 

All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear ; 

Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks 
its  flight  384 

To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear ; 

And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the 
Heaven's  light. 

The  splendours  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not ; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they 

climb,  390 

And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty 

thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the   dead  live 

there  395 

And  move  like  winds  of  light   on  dark   and 

stormy  air. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 
Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond  mor- 
tal thought. 
Far  in  the  Unapparent.     Chatterton 
Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not     400 
Yet  faded  from  him ;   Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved, 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose ;     and    Lucan,    by    his    death    ap- 
proved : 
Oblivion,  as  they  rose,  shrank  like  a   thing 
reproved.  405 


And  many  more,  whose   names   on  Earth 

are  dark 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark. 
Rose,  robed  m  dazzling  immortality.       409 
"Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry 
"It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has 

long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty. 
Silent  alone  amid  an  Heaven  of  Song. 
Assume  thy  winged   throne,  thou  Vesper  of 

our  throng ! " 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais?  oh  come  forth. 
Fond  wretch !  and  know  thyself  and  him 

aright.  416 

Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous 

Earth ; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond    all    worlds,     until    its    spacious 

might 
Satiate    the     void     circumference :      then 

shrink  420 

Even    to    a    point    within    our    day    and 

night ; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light,  lest  it  make  thee 

sink. 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee 

to  the  brink. 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre, 
O,    not    of    him,    but    of    our    joy:     'tis 

naught  425 

That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought ; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend,  —  they  borrow  not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their 

prey ; 
And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's 

decay,  431 

And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 

Go  thou  to  Rome,  — •  at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness ; 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  moun- 
tains rise,  435 
And  flowering  weeds  and  fragrant  copses 

dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness 
Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead, 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is 
spread.  441 


FINAL    CHORUS    FROM    HELLAS 


473 


And  grey  walls  moulder  round,  on  which 

dull  Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand  446 
Like   flame   transformed   to   marble ;    and 

beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp 
of  death, 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extin- 
guished breath.  450 

Here  pause :   these  graves  are  all  too  young 

as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  con- 
signed 
Its  charge  to  each ;   and  if  the  seal  is  set, 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind. 
Break  it  not  thou !  too  sm-ely  shalt  thou 
find  455 

Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.     From  the  world's  bitter 

wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become? 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and 

pass ;  460 

Heaven's     light     forever    shines.     Earth's 

shadows  fly ; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass. 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments.  — 

Die, 
If  thou  woiddst  be  with  that  which  thou 

dost  seek  !  465 

Follow  where  aU  is  fled !  —  Rome's  azure 

sky. 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are 

weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to 

speak. 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink, 

my  Heart  ? 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before :  from  all  things 

here  470 

They  have  departed ;    thou  shouldst  now 

depart ! 
A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year, 
And  man,  and  woman  ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts    to    crush,    repels    to    make    thee 

wither. 


The  soft  sky  smiles,  —  the  low  wind  whis- 
pers near;  4  — 

'Tis  Adonais  calls !  oh,  hasten  thither, 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join 
together. 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Uni- 
verse, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and 

move, 
That     Benediction     which     the     eclipsing 

Curse  480 

Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining 

Love 
WTuch,  through  the  web  of  being  blindly 

wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and 

sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst,  now  beams  on 

me,  485 

Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in 

song 
Descends  on  me ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trerhbling 

throng  489 

WTiose   sails   were   never    to    the   tempest 

given ; 
The   massy   earth   and   sphered   skies   are 

riven  ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar: 
Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of 

Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star,  494 

Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal 

are. 


FINAL  CHORUS   FROM  HELLAS 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 

The  golden  years  return. 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn : 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam, 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream.  6 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far ; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  his  fountains 

Against  the  morning-star.  10 

Where  fairer  Tempes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep. 


474 


JOHN    KEATS 


A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize  ; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again,  15 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

O,  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 

If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be !  20 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free  : 

Although  a  subtler  Sphinx  renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise,  25 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendour  of  its  prime ; 
And  leave,  if  naught  so  bright  may  live. 
All  earth  can  take  or  Heaven  can  give.         30 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose, 
Than  many  unsubdued : 

Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers,       35 

But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 

O  cease  !  must  hate  and  death  return  ? 

Cease  !  must  men  kill  and  die  ? 
Cease !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy.  40 

The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
O  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last ! 

TO   NIGHT 

Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear,  5 

Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear,  — ■ 

Swift  be  thy  flight ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  grey, 

Star  in-wrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day;         10 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out ; 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land. 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand  — 

Come,  long  sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn,  15 

I  sighed  for  thee ; 


Wlien  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone. 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree. 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest. 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 
I  sighed  for  thee. 


Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 
Wouldst  thou  me? 

Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 

Murmured  like  a  noon-tide  bee. 

Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 

Wouldst  thou  me  ?  —  And  I  replied, 
No,  not  thee ! 


4 


25 


30 


35 


Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon  — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night  — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon  ! 

TO 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it. 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother. 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  caU  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not,  — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow. 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow? 


JOHN   KEATS    (1795-1821) 
ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My   sense,   as   though  of   hemlock  I   had 
drunk. 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One   minute   past,    and   Lethe-wards   had 
sunk : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot,       5 


ODE   ON   A    GRECIAN    URN 


475 


But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness,  — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees 
In  some  melodious  plot 

Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage !   that  hath  been 
Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 
Dance,  and  Provengal  song,  and  sunburnt 
mirth  ! 

0  for  a  beaker  fidl  of  the  warm  South,         15 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 

With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth ; 

That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  v/orld 

unseen, 

xA-nd  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest 

dim :  20 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget, 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never 
known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other 
groan; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  grey  hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin, 
and  dies ;  26 

\\Tiere  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs. 
Where  Beauty  cannot   keep   her  lustrous 
eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to- 
morrow. 30 

Away  !   away  !   for  I  will  fly  to  thee. 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  re- 
tards : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night.       35 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starr>'  Fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes 
blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding 
mossy  ways.  40 

1  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet. 

Nor   what    soft   incense   hangs    upon    the 
boughs. 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 
Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 


The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglan- 
tine ;  46 
Fast  fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child. 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  fhes  on  summer 
eves.                                                        50 

Darkling  I  listen  ;   and,  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeftd  Death, 
CaU'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now  more  than. ever  seems  it  rich  to  die,  55 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul 
abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 
StiU  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in 
vain  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod.       60 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird  ! 

No  himgry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  :   . 
Perhaps  the  self-sam.e  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick 
for  home,  66 

She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the 
foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.  70 

Forlorn  !   the  ver>'  word  is  like  a  beU 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 
Adieu  !   the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  fam'd  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades  75 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley -glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream?         79 
Fled  is  that  music  :  — -  Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


ODE  ON  A   GRECIAN   URN 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 
Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time. 

Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 
A  flower>^  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 

What  leaf-fring'd  legend  haunts  about   thy 
shape  5 


476 


JOHN    KEATS 


Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempo  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?     What  maidens 
loth? 
What    mad    pursuit?     What    struggle    to 
escape  ? 
What  pipes  and  timbrels?     What  wild 
ecstasy  ?  lo 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter  ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on  ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear 'd. 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not 
leave  1 5 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal  —  yet,  do.  not 
grieve ; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy 
bliss. 
Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair  !  20 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !   that  cannot  shed 
Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu : 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new ; 
More  happy  love  !   more  happy,  happy  love  ! 
Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd,       26 
Forever  panting,  and  forever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 
That   leaves   a   heart    high-sorrowful   and 
cloy'd, 
A    burning    forehead,    and    a    parching 
tongue.  30  • 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore,         35 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel. 
Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Win  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return.  40 

O  Attic  shape  !     Fair  attitude  !   with  brede 
Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought. 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 
Thou,   silent   form,   dost   tease   us  out   of 
thought 
As  doth  eternity  :   Cold  Pastoral !  45 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste. 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 


Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou 

say'st, 

"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"  —  that  is 

aU, 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to 

know.  50 

TO  AUTUMN 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness. 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 
With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch- 
eaves  run ;  4 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 
And  fiU  aU  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel 
shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;   to  set  budding  more. 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees. 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 
For    Summer    has    o'er-brimmed    their 
clammy  cells.                                       1 1 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor. 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep,     16 
Drows'd  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy 
hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined 
flowers : 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ;     20 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look. 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours  by 
hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?     Ay,  where 
are  they? 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music 
too,  — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  saUows,  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly 
bourn ;  30 

Hedge-crickets  sing;    and  now  with  treble 

soft 
The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft ; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the 
skies. 


LA    BELLE    DAME    SANS    MERCI 


477 


ODE 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  ]\Iirth, 

Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  ! 

Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 

Double-lived  in  regions  new  ? 

Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune         s 

With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon  ; 

With  the  noise  of  fountains  wond'rous, 

And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous ; 

With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 

And  one  another,  in  soft  ease  lo 

Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 

Brows'd  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns; 

Underneath  large  bluebells  tented, 

Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented. 

And  the  rose  herself  has  got  15 

Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 

Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 

Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing. 

But  divine  melodious  truth  ; 

Philosophic  numbers  smooth  ;  20 

Tales  and  golden  histories 

Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again  ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you  25 

Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  Httle  week ;  30 

Of  their  sorrows  and  delights ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites ; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame  ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day,  35 

Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  ! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too. 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  !  40 


LINES   OX   THE   AIERMAID    TAVERN 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone. 
What  Elysium  have  ye  kno-vMi, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  IMermaid  Tavern  ? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine  5 

Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 


Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 

Of  venison  ?     O  generous  food  ! 

Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood         10 

Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 

Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away, 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till  15 

An  astrologer's  old  quiU 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a  new  old-sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine,  20 

And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  ^lermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
WTiat  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern,  25 

Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 


LA  BELLE  DAME   SANS  MERCI 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 
The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing,  4 

0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 

And  the  harvest's  done.  8 

1  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew, 
x\nd  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too.  12 

"I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 
Full  beautiful  —  a  faery's  child ; 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 

And  her  eyes  were  wild.  16 

"I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 

She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love. 

And  made  sweet  moan.  20 

"I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 
And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long. 

For  sideways  would  she  lean,  and  sing 

A  faery's  song.  24 


47^ 


JOHN    KEATS 


"She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna-dew, 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said  — 
'I  love  thee  true.'  28 

"She  took  me  to  her  elfm  grot. 

And  there  she  wept  and  sigh'd  full  sore, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild,  wild  eyes, 

With  kisses  four. 

32 
"And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dream'd  —  ah  !  woe  betide  !  — 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 

On  the  cold  hill's  side.  36 

"I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too. 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all ; 

They  cried  —  '  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall  1 '  4° 

"I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloom, 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide ; 

And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here 

On  the  cold  hill's  side.  44 

"  And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing."  48 


SONNETS 

THE   GRASSHOPPER  AND   THE 
CRICKET 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead : 
When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot 

sun. 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 
From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown 

mead; 
That  is  the  Grasshopper's  —  he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury,  —  he  has  never  done    6 
With  his  delights ;  for  when  tired  out  with 
fun 
He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost  10 
Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove 
there  shrills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowf^iness  half  lost, 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy 
hUls. 


ON   FIRST  LOOKING   INTO  CHAP- 
MAN'S HOMER 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told        5 

That    deep-brow'd    Homer    ruled    as    his 
demesne ; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and 

bold: 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ;  10 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  star'd  at  the  Pacific  —  and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise  — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


TO   SLEEP 

O  soft  embalmer  of  the  stiU  midnight ! 

Shutting  with  careful  fingers  and  benign 
Our  gloom-pleased  eyes,  embower'd  from  the 
light, 

Enshaded  in  forgetfulness  divine  ; 
O  soothest  Sleep !  if  so  it  please  thee,  close,  5 

In  midst  of  this  thine  hymn,  my  willing  eyes, 
Or  wait  the  amen,  ere  thy  poppy  throws 

Aroimd  my  bed  its  iuUing  charities ; 

Then  save  me,  or  the  passed  day  will  shine 
Upon  my  pillow,  breeding  many  woes;         10 
Save  me  from  curious  conscience,  that   still 
lords 

Its  strength  for  darkness,*burrowing  hke  a 
mole ; 
Turn  the  key  deftly  in  the  oiled  wards, 

And  seal  the  hushed  casket  of  my  soul. 


ON  THE   SEA 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 

Desolate  shores,  and  with  its  mighty  swell 
Gluts  twice  ten  thousand  caverns,  till  the 
spell 
Of  Hecate  leaves   them   their   old   shadowy 

sound. 
Often  'tis  in  such  gentle  temper  found  5 

That  scarcely  will  the  veiy  smallest  shell 
Be  mov'd  for  days  from  whence  it  sometime 
fell. 
When  last  the  winds  of  heaven  were  unbound. 


ENDYMION 


479 


Oh,  ye,  who  have  vour  eve-balls  vex'd  and 
tir'd. 
Feast  them  upon  the  wideness  of  the  sea ;  lo 
O,  ye,  whose  ears  are  dinn'd  with  uproar 

rude, 
Or  fed  too  much  with  cloying  melody,  — 
Sit  ye  near  some  old  cavern's  mouth,  and 
brood 
Until  ye  start,  as  if  the  sea-nymphs  quir'd ! 

WHEN  I  HAVE   FEARS 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 

Before  my  pen   has  glean'd  my   teeming 
brain. 
Before  high  piled  books,  in  charact'ry, 

Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full-ripen'd  grain ; 
When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starr'd  face,  5 

Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 

Their  shadows,   with   the  magic  hand  of 
chance ; 
And  when  I  feel,  fair  creature  of  an  hour ! 

That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more,  10 
Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 

Of  unreflecting  love  !  —  then  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 
Tin  love  and  fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 


BRIGHT  STAR! 

Bright  star!    would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou 
art  — 

Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart. 

Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task     5 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 

Of   snow    upon    the    mountains    and    the 
moors  — 
No  —  yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 

Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 
To  feel  forever  its  soft  fall  and  swell,  1 1 

Awake  forever  in  a  sweet  unrest. 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath. 
And  so  live  ever  —  or  else  swoon  to  death. 

ENDYMION 

From  BOOK  I 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever : 
Its  loveliness  increases ;   it  will  never 


Pass  into  nothingness ;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  iis,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet 

breathing.  5 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  ^vreathing 
A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 
Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 
Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darkened  ways 
Made  for  our  searching :  yes,  in  spite  of  all,  11 
Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  paU 
From  our  dark  spirits.     Such  the  sun,  the 

moon. 
Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 
For  simple  sheep ;   and  such  are  daffodils     1 5 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in ;   and  clear 

rills 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season ;  the  mid  forest  brake, 
Rich    with    a   sprinkling    of   fair   musk-rose 

blooms : 
And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms  20 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead ; 
AU  lovely  tales  that  -we  have  heard  or  read : 
An  endless  fount^ia  of  immortal  drink. 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences       ^5 
For  one  short  hour ;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon. 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite. 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light  30 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast, 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'er- 

cast. 
They  alway  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 
******* 

"This  river  does  not  see  the  naked  sky,  540 
Till  it  begins  to  progress  silverly 
Around  the  western  border  of  the  wood, 
Whence,  from  a  certain  spot,  its  winding  flood 
Seems  at  the  distance  like  a  crescent  moon : 
And  in  that  nook,  the  very  pride  of  Jime,  545 
Had  I  been  us'd  to  pass  my  weary  eyes; 
The  rather  for  the  sun  unwilling  leaves 
So  dear  a  picture  of  his  sovereign  power, 
And  I  could  witness  his  most  kingly  hour, 
WTien  he  doth  tighten  up  the  golden  reins,  550 
And  paces  leisurely  down  amber  plains 
His  snorting  four.     Now  when  his  chariot  last 
Its  beams  against  the  zodiac-hon^  cast, 

^  the    zodiacal    sign   Leo,   in   which   the   sun 
travels  from  July  21  to  August  21 


48o 


JOHN"  KEATS 


There  blossom 'd  suddenly  a  magic  bed 
Of  sacred  ditamy/  and  poppies  red  :  555 

At  which  I  wondered  greatly,  knowing  well 
That  but  one  night  had  wrought  this  flowery 

spell ; 
And,  sitting  down  close  by,  began  to  muse 
What  it  might  mean. 


"  And  lo  !  from  opening  clouds,  I  saw  emerge 
The  loveUest  moon  that  ever  sUver'd  o'er 
A  shell  for  Neptune's  goblet :   she  did  soar 
So  passionately  bright,  my  dazzled  soul      594 
Commingling  with  her  argent  spheres  did  roll 
Through   clear   and  cloudy,   even  when  she 

went 
At  last  into  a  dark  and  vapoury  tent  — 
Whereat,  methought,  the  lidless-eyed  train 
Of  planets  all  were  in  the  blue  again. 
To  commune  with  those  orbs,  once  more  I 
rais'd  600 

My  sight  right  upward:    but  it  was  quite 

dazed 
By  a  bright  something,  sailing  down  apace, 
Making  me  quickly  veil  my  ,eyes  and  face : 
Again  I  look'd,  and,  O  ye  deities, 
Who  from  Olympus  watch  our  destinies !  605 
Whence  that  completed  form  of  aU  complete- 
ness? 
Whence  came  that  high  perfection  of  all  sweet- 
ness? 
Speak,  stubborn  earth,  and  tell  me  where,  O 

where 
Hast  thou  a  symbol  of  her  golden  hair?     609 
Not    oat-sheaves    drooping    in   the   western 

sun; 
Not  —  thy  soft  hand,  fair  sister !  let  me  shun 
Such  follying  before  thee  —  yet  she  had. 
Indeed,  locks  bright  enough  to  make  me  mad ; 
And    they    were    simply    gordian'd    up    and 

braided, 
Leaving,  in  naked  comehness,  unshaded,  615 
Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  and  orbed 

brow ; 
The  which  were  blended  in,  I  know  not  how, 
With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  eyes, 
Blush-tinted  cheeks,  half  smiles,  and  faintest 

sighs, 
That,  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit  clings 
And  plays  about  its  fancy,  till  the  stings     621 
Of  human  neighbourhood  envenom  aU. 
Unto  what  awful  power  shall  I  call? 

^  a  flower  of  Greece,  supposed  to  possess  magi- 
cal properties 


To  what  high  fane  ?  —  Ah  !   see  her  hovering 

feet, 
More  bluely  vein'd,  more  soft,  more  whitely 

sweet  625 

Than  those  of  sea-born  Venus,  when  she  rose 
From  out  her  cradle  shell.     The  wind  out- 
blows 
Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion ; 
'Tis  blue,  and  over-spangled  with  a  million 
Of  little  eyes,  as  though  thou  wert  to  shed  630 
Over  the  darkest,  lushest  bluebell  bed, 
Handfuls    of    daisies."  —  "Endymion,    how 

strange ! 
Dream  within  dream!"  —  "She  took  an  airy 

range. 
And  then,  towards  me,  like  a  very  maid. 
Came  blushing,  waning,  willing,  and  afraid. 
And  press'd  me  by  the  hand :   Ah  !    'twas  too 

much ;  636 

Methought  I  fainted  at  the  charmed  touch. 
Yet  held  my  recollection,  even  as  one 
Who  dives  three  fathoms  where  the  waters  run 
Gurgling  in  beds  of  coral:  for  anon,  640 

I  felt  upmounted  in  that  region 
Where  falling  stars  dart  their  artillery  forth, 
And  eagles  struggle  with  the  buffeting  north 
That  balances  the  heavy  meteor-stone ;  — 
Felt  too,  I  was  not  fearful,  nor  alone ;         645 
But  lapp'd  and  luU'd  along  the  dangerous  sky. 
Soon,  as  it  seem'd,  we  left  our  journeying  high, 
And  straightway  into  frightful  eddies  swoop'd ; 
Such  as  ay  muster  where  grey  time  has  scoop'd 
Huge  dens  and  caverns  in  a  movmtain's  side: 
There  hollow  sounds  arous'd  me,  and  I  sigh'd 
To  faint  once  more  by  looking  on  my  bHss  — 
I  was  distracted ;  madly  did  I  kiss  653 

The  wooing  arms  which  held  me,  and  did  give 
My  eyes  at  once  to  death :  but  'twas  to  live, 
To  take  in  draughts  of  hfe  from  the  gold  fount 
Of  kind  and  passionate  looks ;   to  count,  and 

count 
The  moments,  by  some  greedy  help  that  seem'd 
A  second  self,  that  each  might  be  redeem'd 
And  plunder'd  of  its  load  of  blessedness.     660 
Ah,  desperate  mortal!     I  e'en  dar'd  to  press 
Her  very  cheek  against  my  crowned  lip, 
And,  at  that  moment,  felt  my  body  dip 
Into  a  warmer  air :   a  moment  more. 
Our  feet  were  soft  in  flowers.     There  was  store 
Of  newest  joys  upon  that  alp.     Sometimes  666 
A  scent  of  violets,  and  blossoming  limes, 
Loiter'd  arovmd  us ;   then  of  honey  cells. 
Made  delicate  from  all  white-flower  bells ; 
And  once,  above  the  edges  of  our  nest,     670 
An  arch  face  peep'd,  —  an  Oread  as  I  guess'd. 


HYPERION 


481 


HYPERION 

A   FRAGMENT 

From  Book  I 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 
Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  mom, 
Far  from  the  fier>''  noon,  and  eve's  one  star, 
Sat  gray-hair'd  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone. 
Still  as  the  sUence  roimd  about  his  lair ;        5 
Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 
Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there, 
Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 
Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd 

grass. 
But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 
A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deadened 

more  11 

By  reason  of  his  fallen  divirdty 
Spreading  a  shade :   the  Naiad  'mid  her  reeds 
Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along   the   margin-sand   large   foot-marks 

went,  15 

No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  stray'd, 
And    slept    there   since.     Upon    the    sodden 

ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred ;     and   his    reaknless    eyes    were 

closed ; 
While  his  bow'd  head  seem'd  hst'ning  to  the 

Earth,  20 

His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seem'd  no  force  could  wake  him  from  his 

place ; 
But  there  came  one,  who  with  a  kindred  hand 
Touch'd  his  Avide  shoulders,  after  bending  low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it 

not.  26 

She  was  a  Goddess  of  the  infant  world ; 
By  her  in  stature  the  tail  ^^^xnazon 
Had  stood  a  pigmy's  height :   she  would  have 

ta'en 
Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck ; 
Or  with  a  finger  stay'd  Ixion's  wheel.  30 

Her   face   was   large   as   that   of   Memphian 
I       sphinx, 

Pedestal'd  haply  in  a  palace  court, 
When  sages  look'd  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 
But  oh  !   how  unlike  marble  was  that  face : 
How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made        35 
Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  Beauty's  self. 
There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard, 
As  if  calamity  had  but  begun  ; 


As  if  the  vanward  clouds  of  evil  days 
Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  rear  40 
Was  with  its  stored  thunder  labouring  up. 
One  hand  she  press'd  upon  that  aching  spot 
W'here  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there, 
Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain  : 
The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended  neck  45 

She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning  with   parted   lips,   some   words  she 

spake 
In  solemn  tenor  and  deep  organ  tone : 
Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble 

tongue 
Would  come  in  these  like  accents ;  O  how  fraU 
To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  Gods !  51 
"Saturn,  look  up  !  —  though  wherefore,  poor 

old  King? 
I  have  no  comfort  for  thee,  no,  not  one : 
I  cannot  say,  'O  wherefore  sleepest  thou?' 
For  heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the  earth 
Knows  thee  not,  thus  afflicted,  for  a  God;  56 
And  ocean  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise, 
Has  from  thy  sceptre  pass'd ;   and  all  the  air 
Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  majesty. 
Thy  thunder,  conscious  of  the  new  command. 
Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house  ;      61 
And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised  hands 
Scorches  and  burns  our  once  serene  domain. 
O  aching  time  !   O  moments  big  as  years ! 
.All  as  ye  pa§s  swell  out  the  monstrous  truth, 
-And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs  66 

That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 
Saturn,  sleep  on  :  —  O  thoughtless,  why  did  I 
Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude? 
W^hy  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes?      70 
Saturn,  sleep  on  !   while  at  thy  feet  I  wefep." 

As  when,  upon  a  tranced  summer  night. 
Those  green-rob'd  senators  of  mighty  woods. 
Tall   oaks,   branch-charmed   by   the   earnest 

stars. 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir, 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust  76 

Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off. 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave ; 
So  came  these  words  and  went ;   the  while  in 

tears 
She  touch'd  her  fair  large   forehead   to   the 

ground,  80 

Just  where  her  falling  hair  might  be  outspread 
A  soft  and  silken  mat  for  Saturn's  feet. 
One  moon,  with  alteration  slow,  had  shed 
Her  silver  seasons  four  upon  the  night, 
And  still  these  two  were  postured  motionless, 
Like  natural  sculpture  in  cathedral  cavern ;  86 


482 


JOHN   KEATS 


The  frozen  God  still  couchant  on  the  earth, 
And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet : 
Until  at  length  old  Saturn  lifted  up 
His  faded  eyes,  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone,  90 
And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place, 
And  that  fan:  kneeling  Goddess;    and  then 

spake, 
As  with  a  palsied  tongue,  and  while  his  beard 
Shook  horrid  with  such  aspen-malady  : 
"O  tender  spouse  of  gold  Hyperion,  95 

Thea,  I  feel  thee  ere  I  see  thy  face ; 
Look  up,  and  let  me  see  our  doom  in  it ; 
Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this  feeble  shape 
Is  Saturn's ;   tell  me,  if  thou  hear'st  the  voice 
Of  Saturn  ;  tell  me,  if  this  wrinkling  brow,  100 
Naked  and  bare  of  its  great  diadem. 
Peers   like   the  front   of   Saturn.     Who  had 

power 
To   make   me   desolate  ?     whence   came   the 

strength  ? 
How  was  it  nurtur'd  to  such  bursting  forth. 
While  Fate  seem'd  strangled  in  my  nervous 

grasp?  105 

But  it  is  so ;  and  I  am  smother'd  up, 
And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 
Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale. 
Of  admonitions  to  the  winds  and  seas. 
Of  peaceful  sway  above  man's  harvesting,  no 
And  all  those  acts  which  Deity  supreme 
Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in.  —  I  am  gone 
Away  from  my  own  bosom :  I  have  left 
My  strong  identity,  my  real  self, 
Somewhere  between  the  throne,  and  where  I 

sit,  115 

Here  on  this  spot  of  earth.     Search,  Thea, 

search ! 
Open  thine  eyes  eterne,  and  sphere  them  round 
L^pon  all  space :  space  starr'd,  and  lorn  of  light ; 
Space  region 'd  with  life-air ;  and  barren  void ; 
Spaces  of  lire,  and  all  the  yawn  of  hell.  —  120 
Search,  Thea,  search  !  and  tell  me,  if  thouseest 
A  certain  shape  or  shadow,  making  way 
With  wings  or  chariot  iierce  to  repossess 
A  heaven  he  lost  erewhile  :  it  must  —  it  must 
Be  of  ripe  progress  —  Saturn  must  be  Kmg. 
Yes,  there  must  be  a  golden  victory ;  126 

There  must  be  Gods  thrown  down,  and  trum- 
pets blown 
Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival 
Upon  the  gold  clouds  metropolitan. 
Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir       130 
Of  .strings  in  hollow  shells ;  and  there  shall  be 
Beautiful  things  made  new,  for  the  surprise 
Of  the  sky-children  ;    I  will  give  command : 
Thea!     Thea!    Thea!   where  is  Saturn?" 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES 

St.  Agnes'  Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The   hare    limp'd   trembling  through   the 

frozen  grass. 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while 

he  told  5 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath. 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a 

death. 
Past   the   sweet   Virgin's   picture,   while  his 

prayer  he  saith.  9 

His   prayer    he    saith,  this    patient,  holy 

man ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his 

knees, 
And    back    returneth,    meagre,    barefoot, 

wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  b)^  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side,  seem  to 

freeze, 
Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  :     15 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries. 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails, 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and 

mails. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door. 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden 

tongue  20 

Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
But  no  — -  already  had  his  deathbell  rung ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung : 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve: 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among  25 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve. 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to 

grieve. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude 

soft ; 
And  so  it  chanc'd,  for  many  a  door  was  wide 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.  Soon,  vip  aloft,  30 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide: 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Star'd,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice 
rests,  35 

With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross- 
wise on  their  breasts. 


THE    EVE   OF    ST.    AGNES 


483 


•  At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The   brain,    new   stuff'd,    in   youth,    with 

triumphs  gay  40 

Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-t bought ed,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry 

day, 
On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times 

declare.  45 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ;  50 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire. 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  'Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they 
desire. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  IMadeline : 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain,  56 
She  scarcely  heard :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping 

train 
Pass  by  —  she  heeded  not  at  all :   in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier,  60 
And  back  retir'd;    not  cool'd  by  high  dis- 
dain, 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere : 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of 
the  year. 

She  danc'd  along  with   vague,   regardless 

eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and 

short :  65 

The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand :   she 

sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd^  with  fairy  fancy ;  all  amort,-  70 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn. 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She  linger'd  still.     Meantime,  across  the 
moors. 


Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on 
fire  _  75 

For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and 

implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss  —  in  sooth 
such  things  have  been.  81 

He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
WiU  storm  his  heart,  Love's  fev'rous  citadel : 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian 

hordes,  85 

Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
\\'Tiose  very  dogs  woifld  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage :   not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  fotd, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in 

soul.  90 

Ah,  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's 

flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond     94 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland : 
He  startled  her  ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face. 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand. 
Saying,  "]\Iercy,  Porphyro!    hie  thee  from 
this  place ; 
They  are  aU  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood- 
thirsty race ! 

"  Get  hence  !    get  hence  !    there's  dwarfish 

Hildebrand ;  100 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  tit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and 

land: 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a 

whit 
jNIore  tame  for  his  grey  hairs  —  Alas  me ! 

flit!. 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away."  —  "All,  Gossip  ^ 

dear,  105 

We're  safe  enough ;    here  in  this  armchair 

sit, 
And  teU  me  how"  —  "Good  Saints  I    not 

here,  not  here ; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be 

thy  bier." 


blinded 


dead 


^  godmother 


484 


JOHN    KEATS 


He  follow'd  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume ; 
And    as    she    mutter'd    "Well-a  —  well-a- 

day!"  iii 

He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  lattic'd,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom    115 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When    they    St.    Agnes'    wool    are    weaving 

piously." 

"St.  Agnes!  Ah!  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days : 
Thou  must  hold  w'ater  in  a  witch's  sieve,  1 20 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  !  —  St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  plays 
This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle  time  to 
grieve."  126 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  clos'd  a  wond'rous  riddle-book. 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook.  131 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she 

told 
His  lady's  purpose ;    and  he  scarce  could 

brook  ^ 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments 

cold. 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old.  135 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  ^  start : 
"A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art:  140 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and 

dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  !  —  I 

deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou 

didst  seem."  144 

"1  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro  :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last 
prayer, 

^  hold  back        ^  old  woman 


If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  win,  even  in  a  moment's  space,       151 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd 
than  wolves  and  bears." 

"Ah!   why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 
A  poor,  weak,  pals3^-stricken,  churchyard 

thing,—  _      15s 

Whose  passing-bell^  may  ere  the  midnight 

toll; 
Whose  prayers  for   thee,   each  morn   and 

evening. 
Were  never  miss'd."  —  Thus  plaining,^  doth 

she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro ; 
So  woeful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing,  160 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy. 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy  165 

That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
7\nd  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride. 
While  legioned  fairies  pac'd  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met,  1 70 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous 
debt. =5 

"It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  dame : 
"  All  cates  ■*  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tam- 
bour frame 
Her  own  liite  thou  wilt  see  :  no  time  to  spare. 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head.  177 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience;   kneel 

in  prayer 
The  whUe.     .All!  thou  must  needs  the  lady 
wed. 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the 
dead."  iSo 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd; 
The  dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 

'  bell  rung  when  one  is  dying  ^  lamenting 
^  Merlin  the  Magician,  of  Arthurian  romance,  was 
deceived  and  bespelled  by  Vivien,  his  mistress, 
cf.  Tennyson's  Merlin  and  Vivien.     *  delicacies 


THE    EVE    OF    ST.    AGNES 


485 


To  follow  her ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last,   1S5 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hushed,  and 

chaste ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleas'd  amain .^ 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her 

brain. 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade,  190 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair. 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware: 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care. 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.  Now  prepare,  196 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove 
fray'd  and  fled. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ;       199 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions,  wide : 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ;   205 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should 

swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in 

her  dell. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot- 
grass, 210 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As    are    the    tiger-moth's    deep-damasked 

wings ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  herald- 
ries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of 
queens  and  kings.  216 

Full  on   this  casement   shone   the  wintry 

moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  ^  on  Madeline's  fair 

breast , 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and 

boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 

^  greatly  ^  red  color 


And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst,       221 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven :  —  Porphyro  grew 

faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal 

taint.  225 

Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers  done. 
Of  aU  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees. 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed,  233 

But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  aU  the  charm  is 
fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest. 

In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she 
lay,  236 

Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 

Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 

Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow- 
day; 

Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain ; 

Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims 
pray ;  ^  241 

Blinded  ali^e  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud 
again. 

Stol'n  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Prophyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress,     245 
And  listen'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanc'd 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he 

bless. 
And  breath'd  himself :  then  from  the  closet 

crept. 
Noiseless  as  fear  ^  in  a  wide  wilderness,     250 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept. 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo!  — 

how  fast  she  slept. 

Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  sflver  twilight,  soft  he  set  254 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet :  — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 

'  A  mass-book  would  not  be  opened  by  devout 
pagans.    ^  i.e.,  a  person  in  fear 


486 


JOHN    KEATS 


The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 

Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  :  — 

The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  aU  the  noise  is 

gone.  261 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd. 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  aheap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and 
gourd;  265 

With  jellies  soother^  than  the  creamy  curd. 
And  lucent  syrups,  tinct  with  cinnamon; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez ;   and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  v/ith  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver :   sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night,  274 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
"And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake. 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth 
ache."  279 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  imnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.  Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains :  —  'twas  a  midnight 

charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies : 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem  286 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes ; 
So  mus'd  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute,  — 
Tumultuous,  —  and,  in  chords  that  tender- 
est  be,  290 

He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In  Provence  call'd,   "La  belle  dame  sans 

merci,"  - 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ;  — 
Wherewith    disturb'd,    she   utter'd    a   soft 

moan : 
He  ceased  —  she  panted  quick  —  and  sud- 
denly 295 
?Ier  ])lue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upo!i  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculp- 
tured stone. 

*  smoother    ^  Cf.  Keats'  poem  with  the  same 
title. 


Her  eyes  v/ere  open,  but  she  still  beheld. 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep : 
There   was  a  painful  change,   that   night 

expell'd  300 

The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  Avords  with  many  a 

sigh; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous 

eye,  305 

Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dream- 

ingly. 

"Ah,  Porphyro  !"  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear 
Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear: 
How  chang'd  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chiU,  and 

drear !  •  311 

Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings 

dear ! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where 

to  go." 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose. 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose       3  20 
Blendeth  its  odour  with  the  violet,  — 
Solution  sweet :    meantime  the  frost -wmd 

blows 
Like  Love's  alarum,  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;   St.  Agnes'  moon 

hath  set. 

'Tis  dark :    quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown 
sleet:  325 

"  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  IMadeline  ! " 
'Tis  dark :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"No  dream,  alas!  alas!  and  woe  is  mine! 
Porphyro  wiU  leave  me  here  to  fade  and 

pine.  — 

Cruel !  v/hat  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring? 

I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine,  331 

Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing ;  — 

A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned 

wing." 

"My    Madeline!    sweet    dreamer!    lovely 

bride ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ?     335 


WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR 


487 


Thy    beauty's    shield,    heart-shaped    and 

vermeil  dyed? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest , 
A  famished  pUgrim, — sav'd  by  miracle.  339 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self ;   if  thou  think'st 

well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

"Hark!  'tis  an  elfui-storm  from  fairy-  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed :  344 
Arise  — •  arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand ;  — 
The  bloated  wassaUers  will  never  heed :  — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see,  — 
Drown'dallin  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead : 
Awake!  arise!  my  love,  and  fearless  be,  350 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for 
thee." 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  aroimd, 
At    glaring    watch,    perhaps,    with    ready 

spears  — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they 

found. —  355 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  soimd. 
A  chain-drooped  lamp   was  flickering  by 

each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  v/ith  horseman,  hawk,  and 

hound,  358 

Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 

And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty_  floor. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide 

haU ;  " 

Like  phantoms,  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide ; 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  em.pty  flagon  by  his  side : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook 

his  hide,  365 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  fvdl  easy  slide :  — 
The    chains    lie    sUent    on    the    footworn 

stones;  — 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges 

groans. 

And  they  are  gone :   ay,  ages  long  ago    370 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe. 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  siiade  and 

form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm. 
Were  long  be-nightmar'd.     Angela  the  old 


Died    palsy-twitch 'd,    with    meagre,  face 

deform ;  376 

The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 

For  aye  unsought  for  slept  among  his  ashes 

cold. 


WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR 

'    (1775-1864) 

iESOP  AND   RHODOPE 

SECOND    CONA^ERSATION 

Msop.  And  so,  our  fellow-slaves  are  given 
to  contention  on  the  score  of  dignity  ? 

RJiodope.  I  do  not  believe  they  are  much 
addicted  to  contention:  for,  whenever  the 
good  Xanthus  hears  a  signal  of  such  misbe- 
haviour, he  either  brings  a  scourge  into  the 
midst  of  them  or  sends  our  lady  to  scold  them 
smartly  for  it. 

Jisop.  Admirable  evidence  against  their 
propensity  1 

Rliodope.  I  will  not  have  you  find  them  out 
so,  nor  laugh  at  them. 

^-Esop.  Seeing  that  the  good  Xanthus  and 
our  lady  are  equally  fond  of  thee,  and  always 
visit  thee  both  together,  the  girls,  however 
envious,  cannot  well  or  safely  be  arrogant,  but 
must  of  necessity  yield  the  first  place  to  thee. 

Rliodope.  They  indeed  are  observant  of  the 
kindness  thus  bestowed  upon  me :  j-et  they 
afflict  m«  by  taunting  me  continually  with 
what  I  am  unable  to  deny. 

JEsop.  If  it  is  true,  it  ought  little  to  trouble 
thee ;  if  untrue,  less.  I  know,  for  I  have 
looked  into  nothing  else  of  late,  no  evil  can 
thy  heart  have  admitted :  a  sigh  of  thine  be- 
fore the  gods  would  remove  the  heaviest  that 
could  faU  on  it.  Pray  teU  me  what  it  may  be. 
Come,  be  courageous ;  be  cheerful.  I  can 
easily  pardon  a  smile  if  thou  impleadest  me  of 
ciu-iosity. 

Rliodope.  They  remark  to  me  that  enemies 
or  robbers  took  them  forcibly  from  their  par- 
ents .  .  .  and  that  .  .  .  and  that  .  .  . 

Msop.  Likely  enough  :  what  then  ?  Why 
desist  from  speaking?  why  cover  thy  face 
Avith  thy  hair  and  hands?  Rhodope ! 
Rhodope  !  dost  thou  weep  moreover? 

Rhodope.   It  is  so  sure  ! 

.Esop.   Was  the  fault  thine? 

Rhodope.  O  that  it  were  !  ...  if  there  was 
any. 


438 


WALTER    SAVAGE   LANDOR 


Jisflp.  While  it  pains  thee  to  tell  it,  keep 
thy  sUence ;  but  when  utterance  is  a  solace, 
then  impart  it. 

Rhodopc.  The}'  remind  me  (oh  !  who  could 
have  had  the  cruelty  to  relate  it?)  that  my 
father,  my  own  dear  father  .  .  . 

Msop.  Say  not  the  rest :  I  know'  it :  his 
day  was  come. 

Rhodope.  .  .  '.  sold  me,  sold  me.  You 
start :  you  did  not  at  the  lightning  last  night, 
nor  at  the  rolling  sounds  above.  And  do  you, 
generous  ^^sop  !  do  you  also  call  a  misfortune 
a  disgrace? 

Msop.  If  it  is,  I  am  among  the  most  dis- 
graceful of  men.  Didst  thou  dearly  love  thy 
father? 

Rhodope.  All  loved  him.  He  was  very 
fond  of  me. 

yEsop.  And  yet  sold  thee !  sold  thee  to  a 
stranger ! 

Rhodope.  He  was  the  kindest  of  all  kind 
fathers,  nevertheless.  Nine  summers  ago, 
you  may  have  heard  perhaps,  there  was  a 
grievous  famine  in  our  land  of  Thrace. 

j-Esop.   I  remember  it  perfectly. 

Rhodope.  0  poor  ^-Esop  !  and  were  you  too 
famishing  in  your  native  Phrygia? 

/Esop.  The  calamity  extended  beyond  the 
narrow  sea  that  separates  our  countries.  ]My 
appetite  was  sharpened;  but  the  appetite 
and  the  wits  are  equally  set  on  the  same 
grindstone. 

Rhodope.  I  was  then  scarcely  five  years  old : 
my  mother  died  the  year  before :  ijiy  father 
sighed  at  every  funeral,  but  he  sighed  more 
deeply  at  every  bridal,  song.  He  loved  me 
because  he  loved  her  who  bore  me :  and  yet 
I  made  him  sorrowful  whether  I  cried  or 
smiled.  If  ever  I  vexed  him,  it  was  because 
I  would  not  play  when  he  told  me,  but  made 
him,  by  my  weeping,  weep  again. 

/Esop.  And  yet  he  could  endure  to  lose 
thee !  he,  thy  father !  Could  any  other  ? 
could  any  who  lives  on  the  fruits  of  the  earth, 
endure  it?  O  age,  that  art  incumbent  over 
me  !  blessed  be  thou ;  tlirice  blessed  !  Not 
that  thou  stillest  the  tumults  of  the  heart, 
and  promisest  eternal  calm,  but  that,  pre- 
vented by  thy  beneficence,  I  never  shall 
experience  this  only  intolerable  wretchedness. 

Rhodope.    Alas  !  alas  ! 

Msop.  Thou  art  now  happy,  and  shouldst 
not  utter  that  useless  exclamation. 

Rhodope.  You  said  something  angrily  and 
vehemently  when  you  stepped  aside.     Is  it 


not  enough  that  the  handmaidens  doubt  the 
kindness  of  my  father  ?  Must  so  virtuous  and 
so  wise  a  man  as  .i^isop  blame  him  also  ? 

/Esop.  Perhaps  he  is  little  to  be  blamed ; 
certainly  he  is  much  to  be  pitied. 

Rhodopc.  Kind  heart !  on  which  mine 
must  never  rest ! 

Msop.  Rest  on  it  for  comfort  and  for  counsel 
when  they  fail  thee :  rest  on  it,  as  the  deities 
on  the  breast  of  mortals,  to  console  and  purify 
it. 

Rhodope.  Could  I  remove  any  sorrow  from 
it,  I  shoidd  be  contented. 

Msop.  Then  be  so;  and  proceed  in  thy 
narrative. 

Rhodopc.  Bear  with  me  a  little  yet.  ]\Iy 
thoughts  have  overpowered  my  vv^ords,  and 
now  themselves  are  overpowered  and  scattered. 

Forty-seven  days  ago  (this  is  only  the  forty- 
eighth  since  I  beheld  you  first)  I  was  a  child ; 
I  was  ignorant,  I  was  careless. 

Msop.  If  these  qualities  are  signs  of  child- 
hood, the  imiverse  is  a  nursery-. 

Rhodope.  .\fiiiction,  which  makes  many 
wiser,  had  no  such  effect  on  me.  But  rever- 
ence and  love  (why  should  I  hesitate  at  the 
one  avowal  more  than  at  the  other?)  came 
over  me,  to  ripen  my  understanding. 

Msop.  O  Rhodope !  we  must  loiter  no 
longer  upon  this  discourse. 

RJiodope.   Why  not? 

Msop.  Pleasant  is  yonder  beanfield,  seen 
over  the  high  papyrus  when  it  waves  and 
bends :  deep  laden  with  the  sweet  heaviness  of 
its  odour  is  the  listless  air  that  palpitates  diz- 
zily above  it :  but  Death  is  lurking  for  the 
slumberer  beneath  its  blossoms. 

Rhodope.  You  must  not  love  then !  .  .  . 
but  may  not  I? 

Msop.   We  will  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 

Rhodope.  We  !  O  sound  that  is  to  vibrate 
on  my  breast  forever  !  O  hour  1  happier  than 
aU  other  hours  since  time  began  !  O  gracious 
Gods  !  who  brought  me  into  bondage  ! 

Msop.  Be  calm,  be  composed,  be  circum- 
spect. We  must  hide  our  treasure  that  we 
may  not  lose  it. 

RJiodope.  I  do  not  think  that  you  can  love 
me ;  and  I  fear  and  tremble  to  hope  so.  Ah, 
yes ;  you  have  said  you  did.  But  again  you 
only  look  at  me,  and  sigh  as  if  you  repented. 

Msop.  Unworthy  as  I  may  be  of  thy  fond 
regard,  I  am  not  unworthy  of  thy  fullest  con- 
fidence:  why  distrust  me? 

Rhodope.   Never  will  I  .  .  .  never,  never. 


JESOF   AND    RHODOPE 


489 


To  know  that  I  possess  your  love,  surpasses  all 
other  knowledge,  dear  as  is  all  that  I  receive 
from  you.  I  should  be  tired  of  my  own  voice 
if  I  heard  it  on  aught  beside :  and,  even  yours 
is  less  melodious  in  any  other  sound  than 
Rliodope. 

yEsop.   Do  such  little  girls  learn  to  flatter? 

Rhodope.  Teach  me  how  to  speak,  since 
you  could  not  teach  me  how  to  be  silent. 

^■Esop.  Speak  no  longer  of  me,  but  of  thy- 
self ;  and  only  of  things  that  never  pain  thee. 

Rhodope.   Nothing  can  pain  me  now. 

JLsop.   Relate  thy  story  then,  from  infancy. 

Rhodope.  I  must  hold  your  hand :  I  am 
afraid  of  losing  you  again. 

jEsop.   Now  begin.     Why  silent  so  long? 

Rhodope.  I  have  dropped  all  memory  of 
what  is  told  by  me  and  what  is  untold. 

yEsop.  Recollect  a  little.  I  can  be  patient 
with  this  hand  in  mine. 

Rhodope.  I  am  not  certain  that  yours  is  any 
help  to  recollection. 

Msop.    Shall  I  remove  it  ? 

Rhodope.  O !  now  I  think  I  can  recall  the 
whole  story.  What  did  you  say  ?  did  3^ou  ask 
any  question? 

.Esop.  None,  excepting  what  thou  hast 
answered. 

RJtodope.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  morning 
v/hen  my  father,  sitting  in  the  coolest  part  of 
the  house,  exchanged  his  last  measure  of  grain 
for  a  chlamys  of  scarlet  cloth  fringed  with 
silver.  He  watched  the  merchant  out  of  the 
door,  and  then  looked  wistfully  into  the  corn- 
chest.  I,  who  thought  there  was  something 
worth  seemg,  looked  in  also,  and,  finding  it 
empty,  expressed  my  disappointment,  not 
thinking  however  about  the  corn.  A  faint  and 
transient  smile  came  over  his  countenance  at 
the  sight  of  mine.  He  unfolded  the  chlamys, 
stretched  it  out  with  both  hands  before  me, 
and  then  cast  it  over  mj'  shoulders.  I  looked 
down  on  the  ghttering  fringe  and  screamed 
with  joy.  He  then  went  out ;  and  I  know  not 
what  flowers  he  gathered,  but  he  gathered 
many  ;  and  some  he  placed  in  my  bosom,  and 
some  in  my  hair.  But  I  told  him  with  cap- 
tious pride,  first  that  I  could  arrange  them 
better,  and  again  that  I  would  have  only  the 
white.  However,  when  he  had  selected  all 
the  white,  and  I  had  placed  a  few  of  them 
according  to  my  fancy,  I  told  him  (rising 
in  my  slipper)  he  might  crown  me  with  the 
remainder.  The  splendour  of  my  apparel 
gave  me  a  sensation  of  authority.     Soon  as 


the  flowers  had  taken  their  station  on  my 
head,  I  expressed  a  dignified  satisfaction  at 
the  taste  displayed  by  my  father,  just  as  if  I 
could  have  seen  how  they  appeared  !  But  he 
knew  that  there  was  at  least  as  much  pleasure 
as  pride  in  it,  and  perhaps  we  divided  the 
latter  (alas  !  not  both)  pretty  equally.  He 
now  took  me  into  the  market-place,  where 
a  concourse  of  people  was  waiting  for  the  pur- 
chase of  slaves.  jMerchants  came  and  looked 
at  me ;  some  commending,  others  disparaging ; 
but  aU  agreeing  that  I  was  slender  and  delicate, 
that  I  could  not  live  long,  and  that  I  should 
give  much  trouble.  ]\Iany  would  have  bought 
the  chlamys,  but  there  was  something  less 
salable  in  the  chfld  and  flowers. 

^Esop.  Had  thy  features  been  coarse  and 
thy  voice  rustic,  they  would  all  have  patted 
thy  cheeks  and  found  no  fault  in  thee. 

Rhodope.  As  it  was,  every  one  had  bought 
exactly  such  another  in  time  past,  and  been  a 
loser  by  it.  At  these  speeches  I  perceived  the 
flowers  tremble  slightly  on  my  bosom,  from 
my  father's  agitation.  Although  he  scoffed  at 
them,  knowingmy  healthiness,  he  was  troubled 
internally,  and  said  many  short  prayers,  not 
ver\'  imlike  imprecations,  turning  his  head 
aside.  Proud  was  I,  prouder  than  ever, 
when  at  last  several  talents  were  offered  for 
me,  and  by  the  very  man  who  in  the  beginning 
had  undervalued  me  the  most,  and  proph- 
esied the  worst  of  me.  My  father  scowled 
at  him,  and  refused  the  money.  I  thought 
he  was  playing  a  game,  and  began  to  wonder 
what  it  could  be,  since  I  never  had  seen  it 
played  before.  Then  I  fancied  it  might  be 
some  celebration  because  plenty  had  returned 
to  the  city,  insomuch  that  my  father  had 
bartered  the  last  of  the  corn  he  hoarded.  I 
grew  more  and  more  delighted  at  the  sport. 
But  soon  there  advanced  an  elderly  man, 
who  said  gravely,  "Thou  hast  stolen  this 
chUd:  her  vesture  alone  is  worth  above  a 
hundred  drachmas.  Carry'  her  home  again 
to  her  parents,  and  do  it  directly,  or  Nemesis  ^ 
and  the  Eumenides-  wUl  overtake  thee." 
Knowing  the  estimation  in  which  my  father 
had  always  been  holden  by  his  fellow-citizens, 
I  laughed  again,  and  pinched  his  ear.  He, 
although  naturally  choleric,  burst  forth  into 
no  resentment  at  these  reproaches,  but  said 
calmly,  ''I  think  I  know  thee  by   name,   O 

^  the  goddess  who  avenges  wrongs  -  the 
Furies,  who  also  are  regarded  as  avengers 


490 


WALTER    SAVAGE   LANDOR 


guest !     Surely  thou  art  Xanthus  the  Samian. 
DeUver  this  child  from  famine." 

Again  I  laughed  aloud  and  heartily;  and, 
thinking  it  was  now  my  part  of  the  game,  I 
held  out  both  my  arms  and  protruded  my 
whole  body  towards  the  stranger.  He  would 
not  receive  me  from  my  father's  neck,  but 
he  asked  me  with  benignity  and  solicitude 
if  I  was  hungry:  at  which  I  laughed  again, 
and  more  than  ever :  for  it  was  early  in  the 
morning,  soon  after  the  first  meal,  and  my 
father  had  nourished  nie  most  carefully  and 
plentifully  in  all  the  days  of  the  famine.  But 
Xanthus,  waiting  for  no  answer,  took  out  of 
a  sack,  which  one  of  his  slaves  carried  at  his 
side,  a  cake  of  wheaten  bread  and  a  piece  of 
honey-comb,  and  gave  them  to  me.  I  held  the 
honey-comb  to  my  father's  mouth,  thinking  it 
the  most  of  a  dainty.  He  dashed  it  to  the 
ground ;  but,  seizing  the  bread,  he  began  to 
devour  it  ferociously.  This  also  I  thought 
was  in  play ;  and  I  clapped  my  hands  at  his 
distortions.  But  Xanthus  looked  on  him 
like  one  afraid,  and  smote  the  cake  from  him, 
crying  aloud,  "Name  the  price."  My  father 
now  placed  me  in  his  arms,  naming  a  price 
much  below  what  the  other  had  offered,  say- 
ing, "The  gods  are  ever  with  thee,  O  Xanthus ; 
therefore  to  thee  do  I  consign  my  child." 
But  while  Xanthus  was  coimting  out  the 
silver,  my  father  seized  the  cake  again,  which 
the  slave  had  taken  up  and  was  about  to 
replace  in  the  wallet.  His  hunger  was 
exasperated  by  the  taste  and  the  delay. 
Suddenly  there  arose  much  tumult.  Turning 
round  in  the  old  woman's  bosom  who  had 
received  me  from  Xanthus,  I  saw  my  beloved 
father  struggling  on  the  ground,  livid  and 
speechless.  The  more  violent  my  cries,  the 
more  rapidly  they  hurried  me  away;  and 
many  were  soon  between  us.  Little  was  I 
suspicious  that  he  had  suffered  the  pangs  of 
famine  long  before :  alas !  and  he  had  suffered 
them  for  mc.  Do  I  weep  while  I  am  tellmg 
you  they  ended?  I  could  not  have  closed 
his  eyes ;  I  was  too  young  ;  but  I  might  have 
received  his  last  l^reath ;  the  only  comfort  of 
an  orphan's  bosom.  Do  you  now  think 
him  blamable,  O  ^.sop? 

Aisop.  It  was  sublime  h  iimanity:  it  was  for- 
bearance and  self-denial  which  even  the  im- 
mortal gods  have  never  shown  us.  He  could 
endure  to  perish  by  those  torments  which 
alone  arc  both  acute  and  slow;  he  could 
number  the  steps  of  death  and  miss  not  one : 


but  he  could  never  see  thy  tears,  nor  let  thee 
see  his.  O  weakness  above  all  fortitude! 
Glory  to  the  man  who  rather  bears  a  grief 
corroding  his  breast,  than  permits  it  to  prowl 
beyond,  and  to  prey  on  the  tender  and  com- 
passionate !  Women  commiserate  the  brave, 
and  men  the  beautiful.  The  dominion  of 
Pity  has  usually  this  extent,  no  wider.  Thy 
father  was  exposed  to  the  obloquy  not  only 
of  the  malicious,  but  also  of  the  ignorant  and 
thoughtless,  who  condemn  in  the  unfortunate 
what  they  applaud  in  the  prosperous.  There 
is  no  shame  in  poverty  or  in  slavery,  if  we 
neither  make  ourselves  poor  by  our  improvi- 
dence nor  slaves  by  our  venality.  The 
lowest  and  highest  of  the  human  race  are  sold : 
most  of  the  intermediate  are  also  slaves,  but 
slaves  who  bring  no  m^oney  in  the  market. 

Rhodope.  Surely  the  great  and  powerful 
are  never  to  be  purchased :  are  they  ? 

Msop.  It  may  be  a  defect  in  my  vision,  but 
I  cannot  see  greatness  on  the  earth.  What 
they  tell  me  is  great  and  aspiring,  to  me  seems 
little  and  crawling.  Let  me  meet  thy  question 
with  another.  What  monarch  gives  his 
daughter  for  nothing?  Either  he  receives 
stone  walls  and  unwilling  cities  in  retiirn,  or 
he  barters  her  for  a  parcel  of  spears  and  horses 
and  horsemen,  waving  away  from  his  declining 
and  helpless  age  young  joyous  life,  and  tramp- 
ling down  the  freshest  and  the  sweetest  memo- 
ries. Midas  ^  in  the  highth  of  prosperity  would 
have  given  his  daughter  to  Lycaon,-  rather 
than  to  the  gentlest,  the  most  virtuous,  the 
most  intelligent  of  his  subjects.  Thy  father 
threw  wealth  aside,  and,  placing  thee  under 
the  protection  of  Virtue,  rose  up  from  the 
house  of  Famine  to  partake  ui  the  festivals  of 
the  Gods. 

Release  my  neck,  O  Rhodope!  for  I  have 
other  questions  to  ask  of  thee  about  him. 

Rhodope.  To  hear  thee  converse  on  him  in 
such  a  manner,  I  can  do  even  that. 

/Esop.  Before  the  day  of  separation  was  he 
never  sorrowfid?  Did  he  never  by  tears  or 
silence  reveal  the  secret  of  his  soid  ? 

Rhodope.  I  was  too  infantine  to  perceive 
or  imagine  his  intention.  The  night  before 
I  became  the  slave  of  Xanthus,  he  sat  on  the 
edge  of  my  bed.  I  pretended  to  be  asleej) :  he 
moved  away  silently  and  softly.  1  saw  him 
collect  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  the  crumbs  I 

^  the  type  of  avarice  ^  a  king  of  Arcadia  noted 
for  his  impiety 


^SOP    AND    RHODOPfi 


491 


had  wasted  on  the  floor,  and  then  eat  them, 
and  then  look  if  any  were  remaining.  I 
thought  he  did  so  out  of  fondness  for  me, 
remembering  that,  even  before  the  famine, 
he  had  often  swept  up  oS  the  table  the  bread 
I  had  broken,  and  had  made  me  put  it  be- 
tween his  lips.  I  would  not  dissemble  very 
long,  but  said : 

"Come,  now  you  have  wakened  me,  you 
must  sing  me  asleep  again,  as  you  did  when  I 
was  little." 

He  smiled  faintly  at  this,  and,  after  some 
delay,  when  he  had  walked  up  and  down  the 
chamber,  thus  began : 

"I  will  sing  to  thee  one  song  more,  my 
wakeful  Rhodope!  my  chirping  bird!  over 
whom  is  no  mother's  wing !  That  it  may  lull 
thee  asleep,  I  will  celebrate  no  longer,  as  in  the 
days  of  wine  and  plenteousness,  the  glory  of 
Mars,  guiding  in  their  invisibly  rapid  onset 
the  dappled  steeds  of  Rhassus.-  What  hast 
thou  to  do,  my  little  one,  with  arrows  tired  of 
clustering  in  the  quiver?  How  much  quieter 
is  thy  pallet  than  the  tents  which  whitened  the 
plain  of  Simois !  ^  What  knowest  thou  about 
the  river  Eurotas  ?  ^  What  knowest  thou  about 
its  ancient  palace,  once  trodden  by  assembled 
Gods,  and  then  polluted  by  the  Phrygian? 
What  knowest  thou  of  perfidious  men  or  of 
sanguinarj^  deeds? 

''Pardon  me,  O  goddess*  who  presidest  in 
Cytheral  I  am  not  irreverent  to  thee,  but 
ever  gratefvd.  ISIay  she  upon  whose  brow  I 
lay  my  hand,  praise  and  bless  thee  for  ever- 
more! 

"Ah,  yes!  continue  to  hold  up  above  the 
coverlet  those  fresh  and  rosy  palms  clasped 
together :  her  benefits  have  descended  on  thy 
beauteous  head,  my  child  1  The  Fates  also 
have  sung,  beyond  thy  hearing,  of  pleasanter 
scenes  than  snow-fed  Hebrus ;  ^  of  more  than 
dim  grottos  and  sky-bright  waters.  Even 
now  a  low  murmur  swells  upward  to  my  ear : 
and  not  from  the  spindle  comes  the  sound,  but 
from  those  who  sing  slowly  over  it,  bending  all 
three  their  tremulous  heads  together.  I  wish 
thou  couldst  hear  it ;  for  seldom  are  their 
voices  so  sweet.  Thy  pillow  intercepts  the 
song  perhaps:  lie  down  again,  lie  down,  my 
Rhodope  I     I  will  repeat  what  they  are  saying : 

'"Happier  shalt  thou  be,  nor  less  glorious, 

^  A  Thracian  hero ;  Rhodope  was  from  Thrace. 
^  a  river  near  Troy  ^  a  river  near  Sparta  *  Venus 
*  Cf.  Lycidas,  1.  63. 


than  even  she,^  the  truly  beloved,  for  whose 
return  to  the  distaff  and  the  lyre  the  portals 
of  Ta^narus  flew  open.  In  the  woody  dells  of 
Ismarus,  and  when  she  bathed  among  the 
swans  of  Strymon,  the  nymphs  called  her 
Eurydice.  Thou  shalt  behold  thai  fairest 
and  that  fondest  one  hereafter.  But  first 
thou  must  go  unto  the  land  of  the  lotos,  where 
famine  never  cometh,  and  where  alone  the 
works  of  man  are  immortal.' 

"O  my  child!  the  undeceiving  Fates  have 
uttered  this.  Other  powers  have  visited  me, 
and  have  strengthened  my  heart  with  dreams 
and  visions.  We  shall  meet  again,  my 
Rhodope,  in  shady  groves  and  verdant  mead- 
ows, and  we  shall  sit  by  the  side  of  those 
who  loved  us." 

He  was  rising :  I  threw  my  arms  about  his 
neck,  and,  before  I  W'ould  let  him  go,  I  made 
him  promise  to  place  me,  not  by  the  side,  but 
between  them :  for  I  thought  of  her  who  had 
left  us.  At  that  time  there  were  but  two,  O 
^sop. 

You  ponder :  you  are  about  to  reprove  my 
assurance  in  having  thus  repeated  my  own 
praises.  I  would  have  omitted  some  of  the 
words,  only  that  it  might  have  disturbed  the 
measure  and  cadences,  and  have  put  me  out. 
They  are  the  very  words  my  dearest  father 
sang ;  and  they  are  the  last :  yet,  shame  upon 
me!  the  nurse  (the  same  who  stood  listening 
near,  who  attended  me  into  this  comitrjO 
could  remember  them  more  perfectly :  it  is 
from  her  I  have  learnt  them  since ;  she  often 
smgs  them,  even  to  herself. 

Msop.  So  shall  others.  There  is  much 
both  in  them  and  in  thee  to  render  them 
memorable. 

Rhodope.   Who  flatters  now? 

^Esop.  Flatteiy  often  rvms  beyond  Truth, 
in  a  hurry  to  embrace  her;  but  not  here. 
The  duUest  of  mortals,  seeing  and  hearing 
thee,  would  never  misinterpret  the  prophecy 
of  the  Fates. 

If,  turning  back,  I  could  overpass  the  vale 
of  years,  and  coidd  stand  on  the  mountain- 
top,  and  could  look  again  far  before  me  at  the 
bright  ascending  morn,  we  would  enjoy  the 
prospect  together ;  we  would  walk  along  the 
summit  hand  in  hand,  O  Rhodope,  and  we 
woidd  only  sigh  at  last  when  we  found  ovu*- 
selves  below  with  others. 

1  Eurydice ;  for  her  story,  see  Gayley's  Classic 
Myths,  pp.  185-8. 


492 


WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR 


ROSE   AYLMER 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race, 

Ah,  what  the  form  divine ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 


A  FIESOLAN  IDYL 

Here,  where  precipitate  Spring  with  one  light 

bound 
Into  hot  Summer's  lusty  arms  expires. 
And  where  go  forth  at  morn,  at  eve,  at  night, 
Soft  airs  that  want  the  lute  to  play  with  'em, 
And  softer  sighs  that  know  not  what  they 

want. 
Aside  a  wall,  beneath  an  orange-tree, 
Whose  tallest  flowers  could  tell  the  lowlier 

ones 
Of  sights  in  Fiesole  right  up  above, 
While  I  was  gazing  a  few  paces  off 
At  what  they  seem'd  to  show  me  with  their 

nods,  lo 

Their  frequent  whispers  and  their  pointing 

shoots, 
A  gentle  maid  came  down  the  garden-steps 
And  gathered  the  pure  treasure  in  her  lap. 
I  heard  the  branches  rustle,  and  stepp'd  forth 
To  drive  the  ox  away,  or  mule,  or  goat. 
Such  I  believed  it  must  be.     How  could  I 
Let  beast  o'erpower  them?  when  hath  wind  or 

rain 
Borne  hard  upon  weak  plant  that  wanted  me, 
And  I  (however  they  might  bluster  round)- 
Walk'd   off  ?     'Twere   most   ungrateful :     for 

sweet  scents  20 

Are  the  swift  vehicles  of  still  sweeter  thoughts, 
And  nurse  and  pillow  the  duU  memory 
That  would  let  drop  without  them  her  best 

stores. 
They  bring  me  tales  of  youth  and  tones  of  love, 
And  'tis  and  ever  was  my  wish  and  way 
To  let  all  flowers  live  freely,  and  all  die 
(Whene'er  their  Genius  bids  their  souls  de- 
part) 
Among  their  kindred  in  their  native  place. 
I  never  pluck  the  rose ;   the  violet's  head 
Hath  shaken  with  my  breatli  upon  its  bank   30 
And  not  reproach 'd  me;   the  ever-sacred  cup 
Of  the  pure  lily  hath  between  my  hands 


Felt  safe,  unsofl'd,  nor  lost  one  grain  of  gold. 
I  saw  the  light  that  made  the  glossy  leaves 
More  glossy ;    the  fair  arm,  the  fairer  cheek 
Warmed  by  the  eye  intent  on  its  pursuit ; 
I  saw  the  foot  that,  although  half-erect 
From  its  grey  slipper,  could  not  lift  her  up 
To  what  she  wanted  :  I  held  down  a  branch 
And  gather'd  her  some  blossoms ;   since  their 
hour  40 

Was  come,  and  bees  had  wounded  them,  and 

flies 
Of  harder  wing  were  working  their  way  thro' 
And  scattering  them  in  fragments  under  foot. 
So  crisp  were  some,  they  rattled  unevolved. 
Others,  ere  broken  off,  fell  into  sheUs, 
For  such  appear  the  petals  when  detach'd. 
Unbending,  brittle,  lucid,  white  like  snow, 
And  like  snow  not  seen  through,  by  eye  or 

sun: 
Yet  every  one  her  gown  received  from  me 
Was  fairer  than  the  first.     I  thought  not  so,  50 
But  so  she  praised  them  to  reward  my  care. 
I  said,   "You  find  the  largest."     "This  in- 
deed," 
Cried  she,  "is  large  and  sweet."     She  held  one 

forth. 
Whether  for  me  to  look  at  or  to  take 
She  knew  not,  nor  did  I ;  but  taking  it 
Would  best  have  solved  (and  this  she  felt)  her 

doubt. 
I  dared  not  touch  it ;  for  it  seemed  a  part 
Of  her  own  self ;  fresh,  full,  the  most  mature 
Of  blossoms,  yet  a  blossom  ;  with  a  touch 
To  fall,  and  yet  unfaUen.     She  drew  back     60 
The  boon  she  tender'd,  and  then  finding  not 
The  ribbon  at  her  waist  to  fix  it  in, 
Dropp'd  it,  as  loth  to  drop  it,  on  the  rest. 


TO   ROBERT  BROWNING 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none  hear 
Beside  the  singer ;   and  there  is  delight 
In  praising,  though  the  praiser  sit  alone 
And  see  the  prais'd  far  off  him,  far  above. 
Shakespeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's,  • 
Therefore  on  him  no  speech  !  and  brief  for 

thee. 
Browning  !    Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and  hale, 
No  man  hath  walk'd  along  our  roads  with  step 
So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 
So  varied  in  discourse.     But  warmer  climes  10 
Give  brighter  plumage,  stronger  wing :    the 

breeze 
Of  Alpine  highths  thou  playest  with,  borne  on 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    SHIRT 


493 


Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amalfi/  where 
The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for  song. 


WHY 

Why  do  our  joys  depart 
For  cares  to  seize  the  heart? 
I  know  not.     Nature  says, 
Obey  ;   and  Man  obeys. 
I  see,  and  know  not  why, 
Thorns  live  and  roses  die. 


ON  HIS   SEVENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my 
strife, 

Nature  I  loved,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art ; 
I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life, 

It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 


ON  DEATH 

Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 
I  know  not  what  into  my  ear : 

Of  his  strange  language  aU  I  know 
Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear. 


THOMAS   HOOD    (i 798-1845) 

THE   SONG  OF  THE   SHIRT 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn. 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags. 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 
Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 

She  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt."  8 

"Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof  ! 
And  work  —  work  —  work. 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 
It's  Oh  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save. 

If  this  is  Christian  work  !  16 

'  Towns  of  southern  Italy,  whither  Browning 
was  going. 


"Work  —  work  —  work. 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ; 
Work  —  work  — -  work, 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  !  24 

"Oh,  Men,  with  Sisters  dear  ! 

Oh,  Men,  with  Mothers  and  Wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 
Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch. 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  Shroud  as  well  as  a  Shirt.  32 

"But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death? 

That  Phantom  of  grisly  bone, 
I  hardly  fear  its  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own  — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own. 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep ; 
Oh,  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  !  40 

"Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

My  labour  never  flags ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread  —  and  rags. 
That  shatter'd  roof  —  this  naked  floor  — 

A  table  —  a  broken  chair  — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  !  48 

"Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime. 
Work  —  work  —  work. 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumb'd, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand.  56 

"Work  —  work  —  work, 

In  the  duU  December  light, 
And  work  —  work  —  work. 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright  — 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring.       •  64 


494 


WINTHROP    MACKWORTH    PRAED 


"Oh  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowshp  and  primrose  sweet  — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ; 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal.  72 

"Oh  !  but  for  one  short  hour  ! 

A  respite  however  brief ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  Love  or  Hope, 

But  only  time  for  Grief ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !"  .80 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 
Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch,  — 
W^ould  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  Rich  !  — 

She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt !"  89 


RUTH 

She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun. 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won.  4 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush, 

Deeply  ripen 'd  ;  —  such  a  blush 

In  the  midst  of  brown  was  bom. 

Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn.  8 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 

Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell, 

But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light. 

That  had  else  been  all  too  bright.  12 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim. 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ;  — 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks. 
Praising  God  v/ith  sweetest  looks.  16 

Sure,  I  said,  Heav'n  did  not  mean. 
Where  I  reap  thou  should'st  but  glean ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home.  20 


WINTHROP    MACKWORTH 
PRAED    (1802-1839) 

THE  BELLE  OF  THE   BALL-ROOM 

Years  —  years  ago,  —  ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  or  witty,  — 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes, 

Or  yawned  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty  ^ ;  — 
Years  —  years  ago,  —  while  all  my  joy 

Was  in  my  fowling-piece  and  fiUy,  — 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lily. .  8 

I  saw  her  at  the  County  Ball : 

There,  when  the  sounds  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall 

Of  hands  across  and  dov.-n  the  middle, 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  set  young  hearts  romancing ; 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star ;  15 

And   then    she   danced  —  O   Heaven,    her 
dancing ! 

Dark  was  her  hair,  her  hand  was  white ; 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender ; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light ; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender ! 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile. 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows ; 
I  thought  'twas  Venus  from  her  isle,  23 

And  wondered  where  she'd  left  her  sparrows. 

She  talked,  —  of  politics  or  prayers,  — 

Of  Southey's  prose  or  Wordsworth's  son- 
nets, — 
Of  danglers  —  or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles  —  or  the  last  new  bonnets, 
By  candlelight,  at  twelve  o'clock, 

To  me  it  mattered  not  a  tittle ; 
If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke,'^         31 

I  might  have  thought  they  murmured  Little.3 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  to  the  Sunday  Journal : 
My  mother  laughed  ;   I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling : 
My  father  frowned  ;  but  how  should  gout 

See  any  happiness  in  kneeling?  4.0 

^  a  writer  on  law  -  a  philosopher,  cf.  p.  238 
^  a  pseudonym  of  Thomas  Moore,  writer  of  love 
songs 


DEATHS    JEST-BOOK 


495 


She  was  the  daughter  of  a  Dean, 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic  ; 
She  had  one  brother,  just  thirteen, 

Whose  colour  was  extremely  hectic ; 
Her  grandmother  for  many  a  year 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty ; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer, 

And  Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  County. 


48 


But  titles,  and  the  three  per  cents, 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations, 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes,  and  rents. 

Oh,  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks  — 

Such  wealth,  such  honours,  Cupid  chooses ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  Stocks, 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  Muses.  56 

She  sketched ;   the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach, 

Grew  loveHer  from  her  pencil's  shading : 
She  botanised ;  I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading : 
She  warbled  Handel ;  ^   it  was  grand ; 

She  made  the  Catalan!-  jealous : 
She  touched  the  organ ;  I  could  stand 

For  hours  and  hours  to  blow  the  bellows.  64 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home, 

Well  filled  with  all  an  album's  glories ; 
Paintings  of  butterflies,  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trimmings,  Persian  stories ; 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo, 

Fierce  odes  to  Famine  and  to  Slaughter ; 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Leboo,^ 

And  recipes  for  elder-water.  72 

And  she  was  flattered,  worshipped,  bored ; 

Her  steps  were  watched,  her  dress  was  noted, 
Her  poodle  dog  was  quite  adored. 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted  ; 
She  laughed,  and  every  heart  was  glad, 

As  if  the  taxes  were  abolished ; 
She  frowned,  and  every  look  was  sad, 

As  if  the  Opera  were  demolished.  80 

She  smiled  on  many,  just  for  fun,  — 
I  knev/  that  there  was  nothing  in  it ; 

I  was  the  first  —  the  only  one 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute.  — 

I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so. 

In  phrase  w'hich  was  divinely  moulded ; 

^  Handel's  music  was  popular  in  England  at 
this  time  ^  an  Italian  prima  donna  ^  Prince  Le 
Beau,  a  distinguished  Belgian  diplomat 


She  wrote  a  charming  hand,  —  and  oh  ! 
How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded  !    88 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves ;  — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver, 
A  rose-bud,  and  a  pair  of  gloves. 

And  "Fly  not  yet"  —  upon  the  river; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir, 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted ; 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair, 

The  usual  vows,  —  and  then  we  parted.  96 

We  parted  ;   months  and  years  rolled  by ; 

We  met  again  four  summers  after : 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh  ; 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter : 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers ; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room's  belle. 

But  only  —  Mrs.  Something  Rogers  !      104 

THOMAS    LOVELL    BEDDOES 

(1803-1849) 

From  DEATH'S  JEST-BOOK 

SONG 

Old  Adam,  the  carrion  crow, 
The  old  crow  of  Cairo ; 
He  sat  in  the  shower,  and  let  it  flow 
.  Under  his  tail  and  over  his  crest ; 
And  through  every  feather' 
Leaked  the  wet  weather ; 
And  the  bough  swung  under  his  nest ; 
For  his  beak  it  was  heavy  with  marrow. 
Is  that  the  wind  dying  ?     O  no  ; 
It's  only  two  devils,  that  blow 
Through  a  murderer's  bones,  to  and  fro, 
In  the  ghosts'  moonshine.  1 2 

Ho  !     Eve,  my  grey  carrion  wife. 

When  we  have  supped  on  kings'  marrow, 
Where  shall  we  drink  and  make  merry  our 
life? 
Our  nest  it  is  Queen  Cleopatra's  skidl, 
Tis  cloven  and  cracked. 
And  battered  and  hacked. 
But  with  tears  of  blue  eyes  it  is  full : 
Let  us  drink  then,  my  raven  of  Cairo. 
Is  that  the  wind  dying  ?     O  no  ; 
It's  only  two  devils,  that  blow 
Through  a  murderer's  bones,  to  and  fro, 
In  the  ghosts'  moonshine.  24 


496 


THOMAS    LOVELL    BEDDOES 


DREAM-PEDLARY 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 

What  would  you  buy  ? 
Some  cost  a  passing  bell ; 

Some  a  light  sigh, 
That  shakes  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Only  a  rose-leaf  down. 
If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell, 
And  the  crier  rang  the  bell. 

What  would  you  buy  ? 

A  cottage  lone  and  still. 

With  bowers  nigh, 
Shadowy,  my  woes  to  still, 

Until  I  die. 
Such  pearl  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fain  would  I  shake  me  down. 
Were  dreams  to  have  at  will. 
This  would  best  heal  my  ill, 

This  would  I  buy. 

But  there  were  dreams  to  sell 

111  didst  thou  buy  ; 
Life  is  a  dream,  they  tell, 

Waking,  to  die. 


19 


Dreaming  a  dream  to  prize, 
Is  wishing  ghosts  to  rise ; 
And,  if  I  had  the  spell 
To  call  the  buried  well, 
Which  one  would  I  ?  28 

If  there  are  ghosts  to  raise, 

What  shall  I  call, 
Out  of  hell's  murky  haze, 

Heaven's  blue  pall  ? 
Raise  my  loved  long-lost  boy 
To  lead  me  to  his  joy.  — 
There  are  no  ghosts  to  raise ; 
Out  of  death  lead  no  ways ; 

Vain  is  the  call.  37 

Know'st  thou  not  ghosts  to  sue. 

No  love  thou  hast. 
Else  lie,  as  I  will  do. 

And  breathe  thy  last. 
So  out  of  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fall  like  a  rose-leaf  down. 
Thus  are  the  ghosts  to  woo ; 
Thus  are  all  dreams  made  true. 

Ever  to  last !  46 


THE    VICTORIAN    AGE 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  (i 795-1881) 

SARTOR  RESARTUS 

BOOK   II,    CHAPTER   \1I 

The  Everlasting  No 

Under  the  strange  nebulous  envelopment, 
wherein  our  Professor  has  now  shrouded  him- 
self, no  doubt  but  his  spiritual  nature  is  nev- 
ertheless progressive,  and  growing :  for  how 
can  the  "Son  of  Time,"  in  any  case,  stand 
still?  We  behold  him,  through  those  dim 
years,  in  a  state  of  crisis,  of  transition :  his 
mad  Pilgrimings,  and  general  solution  into 
aimless  Discontinuity,  what  is  all  this  but  a 
mad  Fermentation ;  wherefrom,  the  fiercer  it 
is,  the  clearer  product  will  one  day  evolve 
itself? 

Such  transitions  are  ever  full  of  pain  :  thus 
the  Eagle  when  he  moults  is  sickly ;  and,  to 
attain  his  new  beak,  must  harshly  dash-off 
the  old  one  upon  rocks.  What  Stoicism  so- 
ever our  Wanderer,  in  his  individual  acts  and 
motions,  may  affect,  it  is  clear  that  there  is  a 
hot  fever  of  anarchy  and  misery  raving  within ; 
coruscations  of  which  Hash  out :  as,  indeed, 
hpw  could  there  be  other?  Have  w^e  not 
seen  him  disappointed,  bemocked  of  Destiny, 
through  long  years?  AH  that  the  young 
heart  might  desire  and  pray  for  has  been 
denied ;  nay,  as  in  the  last  w'orst  instance, 
offered  and  then  snatched  away.  Ever  an 
"excellent  Passivity";  but  of  usefid,  reason- 
able Activity,  essential  to  the  former  as  Food 
to  Hunger,  nothing  granted :  till  at  length,  in 
this  wild  Pilgrimage,  he  must  forcibly  seize  for 
himself  an  Activity,  though  useless,  unreason- 
able. Alas,  his  cup  of  bitterness,  which  had 
been  filling  drop  by  drop,  ever  since  the  first 
"ruddy  morning"  in  the  ITinterschlag  Gym- 
nasium,!  was  at  the  very  lip ;  and  then  with 
that     poison-drop,     of     the     Towgood-and- 

^  Smite-behind  Highschool   (Annan  Academy, 
where  Carlyle  went  to  school) 


Blumine^  business,  it  runs  over,  and  even 
hisses  over  in  a  deluge  of  foam. 

He  himself  says  once,  with  more  justice 
than  originality :  "  Man  is,  properly  speaking, 
based  upon  Hope,  he  has  no  other  possession 
but  Hope;  this  world  of  his  is  emphatically 
the  Place  of  Hope."  What  then  was  our  Pro- 
fessor's possession?  We  see  him,  for  the 
present,  quite  shut-out  from  Hope;  looking 
not  into  the  golden  orient,  but  vaguely  all 
around  into  a  dim  copper  firmament,  pregnant 
with  earthquake  and  tornado. 

Alas,  shut-out  from  Hope,  in  a  deeper  sense 
than  we  yet  dream  of !  For,  as  he  wanders 
wearisomely  through  this  world,  he  has  now 
lost  all  tidings  of  another  and  higher.  Full  of 
religion,  or  at  least  of  religiosity,  as  our  Friend 
has  since  exhibited  himself,  he  hides  not 
that,  in  those  days,  he  was  whoUy  irreligious : 
''Doubt  had  darkened  into  Unbelief,"  says 
*he ;  "  shade  after  shade  goes  grimly  over  your 
soul,  till  you  have  the  fixed,  starless,  Tartarean 
black."  To  such  readers  as  have  reflected, 
what  can  be  called  reflecting,  on  man's  life, 
and  happily  discovered,  in  contradiction  to 
much  Profit-and-Loss  Philosophy,  speculative 
and  practical,  that  Soul  is  not  synonymous 
with  Stomach ;  w'ho  understand,  therefore,  in 
our  Friend's  words,  "that,  for  man's  well- 
being.  Faith  is  properly  the  one  thing  needful ; 
how,  wdth  it.  Martyrs,  otherwise  weak,  can 
cheerfully  endure  the  shame  and  the  cross; 
and  without  it,  Worldlings  puke-up  their  sick 
existence,  by  suicide,  in  the  midst  of  luxury"  : 
to  such,  it  wUl  be  clear  that,  for  a  pure  moral 
nature,  the  loss  of  his  religious  Belief  was 
the  loss  of  everything.  Unhapp}'  young  man  ! 
AH  wounds,  the  crush  of  long-continued  Des- 
titution, the  stab  of  false  Friendship,  and  of 
false  Love,  all  wounds  in  thy  so  genial  heart, 
wovdd  have  healed  again,  had  not  its  life- 
warmth  been  withdra\\'n.  Well  might  he  ex- 
claim, in  his  wild  way:    "Is  there  no  God, 

^  Towgood,  a  friend  of  Teufelsdrockh's ; 
Blumine  (from  Ger.  Blnrae,  a  flower) ,  the  girl  whom 
both  loved 


497 


498 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


then;  but  at  best  an  absentee  God,  sitting 
idle,  ever  since  the  first  Sabbath,  at  the  out- 
side of  his  Universe,  and  seeing  it  go?  Has 
the  word  Duty  no  meaning ;  is  what  we  call 
Duty  no  divine  Messenger  and  Guide,  but  a 
false  earthly  Fantasm,  made-up  of  Desire  and 
Fear,  of  emanations  from  the  Gallows  and 
from  Doctor  Graham's  Celestial  Bed  ?  ^  Hap- 
piness of  an  approving  Conscience  !  Did  not 
Paul  of  Tarsus,  whom  admiring  men  have 
since  named  Saint,  feel  that  he  was  '  the  chief 
of  sinners,'  and  Nero  of  Rome,  jocund  in 
spirit  {Wohlgemuth),  spend  much  of  his  time 
in  fiddling?  Foolish  Wordmonger,  and  Mo- 
tive-grinder, who  in  thy  Logicrmill  hast  an 
earthly  mechanism  for  the  Godlike  itself,  and 
wouldst  fain  grind  me  out  Virtue  from  the 
husks  of  Pleasure,  —  I  tell  thee,  Nay  !  To 
the  unregenerate  Prometheus  Vinctus^  of  a 
man,  it  is  ever  the  bitterest  aggravation  of  his 
wretchedness  that  he  is  conscious  of  Virtue, 
that  he  feels  himself  the  victim  not  of  suffer- 
ing only,  but  of  injustice.  What  then?  Is 
the  heroic  inspiration  we  name  Virtue  but 
some  Passion ;  some  bubble  of  the  blood, 
bubbling  in  the  direction  others  profit  by? 
I  know  not :  only  this  I  know,  if  what  thou 
namest  Happiness  be  our  true  aim,  then  are 
we  all  astray.  With  Stupidity  and  sound" 
digestion  man  may  front  much.  But  what, 
in  these  dull  unimaginative  days  are  the  terrors 
of  Conscience  to  the  diseases  of  the  Liver  1 
Not  on  Morality,  but  on  Cooker}^,  let  us  build 
our  stronghold  :  there  brandishing  our  frying- 
pan,  as  censer,  let  us  offer  sweet  incense  to  the 
Devil,  and  live  at  ease  on  the  fat  things  he  has 
provided  for  his  Elect !" 

Thus  has  the  bewildered  Wanderer  to  stand, 
as  so  many  have  done,  shouting  question  after 
question  into  the  Sibyl-cave-^  of  Destiny,  and 
receive  no  Answer  but  an  Echo.  It  is  all  a 
grim  Desert,  this  once-fair  world  of  his ; 
wherein  is  heard  only  the  howling  of  wild- 
beasts,  or  the  shrieks  of  despairing,  hate-filled 
men ;  and  no  Pillar  of  ("loud  by  day,  and  no 
Pillar  of  Fire  by  night,''  any  longer  guides  the 
Pilgrim.  To  such  length  has  the  spirit  of 
Inquiry  carried  him.  "But  what  boots  it 
{was  thiit's)  ?  "  cries  he ;  "  it  is  but  the  common 

^  the  invention  of  a  quack  for  curing  sterility 
^  Prometheus  Bound  —  the  victim  of  the  wrath  of 
Zeus  because  he  stole  fire  from  heaven  for  man- 
kind ^  visited  by  Aeneas  {Aeneid,  VI,  36  ff.) 
^  Cf.  Exodus,  xiii :  21,  22 


lot  in  this  era.  Not  having  come  to  spiritual 
majority  prior  to  the  Siede  de  Louis  Quinze,^ 
and  not  being  born  purely  a  Loghead  {Dumni' 
kopj),  thou  hadst  no  other  outlook.  The 
whole  world  is,  like  thee,  sold  to  Unbelief ; 
their  old  Temples  of  the  Godhead,  v/hich  for 
long  have  not  been  rainproof,  crumble  down ; 
and  men  ask  now :  Where  is  the  Godhead ; 
our  eyes  never  saw  him?" 

Pitifid  enough  were  it,  for  all  these  wild 
utterances,  to  call  our  Diogenes  ^  wicked.  Un- 
profitable servants  as  we  all  are,  perhaps  at 
no  era  of  his  life  was  he  more  decisively  the 
Servant  of  Goodness,  the  Servant  of  God, 
than  even  now  when  doubting  God's  existence. 
"One  circumstance  I  note,"  says  he:  "after 
all  the  nam^eless  woe  that  Inquiry,  which  for 
me,  what  it  is  not  always,  was  genuine  Love 
of  Truth,  had  wrought  me,  I  nevertheless  still 
loved  Truth,  and  would  bate  no  jot  of  my 
allegiance  to  her.  '  Truth  ! '  I  cried,  '  though 
the  Heavens  crush  me  for  following  her :  no 
Falsehood !  though  a  whole  celestial  Lubber- 
land  3  were  the  price  of  Apostasy.'  In  conduct 
it  was  the  same.  Had  a  divine  Messenger 
from  the  clouds,  or  miraculous  Handwriting 
on  the  wall,  convincingly  proclaimed  to  me 
This  thou  shalt  do,  with  what  passionate  readi- 
ness, as  I  often  thought,  would  I  have  done  it, 
had  it  been  leaping  into  the  infernal  Fire. 
Thus,  in  spite  of  all  Motive-grinders,  and 
Mechanical  Profit-and-Loss  Philosophies,  with 
the  sick  ophthalmia  and  hallucination  they 
had  brought  on,  was  the  Infinite  nature  of 
Duty  stiU  dimly  present  to  me :  living  without 
God  in  the  world,  of  God's  light  I  was  not 
utterly  bereft ;  if  my  as  yet  sealed  eyes,  with 
their  unspeakable  longing,  could  nowhere  see 
Him,  nevertheless  in  my  heart  He  was  present, 
and  His  heaven-written  Law  stUl  stood  legible 
and  sacred  -there." 

Meanwhile,  under  all  these  tribulations,  and 
temporal  and  spiritual  destitutions,  what  must 
the  Wanderer,  in  his  silent  soul,  have  en- 
dured!  "The  painfullcst  feeling,"  writes  he, 
"is  that  of  your  own  Feebleness  {Unkraft)', 
ever  as  the  EngHsh  Milton  says,  to  be  weak  is 
the  true  misery.  And  yet  of  your  Strength 
there  is  and  can  be  no  clear  feeling,  save  by 
what  you  have  prospered  in,  by  what  you  have 

^  Age  of  Louis  XV,  the  age  of  scepticism  ^  an  ■ 
eccentric  Greelc  philosopher  ^  the  fabulous  land 
of  the  lazy,  where  food  grew  read}'  cooked  on  the 
trees  and  the  vines  flowed  witli  wine 


SARTOR   RES.\RTUS 


499 


done.  Between  vague  wavering  Capability 
and  fixed  indubitable  Performance,  what  a 
difference !  A  certain  inarticulate  Self-con- 
sciousness dwells  dimly  in  us  ;  which  only  our 
Works  can  render  articulate  and  decisively 
discernible.  Our  Works  are  the  mirror 
wherein  the  spirit  first  sees  its  natural 
lineaments.  Hence,  too,  the  foUy  of  that 
impossible  Precept,  Know  thyself ;  tiU  it  be 
translated  into  this  partially  possible  one, 
Know  what  thou  canst  work  at. 

"But  for  me,  so  strangely  unprosperous 
had  I  been,  the  net-result  of  my  Workings 
amounted  as  yet  simply  to  —  Nothing.  How- 
then  could  I  believe  in  my  Strength,  when 
there  was  as  yet  no  mirror  to  see  it  in?  Ever 
did  this  agitating,  yet,  as  I  nov,'  perceive,  quite 
frivolous  question,  remain  to  me  insoluble: 
Hast  thou  a  certain  Faculty,  a  certain  W^orth, 
such  even  as  the  most  have  not ;  or  art  thou 
the  completest  Dullard  of  these  modern 
times  ?  .Mas  !  the  fearful  Unbelief  is  unbelief 
in  yourself;  and  how  could  I  believe?  Had 
not  my  first,  last  Faith  in  myself,  when  even 
to  me  the  Heavens  seemed  laid  open,  and  I 
dared  to  love,  been  aU-too  cruelly  belied? 
The  specidative  Mystery  of  Life  grew  ever 
more  mysterious  to  me ;  neither  in  the  prac- 
tical Mystery  had  I  made  the  slightest  pro- 
gress, but  been  everywhere  buffeted,  foiled, 
and  contemptuously  cast  out.  A  feeble  unit 
in  the  middle  of  a  threatening  Infinitude,  I 
seemed  to  have  nothing  given  me  but  eyes, 
whereby  to  discern  my  own  wTetchedness. 
Invisible  yet  impenetrable  walls,  as  of  En- 
chantment, divided  me  from  aU  living :  was 
there,  in  the  wide  world,  any  true  bosom  I 
could  press  trustfully  to  mine?  O  Heaven, 
No,  there  was  none  !  I  kept  a  lock  upon  my 
lips:  why  should  I  speak  much  with  that 
shifting  variety  of  so-called  Friends,  in  whose 
withered,  vain  and  too-hungry  souls,  Friend- 
ship was  but  an  incredible  tradition?  In 
such  cases,  your  resource  is  to  talk  little, 
and  that  little  mostly  from  the  Newspapers. 
Now  when  I  look  back,  it  was  a  strange  iso- 
lation I  then  lived  in.  The  men  and  women 
around  me,  even  speaking  with  me,  were  but 
Figures :  I  had,  practically,  forgotten  that 
they  were  alive,  that  they  were  not  merely 
automatic.  In  the  midst  of  their  crowded 
streets,  and  assemblages,  I  walked  solitary ; 
and  (except  as  it  was  my  own  heart,  not  an- 
other's, that  I  kept  devouring)  savage  also,  as 
the  tiger  in  his  jungle.     Some  comfort   it 


would  have  been,  could  I,  like  a  Faust,  have 
fancied  myself  tempted  and  tormented  of  the 
DevU ;  for  a  Hell,  as  I  imagine,  without  Life, 
though  only  diabolic  Life,  were  more  frightful : 
but  in  our  age  of  Down-pulling  and  Disbelief, 
the  very  Devil  has  been  pulled  down,  you 
cannot  so  much  as  believe  in  a  Devil.  To  me 
the  Universe  was  aU  void  of  Life,  of  Purpose, 
of  Volition,  even  of  Hostility :  it  was  one  huge, 
dead,  immeasurable  Steam-engine,  rolling  on, 
in  its  dead  indift'erence,  to  grind  me  limb  from 
limb.  O,  the  vast  gloomy,  solitary  Golgotha,' 
and  MiU  of  Death !  Why  was  the  Living 
banished  thither  companionless,  conscious? 
Why,  if  there  is  no  Devil;  nay,  imless  the 
Devil  is  your  God?" 

A  prey  incessantly  to  such  corrosions,  might 
not,  moreover,  as  the  worst  aggravation  to 
them,  the  iron  constitution  even  of  a  Teufels- 
drockh  threaten  to  fail  ?  We  conjecture  that 
he  has  known  sickness ;  and,  in  spite  of  his 
locomotive  habits,  perhaps  sickness  of  the 
chronic  sort.  Flear  this,  for  example  :  "How 
beautiful  to  die  of  broken-heart,  on  Paper ! 
Quite  another  thing  in  practice;  every  win- 
dow of  your  Feeling,  even  of  your  Intellect, 
as  it  were,  begrimed  and  mud-bespattered,  so 
that  no  pure  ray  can  enter ;  a  whole  Drugshop 
in  your  inwards ;  the  foredone  soul  drowning 
slowly  in  quagmires  'of  Disgust ! " 

Putting  all  which  external  and  internal 
miseries  together,  may  we  not  find  in  the 
following  sentences,  quite  in  our  Professor's 
stiU  vein,  significance  enough?  "From  Sui- 
cide a  certain  aftershine  {N achscJiein)  of  Chris- 
tianity withheld  me :  perhaps  also  a  certain 
indolence  of  character;  for,  was  not  that  a 
remedy  I  had  at  any  time  within  reach? 
Often,  however,  was  there  a  question  present 
to  me:  Should  some  one  now,  at  the  turning 
of  that  corner,  blow  thee  suddenly  out  of 
Space,  into  the  other  World,  or  other  No- 
world,  by  pistol-shot,  —  how  were  it?  On 
which  ground,  too,  I  have  often,  in  sea-storms 
and  sieged  cities  and  other  death-scenes,  ex- 
hibited an  imperturbability,  which  passed, 
falsely  enough,  for  courage." 

"  So  had  it  lasted,"  concludes  the  Wanderer, 
"sohadit  lasted, as  in  bitter  protracted  Death- 
agony,  through  long  years.  The  heart  within 
me,  unvisited  by  any  heavenly  dewdrop,  was 
smoiddering  in  sulphurous,  slow-constuning 
fire.    Almost  since  earliest  memory  I  had  shed 

'  Place  of  skuUs 


500 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


no  tear;  or  once  only  when  I,  murmuring 
half-audibly,  recited  Faust's  Deathsong,  that 
wUd  Sclig  der  den  er  im  Siegesglanzc  fitidei 
(Happy  whom  he  finds  in  Battle's  splendour), 
and  thought  that  of  this  last  Friend  even  I  was 
not  forsaken,  that  Destiny  itself  could  not 
doom  me  not  to  die.  Having  no  hope,  neither 
had  I  any  definite  fear,  were  it  of  Man  or  of 
Devil :  nay,  I  often  felt  as  if  it  might  be 
solacing,  could  the  Arch-Devil  himself, 
though  in  Tartarean  terrors,  but  rise  to  me, 
that  I  might  tell  him  a  little  of  my  mind. 
And  yet,  strangely  enough,  I  lived  in  a 
continual,  indefinite,  pining  fear ;  tremulous, 
pusillanimous,  apprehensive  of  I  knew  not 
what :  it  seemed  as  if  all  things  in  the  Heavens 
above  and  the  Earth  beneath  would  hurt  me ; 
as  if  the  Heavens  and  the  Earth  were  but 
boundless  jaws  of  a  devouring  monster, 
wherein  I,  palpitating,  waited  to  be  devoured. 

"  Full  of  such  humour,  and  perhaps  the 
miserablest  man  in  the  whole  French  Capital 
or  Suburbs,  was  I,  one  sultry  Dog-day,  after 
much  perambidation,  toUing  along  the  dirty 
little  Rue  Saint-Thomas  dc  VEnjcr,  among  civic 
rubbish  enough,  in  a  close  atmosphere,  and 
over  pavements  hot  as  Nebuchadnezzar's 
Furnace;  whereby  doubtless  my  spirits  were 
little  cheered ;  when,  all  at  once,  there  rose  a 
Thought  in  me,  and  I  asked  myself:  'What 
art  thou  afraid  of?  Wherefore,  like  a  coward, 
dost  thou  forever  pip  and  whimper,  and  go 
cowering  and  trembling?  Despicable  biped! 
what  is  the  sum-total  of  the  worst  that  lies 
before  thee?  Death?  Well,  Death;  and 
say  the  pangs  of  Tophet  too,  and  all  that  the 
Devil  and  Man  may,  will,  or  can  do  against 
thee  !  Hast  thou  not  a  heart ;  canst  thou  not 
suffer  whatsoever  it  be ;  and,  as  a  ChUd  of 
Freedom,  though  outcast,  trample  Tophet 
itself  under  thy  feet,  while  it  consumes  thee? 
Let  it  come,  then ;  I  will  meet  it  and  defy  it ! ' 
And  as  I  so  thought,  there  rushed  like  a  stream 
of  fire  over  my  whole  soid ;  and  I  shook  base 
Fear  away  from  me  forever.  I  was  strong  of 
unknown  strength ;  a  spirit,  almost  a  god. 
Ever  from  that  time,  the  temper  of  my  misery 
was  changed :  not  Fear  or  whining  Sorrow 
was  it,  but  Indignation  and  grim  fire-eyed 
Defiance. 

"Thus  had  the  Everlasting  No  {das  ewige 
Nein)  pealed  authoritatively  through  all  the 
recesses  of  my  Being,  of  my  Me ;  and  then  was 
it  that  my  whole  Me  stood  up,  in  native  God- 
created  majesty,  and  with  emphasis  recorded 


its  Protest.  Such  a  Protest,  the  most  impor- 
tant transaction  in  Life,  may  that  same  Indig- 
nation and  Defiance,  in  a  psychological  point 
of  view,  be  fitly  called.  The  Everlasting  No 
had  said:  'Behold,  thou  art  fatherless,  out- 
cast, and  the  Universe  is  mine  (the  Devil's) ' ; 
to  which  my  whole  Me  now  made  answer : 
'/  am  not  thine,  but  Free,  and  forever  hate 
thee  ! ' 

"It  is  from  this  hour  that  I  incline  to  date 
my  Spiritual  New-birth,  or  Baphometic' 
Fire-baptism ;  perhaps  I  directly  thereupon 
began  to  be  a  Man." 


CHAPTER   VIII 
Centre  of  Indifference 

Though,  after  this  "Baphometic  Fire-bap- 
tism" of  his,  our  Wanderer  signifies  that  his 
Unrest  was  but  increased  ;  as,  indeed,  "Indig- 
nation and  Defiance,"  especially  against 
things  in  general,  are  not  the  most  peaceable 
inmates;  yet  can  the  Psychologist  surmise 
that  it  was  no  longer  a  quite  hopeless  Unrest ; 
that  henceforth  it  had  at  least  a  fixed  centre 
to  revolve  round.  For  the  fire-baptised  soul, 
long  so  scathed  and  thunder-riven,  here  feels 
its  own  Freedom,  which  feeling  is  its  Bapho- 
metic Baptism :  the  citadel  of  its  whole  king- 
dom it  has  thus  gained  by  assault ;  and  will 
keep  inexpugnable ;  outwards  from  which 
the  remaining  dominions,  not  indeed  without 
hard  battling,  wiU  doubtless  by  degrees  be 
conquered  and  pacificated.  Under  another 
figure,  we  might  say,  if  in  that  great  moment, 
in  the  Rue  Saint-Thomas  de  VEnfcr,  the  old 
inward  Satanic  School  was  not  yet  thrown 
out  of  doors,  it  received  peremptory  judicial 
notice  to  quit;  —  whereby,  for  the  rest,  its 
howl-chantings,  ErniUphus-cursings,^  and  re- 
bellious gnashings  of  teeth,  might,  in  the 
meanwhile,  become  only  the  more  tumultuous, 
and  diflicult  to  keep  secret. 

Accordingly,  if  we  scrutinise  these  Pilgrim- 
ings  well,  there  is  perhaps  discernible  hence- 
forth a  certain  incipient  method  in  their  mad- 
ness. Not  wholly  as  a  Spectre  does  Teufels- 
drockh  now  storm  through  the  world ;  at 
worst  as  a  spectre-fighting  Man,  nay  who  will 

^  originally  connected  with  mysterious  rites 
attributed  to  the  Templars;  here,  spiritually 
illuminating  -  elaborate  and  voluminous  cursings, 
cf.  Tristram  Shandy,  bk.  iii,  ch.  xi 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


501 


one  day  be  a  Spectre-queller.  If  pilgriming 
restlessly  to  so  many  "  Saints'  Wells,"  ^  and  ever 
without  quenching  of  his  thirst,  he  neverthe- 
less finds  little  secular  wells,  whereby  from 
time  to  time  some  alleviation  is  ministered. 
In  a  word,  he  is  now,  if  not  ceasing,  yet  inter- 
mitting to  "eat  his  own  heart"  ;  and  clutches 
round  him  outwardly  on  the  Not-Me  for 
wholesomer  food.  Does  not  the  following 
glimpse  exhibit  him  in  a  much  more  natural 
state  ? 

"Towns  also  and  Cities,  especially  the  an- 
cient, I  faUed  not  to  look  upon  VN-ith  interest. 
How  beautiful  to  see  thereby,  as  through  a  long 
vista,  into  the  remote  Time ;  to  have,  as  it 
were,  an  actual  section  of  almost  the  earliest 
Past  brought  safe  into  the  Present,  and  set 
before  your  eyes !  There,  in  that  old  City, 
was  a  live  ember  of  Culinary  Fire  put  down, 
say  only  two-thousand  years  ago ;  and  there, 
burning  more  or  less  triumphantly,  v.ith  such 
fuel  as  the  region  yielded,  it  has  burnt,  and 
still  burns,  and  thou  thyself  seest  the  very 
smoke  thereof.  Ah !  and  the  far  more  mys- 
terious live  ember  of  Vital  Fire  was  then  also 
put  down  there ;  and  still  miraculously  burns 
and  spreads ;  and  the  smoke  and  ashes 
thereof  (in  these  Judgment-Halls  and  Church- 
yards), and  its  bellows-engines  (in  these 
Churches),  thou  still  seest;  and  its  flame, 
looking  out  from  every  kind  countenance,  and 
every  hateful  one,  still  warms  thee  or  scorches 
thee. 

"Of  Man's  Activity  and  Attainment  the 
chief  residts  are  aeriform,  mystic,  and  pre- 
served in  Tradition  only  :  such  are  his  Forms  of 
of  Government,  with  the  Authority  they  rest 
on ;  his  Customs,  or  Fashions  both  of  Cloth- 
Habits  and  of  Soul-Habits ;  much  more  his 
collective  stock  of  Handicrafts,  the  whole 
Faculty  he  has  acquired  of  manipulating 
Nature:  all  these  things,  as  indispensable 
and  priceless  as  they  are,  cannot  in  any  way 
be  fixed  mider  lock  and  key,  but  must  flit, 
spirit-like,  on  impalpable  vehicles,  from 
Father  to  Son  ;  if  you  demand  sight  of  them, 
they  are  nowhere  to  be  met  with.  Visible 
Ploughmen  and  Hammermen  there  have  been, 
ever  from  Cain  and  Tubalcain-  downwards: 
but  where  does  your  accumulated  Agricul- 
tural, Metallurgic,  and  other  Manufacturing 
Skill  lie  warehoused?     It  transmits  itself  on 

'  where  people  go  to  be  cured  of  disease  by 
miracle   ^  Cf.  Genesis,  iv:  22 

AE 


the  atmospheric  air,  on  the  sun's  rays  (by 
Hearing  and  Vision) ;  it  is  a  thing  aeriform, 
impalpable,  of  quite  spiritual  sort.  In  like 
manner,  ask  me  not.  Where  are  the  Laws; 
v.'here  is  the  Government  ?  In  vain  wilt  thou 
go  to  Schonbrunn.i  to  Downing  Street,-  to  the 
Palais  Bourbon  :  ^  thou  findest  nothing  there, 
but  brick  or  stone  houses,  and  some  bundles  of 
Papers  tied  with  tape.  Where,  then,  is  that 
same  cunningly-devised  or  mighty  Govern- 
ment of  theirs  to  be  laid  hands  on?  Every- 
where, yet  nowhere :  seen  only  in  its  w-orks, 
this  too  is  a  thing  aeriform,  invisible;  or  if 
you  win,  mystic  and  miraculous.  So  spirit- 
ual (gcisiig)  is  our  whole  daily  Life :  aU  that 
we  do  springs  out  of  JNlystery,  Spirit,  invisible 
Force;  only  like  a  little  Cloud-image,  or 
Armida's  Palace*  air-built,  does  the  Actual 
body  itself  forth  from  the  great  mystic  Deep. 
"Visible  and  tangible  products  of  the  Past, 
again,  I  reckon-up  to  the  extent  of  three: 
Cities,  with  their  Cabinets  and  Arsenals; 
then  tilled  Fields,  to  either  or  to  both  of  which 
divisions  Roads  with  their  Bridges  may  be- 
long ;  and  thirdly  —  Books.  In  which  third 
truly,  the  last-invented,  lies  a  worth  far  sur- 
passing that  of  the  two  others.  Wondrous 
indeed  is  the  virtue  of  a  true  Book.  Not  like 
a  dead  city  of  stones,  yearly  crumbling,  yearly 
needing  repair ;  m.ore  like  a  tilled  field,  but 
then  a  spiritual  field :  like  a  spiritual  tree,  let 
me  rather  say,  it  stands  from  year  to  year,  and 
from  age  to  age  (we  have  Books  that  already 
number  some  hundred-and-fifty  human  ages) ; 
and  yearly  comes  its  new  produce  of  leaves 
(Commentaries,  Deductions,  Philosophical, 
Political  Systems ;  or  were  it  only  Sermons, 
Pamphlets,  Journalistic  Essays),  every  one 
of  which  is  talismanic  and  thaumaturgic,  for 
it  can  persuade  men.  O  thou  who  art  able 
to  write  a  Book,  which  once  in  the  two 
centuries  or  oftener  there  is  a  man  gifted  to 
do,  envy  not  him  whom  they  name  City- 
builder,  and  inexpressibly  pity  him  whom  they 
name  Conqueror  or  City-burner !  Thou  too 
art  a  Conqueror  and  Victor ;  but  of  the  true 
sort,  namely  over  the  Devil :  thou  too  hast 
bmlt  what  will  outlast  all  marble  and  metal, 

^  a  palace  near  Vienna,  the  seat  of  the  Austrian 
government  ^  a  street  in  London,  where  the  chief 
government  offices  are  ^  in  Paris,  now  the  Cham- 
ber of  Deputies  ■*  Bower  of  Bliss  in  which  the 
sorceress  Armida  holds  the  knight  Rinaldo  en- 
chanted, in  Tasso's  Jerusalem  Delivered 


502 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


and  be  a  wonder-bringing  City  of  the  Mind, 
a  Temple  and  Seminary  and  Prophetic 
Mount,  whereto  all  'kindreds  of  the  Earth 
will  pilgrim.  —  Fool !  why  journeyest  thou 
wearisomely,  in  thy  antiquarian  fervour,  to 
gaze  on  the  stone  pyramids  of  Geeza  or  the 
clay  ones  of  Sacchara  ?  ^  These  stand  there, 
as  I  can  tell  thee,  idle  and  inert,  looking  over 
the  Desert,  foolishly  enough,  for  the  last 
three-thousand  years :  but  canst  thou  not 
open  thy  Hebrew  Bible,  then,  or  even  Luther's 
Version  thereof?" 

No  less  satisfactory  is  his  sudden  appear- 
ance not  in  Battle,  yet  on  some  Battle-field ; 
which,  we  soon  gather,  must  be  that  of 
Wagram  :  ^  so  that  here,  for  once,  is  a  certain 
approximation  to  distinctness  of  date.  Omit- 
ting much,  let  us  impart  what  follows  : 

"Horrible  enough!  A  whole  Marchfeld^ 
strewed  with  shell-splinters,  cannon-shot, 
ruined  tumbrUs,  and  dead  men  and  horses ; 
stragglers  still  remaining  not  so  much  as 
buried.  And  those  red  mould  heaps:  ay, 
there  lie  the  Shells  of  Men,  out  of  which  all 
the  Life  and  Virtue  has  been  blown ;  and  now 
they  are  swept  together,  and  crammed-down 
out  of  sight,  like  blown  Egg-shells !  —  Did 
Nature,  when  she  bade  the  Donau**  bring 
down  his  mould-cargoes  from  the  Carinthian 
and  Carpathian  Heights,  and  spread  them 
out  here  into  the  softest,  richest  level,  — ■ 
intend  thee,  O  Marchfeld,  for  a  corn-bearing 
Nursery,  whereon  her  children  might  be 
nursed ;  or  for  a  Cockpit,  wherein  they  might 
the  more  commodiously  be  throttled  and 
tattered?  Were  thy  three  broad  highways, 
meeting  here  from  the  ends  of  Europe,  made 
for  Ammunition-wagons,  then?  Were  thy 
Wagrams  and  Stillfrieds  ^  but  so  many  ready- 
built  Case-mates,  wherein  the  house  of 
Hapsburg  might  batter  with  artillery,  and 
with  artillery  be  battered?  Konig  Ottokar, 
amid  yonder  hillocks,  dies  under  Rodolf's'^ 
truncheon;  here  Kaiser  Franz ^  falls  a-swoon 
under  Napoleon's :  within  which  five  cen- 
turies, lo  omit  the  others,  how  has  thy 
breast,  fair  Plain,  been  defaced  and  defiled ! 
The  greensward    is    torn-up    and    trampled- 

'  Ghizeh   or    Gizeh,    and    Sakkara,    in    Egypt 

*  in  Austria,  fought  in  1809  *  the  plain  of  Wagraru 

*  Danube  ^  a  village  near  Wagraru  ^  Ottocar,  king 
of  Bohemia  was  defeated  in  this  plain  by  Rudolf 
of  Hapsburg,  1278.  "^  Francis  I  of  Austria,  de- 
feated here  by  Napoleon 


dov/n ;  man's  fond  care  of  it,  his  fruit-trees, 
hedge-rows,  and  pleasant  dwellings,  blown- 
away  with  gunpowder ;  and  the  kind  seed- 
field  lies  a  desolate,  hideous  Place  of  Skulls.  — ■ 
Nevertheless,  Nature  is  at  work ;  neither 
shall  these  Powder-Devil  kins  with  their 
utmost  devUry  gainsay  her :  but  all  that  gore 
and  carnage  wUi  be  shrouded-in,  absorbed 
into  manure;  and  next  year  the  ISIarchfeld 
will  be  green,  nay  greener.  Thrifty  un- 
wearied Nature,  ever  out  of  our  great  waste 
educing  some  little  profit  of  thy  own,  —  how 
dost  thou,  from  the  very  carcass  of  the  Killer, 
bring  Life  for  the  Living  !  ^ 

"What,  speaking  in  quite  unofficial  Ian-, 
guage,  is  the  net-purport  and  upshot  of  v.ar? 
To  my  own  knowledge,  for  example,  there 
dwell  and  toil,  in  the  British  village  of  Dum- 
drudge,2  usually  some  five-hundred  souls. 
From  these,  by  certain  'Natural  Enemies' 
of  the  French,  there  are  successively  selected, 
during  the  French  war,  say  thirty  able-bodied 
m.en :  Dumdrudge,  at  her  own  expense,  has 
suckled  and  nursed  them ;  she  has,  not  with- 
out difficidty  and  sorrow,  fed  them  up  to  man- 
hood, and  even  trained  them  to  crafts,  so  that 
one  can  weave,  another  buUd,  another  ham- 
mer, and  the  weakest  can  stand  under  thirty 
stone  avoirdupois.  Nevertheless,  amid  much 
weeping  and  swearing,  they  are  selected;  all 
dressed  in  red ;  and  shipped  away,  at  the 
public  charges,  some  two-thousand  miles,  or 
say  only  to  the  south  of  Spain  ;  and  fed  there 
till  wanted.  And  now  to  that  same  spot  in  the 
south  of  Spain,  are  thirty  similar  French  arti- 
sans, from  a  French  Dumdrudge,  in  like  man- 
ner wending :  till  at  length,  after  infinite  effort, 
the  two  parties  come  into  actual  juxtaposi- 
tion ;  and  Thirty  stands  fronting  Thirty, 
each  v/ich  a  gun  in  his  hand.  Straightv/ay  the 
word  '  Fire ! '  is  given :  and  they  blow  the 
souls  out  of  one  another ;  and  in  place  of 
sixty  brisk  useful  craftsmen,  the  world  has 
sixty  dead  carcasses,  which  it  must  bury,  and 
anew  shed  tears  for.  Had  these  men  any 
quarrel?  Busy  as  the  Devil  is,  not  the 
smallest !  They  lived  far  enough  apart ; 
were  the  entirest  strangers ;  nay,  in  so  wide 
a  Universe,  there  was  even  unconsciously,  by 
Commerce,  some  mutual  helpfulness  between 
them.  How  then  ?  Simpleton !  their  Gov- 
ernors had  fallen-out ;   and,  instead  of  shoot- 

^  Cf.  Judges,  xiv  :  8,  14  -  a  fictitious  name  = 
dumb  drudge 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


503 


ing  one  another,  had  the  cunning  to  make 
these  poor  blockheads  shoot.  —  Alas,  so  is  it 
in  Deutschland,  and  hitherto  in  all  other 
lands ;  still  as  of  old,  '  what  devilry  soever 
Kings  do,  the  Greeks  must  pay  the  piper! '  *  — 
In  that  fiction  of  the  English  Smollett,  it  is 
true,  the  final  Cessation  of  War  is  perhaps 
prophetically  shadowed  forth ;  where  the 
two  Natural  Enemies,  in  person,  take  each  a 
Tobacco-pipe,  tilled  with  Brimstone ;  light 
the  same,  and  smoke  in  one  another's  faces 
till  the  Yv^eaker  gives  in :  but  from  such  pre- 
dicted Peace-Era,  what  blood-filled  trenches, 
and  contentious  centuries,  may  still  divide  us  ! " 

Thus  can  the  Professor,  at  least  in  lucid 
intervals,  look  away  from  hris  own  sorrows, 
over  the  many-coloured  world,  and  pertin- 
ently enough  note  what  is  passing  there. 
We  may  remark,  indeed,  that  for  the  matter 
of  spiritual  culture,  if  for  nothing  else,  perhaps 
few  periods  of  his  life  were  richer  than  this. 
Internally,  there  is  the  most  momentous 
instructive  Course  of  Practical  Philosophy, 
with  Experiments,  going  on;  towards  the 
right  comprehension  of  which  his  Peripatetic 
habits,  favourable  to  Meditation,  might  help 
him  rather  than  hinder.  Externally,  again, 
as  he  wanders  to  and  fro,  there  are,  if  for 
the  longing  heart  little  substance,  yet  for  the 
seeing  eye  sights  enough :  in  these  so  bound- 
less Travels  of  his,  granting  that  the  Satanic 
School  was  even  partially  kept  down,  what  an 
incredible  knowledge  of  oiu*  Planet,  and  its 
Inhabitants  and  their  Works,  that  is  to  say, 
of  all  knowable  things,  might  not  Teufels- 
drockh  acquire  ! 

'T  have  read  in  most  Public  Libraries," 
says  he,  "including  those  of  Constantinople 
and  Samarcand :  in  most  Colleges,  except  the 
Chinese  Mandarin  ones,  I  have  studied,  or 
seen  that  there  was  no  studying.  Unknown 
languages  have  I  oftenest  gathered  from  their 
natural  repertor>',  the  Air,  by  my  organ  of 
Hearing;  .Statistics,  Geographies,  Topo- 
graphies came,  through  the  Eye,  almost  of 
their  own  accord.  The  ways  of  JSIan,  how  he 
seeks  food,  and  warmth,  and  protection  for 
himself,  in  most  regions,  are  ocularly  known  to 
me.     Like  the  great  Hadrian,^  I  meted-out 

^  "They  who  dance  must  pay  the  piper,"  and 
Horace,  Epist.  I,  ii,  14:  "Quicquid  delirant  reges, 
plectuntur  Achivi."  ^  The  emperor  Hadrian,  at 
the  head  of  his  army,  paced  out  on  foot  the  circle 
of  his  empire,  as  Carlyle  says  elsewhere. 


much  of  the  terraqueous  Globe  with  a  pair  of 
Compasses  that  belonged  to  myself  only. 

"  Of  great  Scenes,  why  speak  ?  Three  sum- 
mer days,  I  lingered  reflecting,  and  composing 
(dichkte),  by  the  Pine-chasms  of  Vaucluse;^ 
and  in  that  clear  lakelet  moistened  my  bread. 
I  have  sat  under  the  Palm-trees  of  Tadmor; 
smoked  a  pipe  among  the  ruins  of  Babylon. 
The  great  Wall  of  China  I  have  seen ;  and 
can  testify  that  it  is  of  gray  brick,  coped  and 
covered  with  granite,  and  shows  only  second- 
rate  masonry.  —  Great  events,  also,  have  not 
I  witnessed?  Kings  sweated-down  (ausge- 
mergelt)  into  Berliu-and-Milan  Customhouse- 
Officers  ;  the  World  well  won,  and  the  World 
well  lost ;  oftener  than  once  a  hundred-thou- 
sand individuals  shot  (by  each  other)  m  one 
day.  All  kindreds  and  peoples  and  nations 
dashed  together,  and  shifted  and  shovelled 
into  heaps,  that  they  might  ferment  there, 
and  in  time  unite.  The  birth-pangs  of  De- 
mocracy, wherewith  convulsed  Europe  was 
groaning  in  cries  that  reached  Heaven,  could 
not  escape  me. 

"For  great  Men  I  have  ever  had  the 
warmest  predilection ;  and  can  perhaps  boast 
that  few  such  in  this  era  have  wholly  escaped 
me.  Great  Men  are  the  inspired  (speaking 
and  acting)  Texts  of  that  divine  Book  of 
Revelations,  whereof  a  Chapter  is  completed 
from  epoch  to  epoch,  and  b}'  some  named  His- 
tory ;  to  which  inspired  Texts  your  numerous 
talented  men,  and  your  inniunerable  un- 
talented  men,  are  the  better  or  worse  exegetic 
Commentaries,  and  wagonload  of  too-stupid, 
heretical  or  orthodox,  weekly  Sermons.  For 
my  study,  the  mspired  Texts  themselves  I 
Thus  did  not  I,  in  very  early  days,  having  dis- 
guised me  as  a  tavern-waiter,  stand  behind 
the  field-chairs,  under  that  shady  Tree  at 
Treisnitz  ^  by  the  Jena  Highway ;  waiting  upon 
the  great  SchUler  and  greater  Goethe;  and 
hearing  what  I  have  not  forgotten.     For — " 

—  But  at  this  point  the  Editor  recalls  his 
principle  of  caution,  some  time  ago  laid  down, 
and  must  suppress  much.  Let  not  the  sacred- 
ness  of  Laurelled,  still  more,  of  Crowned 
Heads,  be  tampered  with.  Should  we,  at  a 
future  day,  find  circumstances  altered,  and  the 
time  come  for  Publication,  then  may  these 
glimpses  into  the  privacy  of  the  Illustrious  be 
conceded ;    which  for  the  present  were  little 

^  where  Petrarch  lived  for  a  time,  near  A\agnoii 
^  correctly,  Triesnitz,  where  the  poets  used  to  meet 


504 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


better  than  treacherous,  perhaps  traitorous 
Eavesdroppings.  Of  Lord  Byron,  therefore, 
of  Pope  Pius,^  Emperor  Tarakwang,-  and  the 
"White  Water- roses "  (Chinese  Carbonari 3) 
with  their  mysteries,  no  notice  here  !  Of  Na- 
poleon himself  we  shall  only,  glancing  from 
afar,  remark  that  Teufelsdrockh's  relation  to 
him  seems  to  have  been  of  very  varied  char- 
acter. At  first  we  find  our  poor  Professor  on 
the  point  of  being  shot  as  a  spy ;  then  taken 
into  private  conversation,  even  pinched  on 
the  ear,  yet  presented  with  no  money ;  at  last 
indignantly  dismissed,  almost  thrown  out  of 
doors,  as  an  "Ideologist."  "He  himself," 
says  the  Professor,  "  was  among  the  completest 
Ideologists,  at  least  Ideopraxists  * :  in  the  Idea 
{in  der  Idee)  he  lived,  moved,  and  fought. 
The  man  was  a  Divine  Missionary,  though 
unconscious  of  it ;  and  preached,  through  the 
cannon's  throat,  that  great  doctrine.  La 
carrierc  ouverte  aux  talens  (The  Tools  to  him 
that  can  handle  them),  which  is  our  ultimate 
Political  Evangel,  wherein  alone  can  Liberty 
lie.  Madly  enough  he  preached,  it  is  true,  as 
Enthusiasts  and  first  IMissionaries  are  wont, 
with  imperfect  utterance,  amid  much  frothy 
rant ;  yet  as  articulately  perhaps  as  the  case 
admitted.  Or  call  him,  if  you  will,  an  Ameri- 
can Backwoodsman,  v.ho  had  to  fell  unpene- 
trated  forests,  and  battle  with  innumerable 
wolves,  and  did  not  entirely  forbear  strong 
liquor,  rioting,  and  even  theft ;  whom,  not- 
withstanding, the  peaceful  Sower  will  follow, 
and,  as  he  cuts  the  boundless  harvest,  bless." 

More  legitimate  and  decisively  authentic  is 
Teufelsdrockh's  appearance  and  emergence 
(we  know  not  well  whence)  in  the  solitude  of 
the  North  Cape,  on  that  June  Midnight.  He 
has  a  "light-blue  Spanish  cloak"  hanging 
round  him,  as  his  "most  commodious,  princi- 
pal, indeed  sole  upper-garment"  ;  ancl  stands 
there,  on  the  World-promontory,  looking  over 
the  infinite  Brine,  like  a  little  blue  Belfry  (as 
we  figure),  now  motionless  indeed,  yet  ready, 
if  stirred,  to  ring  quaintest  changes. 

"  Silence  as  of  death,"  writes  he  ;  "  for  Mid- 
night, even  in  the  Arctic  latitudes,  has  its 
character:  nothing  but  the  granite  cHffs  ruddy- 
tinged,  the  peaceable  gurgle  of  that  slow- 
heaving  Polar  Ocean,  over  which  in  the  utmost 

^  Pius  VII,  died  1823  ^  Taou-Kwang,  began  to 
reign  in  1820  '  a  secret  society  in  Italy,  working 
for  a  republic,  in  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth 
century  "^  those  who  put  ideas  into  practice 


North  the  great  Sun  hangs  low  and  lazy,  as 
if  he  too  were  slumbering.  Yet  is  his  cloud- 
couch  wrought  of  crimson  and  cloth-of-gold ; 
yet  does  his  light  stream  over  the  mirror  of 
waters,  like  a  tremulous  fire-pUlar,  shooting 
downwards  to  the  abyss,  and  hide  itself  under 
my  feet.  In  such  moments.  Solitude  also  is 
invaluable ;  for  who  would  speak,  or  be  looked 
on,  when  behind  him  lies  all  Europe  and  Africa, 
fast  asleep,  except  the  watchmen ;  and  before 
him  the  silent  Immensity,  and  Palace  of  the 
Eternal,  whereof  our  Sun  is  but  a  porch-lamp  ? 

"Nevertheless,  in  this  solemn  moment, 
comes  a  man,  or  monster,  scrambling  from 
among  the  rock-hollows ;  and,  shaggy,  huge 
as  the  Hyperborean  Bear,  haOs  me  in  Russian 
speech :  most  probably,  therefore,  a  Russian 
Smuggler.  With  courteous  brevity,  I  signify 
my  indifference  to  contraband  trade,  my  hu- 
mane intentions,  yet  strong  wish  to  be  private. 
In  vain :  the  monster,  counting  doubtless  on 
his  superior  stature,  and  minded  to  make  sport 
for  himself,  or  perhaps  profit,  were  it  with 
murder,  continues  to  advance ;  ever  assailing 
me  with  his  importunate  train-oil  breath  ;  and 
now  has  advanced,  till  we  stand  both  on  the 
verge  of  the  rock,  the  deep  Sea  rippling 
greedily  down  below.  What  argument  will 
avail?  On  the  thick  Hyperborean,  cherubic 
reasoning,  seraphic  eloquence  were  lost.  Pre- 
pared for  such  extremity,  I,  deftly  enough, 
whisk  aside  one  step ;  draw  out,  from  my 
interior  reservoirs,  a  sufficient  Birmingham 
Horse-pistol,  and  say, '  Be  so  obliging  as  retire, 
Friend  {Erziciie  sich  zuriick,  Freund),  and  with 
promptitude  ! '  This  logic  even  the  Hyper- 
borean understands :  fast  enough,  with  apolo- 
getic, petitionary  growl,  he  sidles  off ;  and, 
except  for  suicidal  as  well  as  homicidal  pur- 
poses, need  not  return. 

"  Such  I  hold  to  be  the  genuine  use  of  Gun- 
powder :  that  it  makes  all  men  alike  tall. 
Nay,  if  thou  be  cooler,  cleverer  than  I,  if  thou 
have  more  Mind,  though  all  but  no  Body  what- 
ever, then  canst  thou  kill  me  first,  and  art  the 
taller.  Hereby,  at  last,  is  the  Goliath  power- 
less, and  the  David  resistless  ;  savage  Animal- 
ism is  nothing,  inventive  Spiritualism  is  all. 

"With  respect  to  Duels,  indeed,  I  have  my 
own  ideas.  Few  things,  in  this  so  surprising 
world,  strike  me  with  more  surprise.  Two 
little  visual  Spectra  of  men,  hovering  with 
insecure  enough  cohesion  in  the  midst  of  the 
Unfathomable,  and  to  dissolve  therein,  at  any 
rate,  very  soon,  —  make  pause  at  the  distance 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


505 


of  twelve  paces  asunder;  whirl  round;  and, 
simultaneously  by  the  cunningest  mechanism, 
explode  one  another  into  Dissolution  ;  and  off- 
hand become  Air,  and  Non-extant  !  Deuce 
on  it  (vcrdammi),  the  little  spitfires!  —  Nay, 
I  think  with  old  Hugo  von  Trimberg  :  ^  '  God 
must  needs  laugh  outright,  could  such  a  thing 
be,  to  see  his  wondrous  Manikins  here  below.' " 

But  amid  these  specialities,  let  us  not  forget 
the  great  generality,  which  is  our  chief  quest 
here :  How  prospered  the  inner  man  of  Teu- 
felsdrockh  under  so  much  outward  shifting? 
Does  Legion 2  still  lurk  in  him,  though  re- 
pressed, or  has  he  exorcised  that  Devil's  Brood  ? 
We  can  answer  "that  the  symptoms  continue 
promising.  Experience  is  the  grand  spiritual 
Doctor  ;  and  with  him  Teufelsdrockh  has  now 
been  long  a  patient,  swallowing  many  a  bitter 
bolus.  Unless  our  poor  Friend  belong  to  the 
numerous  class  of  Incurables,  which  seems  not 
likely,  some  cure  will  doubtless  be  effected. 
We  should  rather  say  that  Legion,  or  the 
Satanic  School,  was  now  pretty  well  extirpated 
and  cast  out,  but  next  to  nothing  introduced 
in  its  room ;  whereby  the  heart  remains,  for 
the  while,  in  a  quiet  but  no  comfortable  state. 

"At  length,  after  so  much  roasting,"  thus 
writes  our  Autobiographer,  "I  was  what  you 
might  name  calcined.  Pray  only  that  it  be 
not  rather,  as  is  the  more  frequent  issue,  re- 
duced to  a  caput-mortiium!  ^  But  in  any  case, 
by  mere  dint  of  practice,  I  had  grown  familiar 
with  many  things.  Wretchedness  was  still 
wretched ;  but  I  could  now  partly  see  through 
it,  and  despise  it.  Which  highest  mortal,  in 
this  inane  Existence,  had  I  not  found  a 
Shadow-hunter  or  Shadow-hunted ;  and,  when 
I  looked  through  his  brave  garnitures,  miser- 
able enough?  Thy  wishes  have  all  been 
sniffed  aside,  thought  I :  but  what,  had  they 
even  been  all  granted !  Did  not  the  Boy 
Alexander*  weep  because  he  had  not  two 
Planets  to  conquer  ;  or  a  whole  Solar  System ; 
or  after  that,  a  whole  Universe?  Ach  Gott, 
when  I  gazed  into  these  Stars,  have  they  not 
looked-down  on  me  as  if  with  pity,  from  their 
serene  spaces;  like  Eyes  glistening  with 
heavenly  tears  over  the  little  lot  of  man ! 
Thousands  of  human  generations,  all  as  noisy 
as  our  own,  have  been  swallowed-up  of  Time, 
and  there  remains  no  wreck  of  them  any  more ; 

*  a  thirteenth  century  German  poet  and  moral- 
ist 2  Cf.  Mark,  V  :  9  ^  worthless  remains  ^  Alex- 
ander the  Great 


and  Arcturus  and  Orion  and  Sirius  and  the 
Pleiades  are  still  shining  in  their  courses,  clear 
and  young,  as  when  the  Shepherd  ^  first  noted 
them  in  the  plain  of  Shinar.  Pshaw  !  what  is 
this  paltry  little  Dog-cage  ^  of  an  Earth  ;  what 
art  thou  that  sittest  whining  there?  Thou 
art  still  Nothing,  Nobody :  true ;  but  who, 
then,  is  Something,  Somebody?  For  thee  the 
Family  of  Man  has  no  use ;  it  rejects  thee ; 
thou  art  wholly  as  a  dissevered  limb :  so  be 
it;   perhaps  it  is  better  so  !" 

Too-heavy-laden  Teufelsdrockh  !  Yet  surely 
his  bands  are  loosening ;  one  day  he  will  hurl 
the  burden  far  from  him,  and  bound  forth 
free  and  with  a  second  youth. 

"  This,"  says  our  Professor,  "  was  the  Centre 
of  Indifference  I  had  now  reached ;  through 
which  whoso  travels  from  the  Negative  Pole 
to  the  Positive  must  necessarily  pass." 


CHAPTER  IX 
The  Everlasting  Yea 

"Temptations  in  the  Wilderness!"  ex- 
claims Teufelsdrockh:  "Have  we  not  all  to 
be  tried  with  such  ?  Not  so  easily  can  the  old 
Adam,  lodged  in  us  by  birth,  be  dispossessed. 
Our  Life  is  compassed  round  with  Necessity ; 
yet  is  the  meaning  of  Life  itself  no  other  than 
Freedom,  than  Voluntary  Force :  thus  have 
we  a  warfare ;  in  the  beginning,  especially,  a 
hard-fought  battle.  For  the  God-given  man- 
date. Work  thou  in  Welldoing,  lies  mysteriously 
written,  in  Promethean  *  Prophetic  Characters, 
in  our  hearts ;  and  leaves  us  no  rest,  night  or 
day,  till  it  be  deciphered  and  obeyed ;  till  it 
burn  forth,  in  our  conduct,  a  visible,  acted 
Gospel  of  Freedom.  And  as  the  clay-given 
mandate.  Eat  thou  and  be  filed,  at  the  same 
time  persuasively  proclaims  itself  through 
every  nerve,  —  must  there  not  be  a  confusion, 
a  contest,  before  the  better  Influence  can 
become  the  upper? 

"To  me  nothing  seems  more  natural  than 
that  the  Son  of  Man,  when  such  God-given 
mandate  first  prophetically  stirs  within  him, 
and  the  Clay  must  now  be  vanquished  or  van- 
quish, —  should  be  carried  of  the  spirit  into 

'  Cf .  Job,  ix  :  9 ;  Babylonian  shepherds  (in 
the  plain  of  Shinar)  were  regarded  as  the  first 
astronomers.  ^  a  wheel  like  a  squirrel-cage 
^  perhaps,  Hke  Prometheus,  full  of  love  for  the 
human  race 


So6 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


grim  Solitudes,  and  there  fronting  the  Temp- 
ter do  grimmest  battle  with  him ;  defiantly 
settuig  him  at  naught,  till  he  yield  and  fly. 
Name  it  as  we  choose :  with  or  without  visible 
Devil,  whether  in  the  natural  Desert  of  rocks 
and  sands,  or  in  the  populous  moral  Desert  of 
selfishness  and  baseness,  —  to  such  Tempta- 
tion are  we  all  called.  Unhappy  if  we  are  not ! 
Unhappy  if  we  are  but  Half -men,  in  whom 
that  divine  handwriting  has  never  blazed 
forth,  all-subduing,  in  true  sun-splendour ;  but 
quivers  dubiously  amid  meaner  lights:  or 
smoulders,  in  dull  pain,  in  darkness,  under 
earthly  vapours  !  —  Our  Wilderness  is  the  wide 
World  in  an  Atheistic  Century;  our  Forty 
Days  are  long  years  of  suffering  and  fasting : 
nevertheless,  to  these  also  comes  an  end.  Yes, 
to  me  also  was  given,  if  not  Victory,  yet  the 
consciousness  of  Battle,  and  the  resolve  to 
persevere  therein  Avhile  life  or  faculty  is  left. 
To  me  also,  entangled  in  the  enchanted  forests, 
demon-peopled,  doleful  of  sight  and  of  sound, 
it  was  given,  after  weariest  wanderings,  to 
work  out  my  way  into  the  higher  sunlit  slopes 
—  of  that  Mountain  which  has  no  summit,  or 
whose  summit  is  in  Heaven  only  ! "  ^ 

He  says  elsewhere,  under  a  less  ambitious 
figure;  as  figures  are,  once  for  all,  natural  to 
him:  "Has  not  thy  Life  been  that  of  most 
sufficient  men  {tiichtigcn  Manner)  thou  hast 
known  in  this  generation?  An  outflush  of 
foolish  young  Enthusiasm,  hke  the  first  fallow- 
crop,  wherein  are  as  many  weeds  as  valuable 
herbs :  this  all  parched  away,  under  the 
Droughts  of  practical  and  spiritual  Unbelief, 
as  Disappointment,  in  thought  and  act,  often- 
repeated  gave  rise  to  Doubt,  and  Doubt  grad- 
ually settled  into  Denial !  If  I  have  had  a 
second-crop,  and  now  see  the  perennial  green- 
sward, and  sit  under  umbrageous  cedars, 
which  defy  all  Drought  (and  Doubt) ;  herein 
too,  be  the  Heavens  praised,  I  am  not.  without 
examples,  and  even  exemplars." 

So  that,  for  Teufelsdrockh  also,  there  has 
been  a  "glorious  revolution":  these  mad 
shadow-hunting  and  shadow-hunted  Pilgrim- 
ings  of  his  were  but  some  purifying  "Temp- 
tation in  the  Wilderness,"  before  his  apostolic 
work  (such  as  it  was)  could  begin ;  which 
Temptation  is  now  happily  over,  and  the  Devil 
once  more  worsted  !  Was  "that  high  moment 
in  the  Rue  de  VEnfer,"  then,  properly  the  turn- 


ing-point of  the  battle ;  when  the  Fiend  said, 
Worship  me,  or  he  torn  in  shreds;  and  was 
answered  valiantly  with  an  A  page  Satana  ? '  — 
Singular  Teufelsdrockh,  would  thou  hadst 
told  th}^  singular  stor>'  in  plain  words !  But 
it  is  fruitless  to  look  there,  in  those  Paper-bags, 
for  such.  Nothing  but  innuendoes,  figurative 
crotchets :  a  typical  Shadow,  fitfully  wavering, 
prophetico-satiric ;  no  clear  logical  Picture. 
"How  paint  to  the  sensual  eye,"  .asks  he  once, 
"what  passes  in  the  Holy-of-Holies  of  Man's 
Sold;  in  what  words,  known  to  these  profane 
times,  speak  even  afar-off  of  the  unspeak- 
able?" We  ask  in  turn:  Why  perplex  these 
times,  profane  as  they  are,  with  needless  ob- 
scurity, by  omission  and  by  commission? 
Not  mystical  only  is  our  Professor,  but  whim- 
sical; and  involves  himself,  now  more  than 
ever,  in  eye-bewUdering  chiarosciiro.  Succes- 
sive glimpses,  here  faithfully  imparted,  our 
more  gifted  readers  must  endeavour  to  com- 
bine for  their  own  behoof. 

He  says:  "The  hot  Harmattan ^  wind  had 
raged  itself  out ;  its  hov/1  went  silent  within 
me ;  and  the  long-deafened  soul  could  now 
hear.  I  paused  in  my  wild  wanderings ;  and 
sat  me  dov/n  to  wait,  and  consider ;  for  it  was 
as  if  the  hovs  of  change  drew  nigh.  I  seemed 
to  surrender,  to  renounce  vitterly,  and  say: 
Fly,  then,  false  shadows  of  Hope ;  I  will  chase 
you  no  more,  I  will  believe  you  no  more. 
And  ye  too,  haggard  spectres  of  Fear,  I  care 
not  for  you ;  ye  too  are  all  shadows  and  a  lie.' 
Let  me  rest  here:  for  I  am  way-weary  and 
life-weary ;  I  will  rest  here,  were  it  but  to  die : 
to  die  or  to  live  is  alike  to  me;  alike  insig- 
nificant." —  And  again  :  "  Here,  then,  as  I  lay 
in  that  Centre  of  Lidifference,  cast,  doubtless 
by  benignant  upper  Influence,  into  a  healing 
sleep,  the  heavy  dreams  roUed  gradually 
away,  and  I  awoke  to  a  new  Heaven  and 
a  new  Earth.  The  first  preliminary  moral 
Act,  Annihilation  of  Self  {Selbsttddtung),  had 
been  happily  accomplished;  and  my  mind's 
eyes  were  now  unsealed,  and  its  hands 
img>^ved." 

Might  we  not  also  conjecture  that  the  fol- 
lowing passage  refers  to  his  Locality,  during 
this  same  "heaUng  sleep";  that  his  Pilgrim- 
staiT  lies  cast  aside  here,  on  "  the  high  table- 
land" ;  and  indeed  that  the  repose  is  already 
taking  wholesome  effect  on  him?    If  it  were 


^  an  allusion  to  the  mountain  seen  in  Dante's 
Divina  Commedia 


'"Away,  Satan!"    -a   terrible  wind   on   the 
coast  of  Guinea 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


507 


not  that  the  tone,  in  some  parts,  has  more  of 
riancy,*  even  of  levity,  than  we  could  have  ex- 
pected !  However,  in  Teufelsdrockh,  there  is 
always  the  strangest  Dualism  :  light  dancing, 
with  guitar-music,  will  be  going  on  in  the  fore- 
court, while  by  lits  from  within  comes  the  faint 
whim.pering  of  woe  and  wail.  We  transcribe 
the  piece  entire : 

"Beautiful  it  was  to  sit  there,  as  in  my 
skyey  Tent,  musing  and  meditating;  on  the 
high  table-land,  in  front  of  the  ]Moimtains; 
over  me,  as  roof,  the  azure  Dome,  and  around 
me,  for  walls,  four  azure-flowing  cuitains,  — 
namely,  of  the  Four  azure  Winds,  on  whose 
bottom-fringes  also  I  have  seen  gilding.  And 
then  to  fancy  the  fair  Castles,  that  stood 
sheltered  in  these  Moimtain  hollows ;  with 
their  green  flower-lawns,  and  white  dames  and 
damosels,  lovely  enough:  or  better  still,  the 
straw-roofed  Cottages,  wherein  stood  many  a 
Mother  baking  bread,  with  her  children  round 
her :  —  aU  hidden  and  protectingly  folded-up 
in  the  valley-folds;  yet  there  and  alive,  as 
sure  as  if  I  beheld  them.  Or  to  see,  as  well 
as  fancy,  the  nine  Towns  and  Villages,  that 
lay  round  my  mountain -seat,  which,  in  still 
weather,  were  wont  to  speak  to  me  (by  their 
steeple-bells)  with  metal  tongue ;  and,  in 
almost  all  weather,  proclaimed  their  vitality 
by  repeated  Smoke-clouds ;  whereon,  as  on  a 
culinar>'  horologue,- 1  might  read  the  hour  of 
the  day.  For  it  was  the  smoke  of  cookery, 
as  kind  housewives  at  morning,  midday,  even- 
tide, were  boihng  their  husbands'  kettles ; 
and  ever  a  blue  pillar  rose  up  into  the  air, 
successively  or  simultaneously,  from  each  of 
the  nine,  sa>'ing,  as  plainly  as  smoke  could 
say :  Such  and  such  a  meal  is  getting  ready 
here.  Not  uninteresting  !  For  you  have  the 
whole  Borough,  with  all  its  love-makings  and 
scandal-mongeries,  contentions  and  content- 
ments, as  in  miniature,  and  could  cover  it  all 
with  your  hat.  —  If,  in  my  wide  Wayfarings, 
I  had  learned  to  look  into  the  business  of  the 
World  in  its  details,  here  perhaps  was  the 
place  for  combining  it  into  general  propositions, 
and  deducing  inferences  therefrom. 

''Often  also  could  I  see  the  black  Tempest 
marching  in  anger  through  the  distance: 
round  some  Schreckliorn,^  as  yet  grim-blue, 
would  the  eddying  vapour  gather,  and  there 
tumultuously  eddy,  and  flow  down  lilce  a  mad 

^  spirit  of  laughter  -  horologe,  clock  ^  peak  of 
terror;  here  generic  for  mountain 


witch's  hair ;  till,  after  a  space,  it  vanished, 
and,  in  the  clear  sunbeam,  your  Schrecldiorn 
stood  smiling  grim-white,  for  the  vapour  had 
held  snow.  How  thou  fermentest  and  elabo- 
ratest  in  thy  great  fermenting-vat  and  labora- 
tory^ of  an  Atmosphere,  of  a  World,  O  Nature  ! 
—  Or  what  is  Nature  ?  Ha !  why  do  I  not 
name  thee  God?  Art  thou  not  the  'Living 
Garment  of  God  ? '  ^  O  Heavens,  is  it,  in  very 
deed,  He,  then,  that  ever  speaks  through  thee; 
that  lives  and  loves  in  thee,  that  lives  and 
loves  in  me? 

"Fore-shadows,  caU  them  rather  fore-splen- 
dours, of  that  Truth,  and  Beginning  of  Truths, 
fell  mysteriously  over  my  soul.  Sweeter  than 
Dayspring  to  the  Shipwrecked  in  Nova  Zem- 
bla ;  ah,  like  the  mother's  voice  to  her  little 
child  that  straj's  bewildered,  weeping,  in  un- 
known tvunults ;  Uke  soft  streamings  of  celes- 
tial music  to  my  too-exasperated  heart,  came 
that  Evangel.  The  Universe  is  not  dead  and 
demoniacal,  a  charnel-house  with  spectres; 
but  godlike,  and  my  Father's  ! 

"With  other  eyes,  too,  could  I  now  look 
upon  my  fellow  man :  with  an  infinite  Love, 
an  infinite  Pity.  Poor,  wandering,  wayward 
man !  Art  thou  not  tried,  and  beaten  with 
stripes,  even  as  I  am?  Ever,  whether  thou 
bear  the  royal  mantle  or  the  beggar's  gabar- 
dine, art  thou  not  so  weary,  so  heavy'-laden ; 
and  thy  Bed  of  Rest  is  but  a  Grave.  O  my 
Brother,  my  Brother,  why  cannot  I  shelter 
thee  in  my  bosom,  and  v/ipe  away  all  tears 
from  thy  eyes !  —  Truly,  the  din  of  many- 
voiced  Life,  which,  in  this  solitude,  with  the 
mind's  organ,  I  could  hear,  was  no  longer  a 
maddening  discord,  but  a  melting  one ;  like 
inarticulate  cries,  and  sobbings  of  a  dumb 
creature,  which  in  the  ear  of  Heaven  are 
prayers.  The  poor  Earth,  with  her  poor  J03's, 
was  now  my  needy  jSIothcr,  not  my  cruel  Step- 
dame;  ISIan,  with  his  so  mad  Wants  and  so 
mean  Endeavours,  had  become  the  dearer  to 
me ;  and  even  for  his  suft'erings  and  his  sins, 
I  now  first  named  him  Brother.  Thus  was  I 
standing  in  the  porch  of  that  'Sanctuary  of 
Sorrow' ;  by  strange,  steep  ways,  had  I  too 
been  guided  thither ;  and  ere  long  its  sacred 
gates  would  open,  and  the  'Divine  Depth  of 
Sorrow'  lie  disclosed  to  me." 

The  Professor  says,  he  here  first  got  eye  on 
the  Knot  that  had  been  strangling  him,  and 


^  from  Goethe's   Faust : 
diges  Kleid" 


'der  Gottheit  leben- 


5o8 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


straightway  could  unfasten  it,  and  was  free. 
"A  vain  interminable  controversy,"  writes  he, 
"touching  what  is  at  present  called  Origin  of 
EvU,  or  some  such  thing,  arises  in  every  soul, 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world ;  and  in  every 
soul,  that  would  pass  from  idle  Suffering  into 
actual  Endeavouring,  must  first  be  put  an  end 
to.  The  most,  in  our  time,  have  to  go  content 
with  a  simple,  incomplete  enough  Suppression 
of  this  controversy ;  to  a  few,  some  Solution 
of  it  is  indispensable.  In  every  new  era,  too, 
such  Solution  comes-out  in  different  terms; 
and  ever  the  Solution  of  the  last  era  has  be- 
come obsolete,  and  is  found  unserviceable. 
For  it  is  man's  nature  to  change  his  Dialect 
from  century  to  century;  he  cannot  help  it 
though  he  would.  The  authentic  Church- 
Catechism  of  our  present  century  has  not  yet 
fallen  into  my  hands :  meanwhile,  for  my  own 
private  behoof,  I  attempt  to  elucidate  the 
matter  so.  jMan's  Unhappiness,  as  I  con- 
strue, comes  of  his  Greatness ;  it  is  because 
there  is  an  Infinite  in  him,  which  with  all  his 
cunning  he  cannot  quite  bury  under  the 
Finite.  Will  the  whole  Finance  Ministers 
and  Upholsterers  and  Confectioners  of  modern 
Europe  undertake,  in  joint-stock  company, 
to  make  one  Shoeblack  happy?  They  cannot 
accomplish  it,  above  an  hour  or  two :  for  the 
Shoeblack  also  has  a  Soul  quite  other  than  his 
Stomach ;  and  would  require,  if  you  consider 
it,  for  his  permanent  satisfaction  and  satura- 
tion, simply  this  allotment,  no  more,  and  no 
less :  God''s  infinite  Universe  altogether  to  him- 
self, therein  to  enjoy  infinitely,  and  fill  every 
wish  as  fast  as  it  rose.  Oceans  of  Hochheimer,^ 
a  Throat  like  that  of  Ophiuchus  ■?  speak  not  of 
them ;  to  the  infinite  Shoeblack  they  are  as 
nothing.  No  sooner  is  your  ocean  filled,  than 
he  grumbles  that  it  might  have  been  of  better 
vintage.  Try  him  with  half  of  a  Universe,  of 
an  Omnipotence,  he  sets  to  quarrelling  v/ith 
the  proprietor  of  the  other  half,  and  declares 
himself  the  most  maltreated  of  men.  —  Al- 
ways there  is  a  black  spot  in  our  sunshine : 
it  is  even,  as  I  said,  the  Shadow  of  Ourselves. 
"But  the  whim  we  have  of  Ilappiness  is 
somewhat  thus.  By  certain  valuations,  and 
averages,  of  our  own  striking,  we  come  upon 
some  sort  of  average  terrestrial  lot ;  this  we 
fancy  belongs  to  us  by  nature,  and  of  inde- 
feasible right.     It  is  simple  payment  of  our 

^  hock,  a  Rhine  wine    ^  an  ancient  constella- 
tion, also  called  Scrpcntarius,  the  serpent-bearer 


wages,  of  our  deserts ;  requires  neither  thanks 
nor  complaint ;  only  such  overplus  as  there 
may  be  do  we  account  Happiness ;  any  deficit 
again  is  Misery.  Now  consider  that  we  have 
the  valuation  of  our  deserts  ourselves,  and 
what  a  fund  of  Self-conceit  there  is  in  each  of 
us,  —  do  you  wonder  that  the  balance  should 
so  often  dip  the  wrong  way,  and  many  a  Block- 
head cry :  See  there,  what  a  payment ;  was 
ever  worthy  gentleman  so  used  !  —  I  tell  thee, 
Blockhead,  it  all  comes  of  thy  Vanity ;  of 
what  thou  fanciest  those  same  deserts  of  thine 
to  be.  Fancy  that  thou  deservest  to  be 
hanged  (as  is  most  likely),  thou  wUt  feel  it 
happiness  to  be  only  shot :  fancy  that  thou 
deservest  to  be  hanged  iia  a  hair-halter,  it  will 
be  a  luxury  to  die  in  hemp. 

"So  true  it  is,  what  I  then  said,  that  the 
Fraction  of  Life  can  be  increased  in  value  not 
so  much  by  increasing  your  Numerator  as  by 
lessening  your  Denominator.  Nay,  unless  my 
Algebra  deceive  me.  Unity  itself  divided  by 
Zero  will  give  Infinity.  Make  thy  claim  of 
wages  a  zero,  then  ;  thou  hast  the  world  under 
thy  feet.  Well  did  the  Wisest  of  our  time^ 
write :  '  It  is  only  with  Renunciation  {Entsa- 
gen)  that  Life,  properly  speaking,  can  be  said 
to  begin.' 

"I  asked  myself:  What  is  this  that,  ever 
since  earliest  years,  thou  hast  been  fretting 
and  fuming,  and  lamenting  and  self-torment- 
ing, on  account  of  ?  Say  it  in  a  word :  is  it 
not  because  thou  art  not  happy?  Because  the 
Thou  (sweet  gentleman)  is  not  sufiiciently 
honoured,  nourished,  soft-bedded,  and  lov- 
ingly cared-for  ?  Foolish  soul !  What  Act 
of  Legislature  was  there  that  tiiou  shouldst  be 
Happy?  A  Uttle  whUe  ago  thou  hadst  no 
right  to  be  at  all.  What  if  thou  wert  born  and 
predestined  not  to  be  Happy,  but  to  be  Un-. 
happy  !  Art  thou  nothing  other  than  a  Vul- 
ture, then,  that  fliest  through  the  Universe 
seeking  after  somewhat  to  eat ;  and  shrieking 
dolefully  because  carrion  enough  is  not  given 
thee?     Close  thy  Byron;  open  thy  Goethe.'^ 

"Es  Icuchtet  mir  ein,  I  see  a  glimpse  of  it !" 
cries  he  elsewhere :  "  there  is  in  man  a  Higher 
than  Love  of  Happiness :  he  can  do  without 
Happiness,  and  instead  thereof  find  Blessed- 
ness !  Was  it  not  to  preach-forth  this  same 
Higher  that  sages  and  martyrs,  the  Poet  and 
the  Priest,  in  all  times,  have  spoken  and  suf- 
fered;   bearing  testimony,  through  Ufe  and 

^  Goethe 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


509 


through  death,  of  the  Godhke  that  is  in  IMan, 
and  how  in  the  Godlike  only  has  he  Strength 
and  Freedom?  Which  God-inspired  Doc- 
trme  art  thou  also  honoured  to  be  taught ;  O 
Heavens  !  and  broken  with  manifold  merciful 
Afflictions,  even  till  thou  become  contrite,  and 
learn  it !  O,  thank  thy  Destiny  for  these ; 
thankfully  bear  what  yet  remain :  thou  hadst 
need  of  them ;  the  Self  in  thee  needed  to  be 
annihilated.  By  benignant  fever-paroxysms 
is  Life  rooting  out  the  deep-seated  chronic 
Disease,  and  triumphs  over  Death.  On  the 
roaring  billows  of  Time,  thou  art  not  engulfed, 
but  borne  aloft  into  the  azure  of  Eternity. 
Love  not  Pleasure;  love  God.  This  is  the 
Everlasting  Yea,  wherein  all  contradiction  is 
solved :  wherein  whoso  walks  and  works,  it 
is  well  with  him." 

.\nd  again:  "Small  is  it  that  thou  canst 
trample  the  Earth  with  its  injuries  under  thy 
feet,  as  old  Greek  Zeno  ^  trained  thee :  thou 
canst  love  the  Earth  while  it  injures  thee,  and 
even  because  it  injures  thee ;  for  this  a  Greater 
than  Zeno  was  needed,  and  he  too  w'as  sent. 
Knowest  thou  that '  Worship  of  Sorrmv'  ?  The 
Temple  thereof,  founded  some  eighteen  cen- 
turies ago,  now  lies  in  ruins,  overgrown  with 
jungle,  the  habitation  of  doleful  creatures: 
nevertheless,  venture  forward ;  iia  a  low  crypt, 
arched  out  of  falling  fragments,  thou  findest 
the  Altar  still  there,  and  its  sacred  Lamp 
perennially  burning." 

Without  pretending  to  comment  on  which 
strange  utterances,  the  Editor  w'ill  only  re- 
mark, that  there  lies  beside  them  much  of  a 
still  more  questionable  character ;  unsuited  to 
the  general  apprehension;  nay,  wherein  he 
himself  does  not  see  his  way.  Nebulous  dis- 
quisitions on  Religion,  yet  not  without  bursts 
of  splendour;  on  the  "perennial  continuance 
of  Inspiration  "  ;  on  Prophecy  ;  that  there  are 
"true  Priests,  as  well  as  Baal-Priests,  in  our 
own  day":  with  more  of  the  like  sort.  We 
select  some  fractions,  by  way  of  finish  to  this 
farrago. 

"  Cease,  my  much-respected  Herr  von  Vol- 
taire," thus  apostrophises  the  Professor : 
"shut  thy  sweet  voice ;  for  the  task  appointed 
thee  seems  finished.  Sufficiently  hast  thou 
demonstrated  this  proposition,  considerable  or 
otherwise :  That  the  Mythus  of  the  Christian 
Religion  looks  not  in  the  eighteenth  century 
as  it  did  in  the  eighth.     Alas,  were  thy  six- 

^  a  stoic  philosopher 


and-thirty  quartos,  and  the  six-and-ihirty 
thousand  other  quartos  and  folios,  and  flying 
sheels  or  reams,  printed  before  and  since  on 
the  same  subject,  all  needed  to  convince  us  of 
so  little  !  But  what  next  ?  Wilt  thou  help  us 
to  embody  the  divine  Spirit  of  that  Religion  in 
a  new  INIythus,  in  a  new  vehicle  and  vesture, 
that  our  Souls,  otherwise  too  like  perishing, 
may  live  ?  What !  thou  hast  no  faculty  in 
that  kind?  Only  a  torch  for  burning,  no 
hammer  for  buildiiig?  Take  our  thanks, 
then,  and  —  thyself  away. 

'■  Aleanwhile  what  are  antiquated  Mythuses 
to  me  ?  Or  is  the  God  present,  felt  in  my  own 
heart,  a  thing  which  Herr  von  Voltaire  will  dis- 
pute out  of  me ;  or  dispute  into  me  ?  To  the 
'Worship  of  Sorrow'  ascribe  what  origin  and 
genesis  thou  pleasest,  has  not  that  Worship 
originated,  and  been  generated;  is  it  not 
here  ?  Feel  it  ii:  thy  heart,  and  then  say 
whether  it  is  of  God  !  This  is  Belief ;  all  else 
is  Opinion,  —  for  which  latter  whoso  will,  let 
him  worr}-  and  be  w^orried." 

"Neither,"  observes  he  elsewhere,  "shall  ye 
tear-out  one  another's  eyes,  strugglmg  over 
'Plenary  Inspiration,'^  and  such-like:  try 
rather  to  get  a  little  even  Partial  Inspiration, 
each  of  you  for  himself.  One  Bible  I  know,  of 
whose  Plenary  Inspiration  doubt  is  not  so 
much  as  possible ;  nay  with  my  own  eyes  I 
saw  the  God's-Hand  writing  it :  thereof  all 
other  Bibles  are  but  Leaves,  —  say,  in  Picture- 
Writing  to  assist  the  weaker  faculty." 

Or  to  give  the  wearied  reader  relief,  and 
bring  it  to  an  end.  let  him  take  the  following 
perhaps  more  intelligible  passage : 

"To  me,  in  this  our  life,"  says  the  Profes- 
sor, "which  is  an  internecine  warfare  wdth  the 
Time-spirit,  other  warfare  seems  questionable. 
Hast  thou  in  any  w'ay  a  Contention  Avith  thy 
brother,  I  advise  thee,  think  well  what  the 
meaning  thereof  is.  If  thou  gauge  it  to  the 
bottom,  it  is  simply  this:  'Fellow,  see  !  thou 
art  taking  more  than  thy  share  of  Happiness 
in  the  world,  something  from  my  share :  which, 
by  the  Heavens,  thou  shalt  not ;  nay,  I  will 
fight  thee  rather.'  —  Alas,  and  the  whole  lot 
to  be  divided  is  such  a  beggarly  matter,  truly 
a  'feast  of  shells,'  for  the  substance  has  been 
spilled  out :  not  enough  to  quench  one  Appe- 
tite ;  and  the  collective  human  species  clutch- 
ing at  them  !  —  Can  w-e  not,  in  all  such  cases, 

'  that  which  excludes  all  defects  in  the  expres- 
sion of  it 


5IO 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


rather  say  :  'Take  it,  thou  too-ravenous  indi- 
vidual ;  take  that  pitiful  additional  fraction 
of  a  share,  which  I  reckoned  mine,  but  which 
thou  so  wantest ;  take  it  with  a  blessing : 
would  to  Heaven  I  had  enough  for  thee ! '  — 
If  Fichte's  W issenschajtslchre^  be, '  to  a  certain 
extent.  Applied  Christianity,'  surely  to  a  still 
greater  extent,  so  is  this.  We  have  here  not  a 
Whole  Duty  of  Man,  yet  a  Half  Duty, 
namely,  the  Passive  half :  could  we  but  do 
it,"  as  we  can  demonstrate  it ! 

"But  indeed  Conviction,  were  it  never  so 
excellent,  is  worthless  till  it  convert  itself  into 
Conduct.  Nay,  properly  Conviction  is  not 
possible  till  then ;  inasmuch  as  all  Speculation 
is  by  nature  endless,  formless,  a  vortex  amid 
vortices :  only  by  a  felt  indubitable  certainty 
of  Experience  does  it  find  any  centre  to.  re- 
volve round,  and  so  fashion  itself  into  a  sys- 
tem. Most  true  i's  it,  as  a  wise  man  teaches 
us,  that '  Doubt  of  any  sort  cannot  be  removed 
except  by  Action.'  On  which  ground,  too, 
let  him  who  gropes  painfully  in  darkness  or 
uncertain  light,  and  prays  vehemently  that 
the  dawn  may  ripen  into  day,  lay  this  other 
precept  well  to  heart,  which  to  me  was  of  in- 
valuable service:  ^ Do  the  Duty  which  lies 
nearest  tlice,'  which  thou  knowest  to  be  a 
Duty !  Thy  second  Duty  will  already  have 
become  clearer. 

"May  we  not  say,  however,  that  the  hour 
of  Spiritual  Enfranchisement  is  even  this : 
When  your  Ideal  World,  wherein  the  whole 
man  has  been  dimly  struggling  and  inexpres- 
sibly languishing  to  work,  becomes  revealed 
and  thrown  open ;  and  you  discover,  with 
amazement  enough,  like  the  Lothario  in  Wil- 
helm  Meister,'^  that  your  'America  is  here  or 
nowhere'?  The  Situation  that  has  not  its 
Duty,  its  Ideal,  was  never  yet  occupied  by 
man.  Yes,  here,  in  this  poor,  miserable, 
hampered,  despicable  Actual,  wherein  thou 
even  now  standest,  hcreor  nowhere  is  thy  Ideal : 
work  it  out  therefrom ;  and  working,  believe, 
live,  be  free.  Fool !  the  Ideal  is  in  thyself, 
the  impediment  too  is  in  thyself:  thy  Con- 
dition is  but  the  stuff  thou  art  to  shape  that 
same  Ideal  out  of :  what  matters  whether 
such  stufif  be  of  this  sort  or  that,  so  the  Form 
thou  give  it  be  heroic,  be  poetic  ?     O  thou  that 

^  the  chief  work  of  the  German  metaphysician 
Fichte,  of  which  the  full  title  is,  in  English: 
Fundamental  Principles  of  the  Whole  Theory  of 
Science    ^  a  novel  by  Goethe 


pinest  in  the  imprisonment  of  the  Actual,  and 
criest  bitterly  to  the  gods  for  a  kingdom 
wherein  to  rule  and  create,  know  this  of  a 
truth :  the  thing  thou  seekest  is  already  with 
thee,  'here  or  nowhere,'  couldst  thou  only  see  ! 

"But  it  is  with  man's  Soul  as  it  was  with 
Nature :  the  beginning  of  Creation  is — Light. 
Till  the  eye  have  vision,  the  whole  members 
are  in  bonds.  Divine  moment,  when  over  the 
tempest-tost  Soul,  as  once  over  the  wild-wel- 
tering Chaos,  it  is  spoken  :  Let  there  be  light ! 
Ever  to  the  greatest  that  has  felt  such  moment, 
is  it  not  miraculous  and  God-announcing ; 
even  as,  under  simpler  figures,  to  the  simplest 
and  least.  The  mad  primeval  Discord  is 
hushed ;  the  rudely-jumbled  conflicting  ele- 
ments bind  themselves  into  separate  Firma- 
ments :  deep  silent  rock-foundations  are  built 
beneath ;  and  the  skyey  vault  with  its  ever- 
lasting Luminaries  above :  instead  of  a  dark 
wasteful  Chaos,  we  have  a  blooming,  fertile. 
Heaven-encompassed  World. 

"I  too  could  now  say  to  myself:  Be  no 
longer  a  Chaos,  but  a  World,  or  even  World- 
kin.^  Produce  !  Produce  !  Were  it  but  the 
pitifuUest  infinitesimal  fraction  of  a  Product, 
produce  it,  in  God's  name  !  'Tis  the  utmost 
thou  hast  in  thee :  out  with  it,  then.  Up,  up  ! 
Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with 
thy  whole  might.  Work  while  it  is  called  To- 
day ;  for  the  Night  cometh,  wherein  no  man 
can  work." 

THOMAS   BABINGTON,   LORD 
MACAULAY    (i 800-1 859) 

THE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND 

VOLUME  I 
From  Chapter  III 

I  intend,  in  this  chapter,  to  give  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  state  in  which  England  w^as  at  the 
time  when  the  crown  passed  from  Charles  the 
Second  to  his  brother.  Such  a  description, 
composed  from  scanty  and  dispersed  materials, 
must  necessarily  be  very  imperfect.  Yet  it 
may  perhaps  correct  some  false  notions  which 
would  make  the  sul^sequent  narrative  unin- 
telligible or  uninstructive. 

If  we  would  study  with  profit  the  history  of 
our  ancestors,  we  must  be  constantly  on  out 

^  little  world 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


;ii 


guard  against  thai  delusion  which  the  well- 
known  names  of  families,  places,  and  oflices 
naturally  produce,  and  must  never  forget  that 
the  country  of  which  we  read  was  a  very  dif- 
ferent country  from  that  in  which  we  live. 


Could  the  England  of  1685  be,  by  some 
magical  process,  set  before  our  eyes,  we 
should  not  know  one  landscape  in  a  hundred 
or  one  building  in  ten  thousand.  The 
country  gentleman  would  not  recognise  his 
own  fields.  The  inhabitant  of  the  town  would 
not  recognise  his  own  street.  Everything 
has  been  changed  but  the  great  features  of 
nature,  and  a  few  massive  and  durable  works 
of  human  art.  We  might  find  out  Snowdon 
and  Windermere,  the  Cheddar  Cliffs  and 
Beachy  Head.  We  might  find  out  here  and 
there  a  Norman  minster,  or  a  castle  which 
witnessed  the  wars  of  the  Roses.  But,  with 
such  rare  exceptions,  everything  would  be 
strange  to  us.  Many  thousands  of  square 
miles  which  are  now  rich  corn  land  and 
meadow,  intersected  by  green  hedgerows,  and 
dotted  with  villages  and  pleasant  country 
seats,  would  appear  as  moors  overgrown  with 
furze,  or  fens  abandoned  to  wild  ducks.  We 
should  see  straggling  huts  built  of  wood  and 
covered  with  thatch,  where  we  now  see  manu- 
facturing towns  and  seaports  renowned  to  the 
farthest  ends  of  the  world.  The  capital  itself 
would  shrink  to  dimensions  not  much  exceed- 
ing those  of  its  present  suburb  on  the  south  of 
the  Thames.^  Not  less  .strange  to  us  would  be 
the  garb  and  manners  of  the  people,  the  furni- 
ture and  the  equipages,  the  interior  of  the 
shops  and  dwellings.  Such  a  change  in  the 
state  of  a  nation  seems  to  be  at  least  as  well 
entitled  to  the  notice  of  a  historian  as  any 
change  of  the  dynasty  or  of  the  ministry. 

One  of  the  first  objects  of  an  inquirer,  who 
wishes  to  form  a  correct  notion  of  the  state  of 
a  community  at  a  given  time,  must  be  to  as- 
certain of  how  many  persons  that  community 
then  consisted.  Unfortunately  the  popula- 
tion of  England  in  16S5  cannot  be  ascertained 
with  perfect  accuracy.  For  no  great  state  had 
then  adopted  the  wise  course  of  periodically 
numbering  the  people.  All  men  were  left  to 
conjecture  for  themselves;  and,  as  they 
generally  conjectured  without  examining  facts, 
and  under  the  influence  of  strong  passions  and 

^  Southwark 


prejudices,  their  guesses  were  often  ludicrously 
absurd.  Even  inteUigent  Londoners  ordi- 
narily talked  of  London  as  containing  several 
millions  of  souls.  It  was  confidently  asserted 
by  many  that,  during  the  thirty-five  years 
which  had  elapsed  between  the  accession  of 
Charles  the  First  and  the  Restoration,  the 
population  of  the  City  had  increased  by  two 
millions.  Even  while  the  ravages  of  the 
plague  and  fire  were  recent,  it  was  the  fashion 
to  say  that  the  capital  still  had  a,  million  and 
a  half  of  inhabitants.  •  Some  persons,  dis- 
gusted by  these  exaggerations,  ran  \aoIently 
into  the  opposite  extreme.  Thus  Isaac  Vos- 
sius,  a  man  of  undoubted  parts  and  learning, 
strenuously  maintained  that  there  were  only 
two  millions  of  human  beings  in  England, 
Scotland,  and  Ireland  taken  together. 

Yv^e  are  not,  however,  left  without  the  means 
of  correcting  the  wild  blunders  into  which 
some  minds  were  hurried  by  national  vanity 
and  others  by  a  morbid  love  of  paradox. 
There  are  extant  three  computations  which, 
seem  to  be  entitled  to  peculiar  attention. 
They  are  entirely  independent  of  each  other : 
they  proceed  on  different  principles ;  and  yet 
there  is  little  difference  in  the  results. 


Of  these  three  estimates,  framed  without 
concert  by  different  persons  from  different  sets 
of  materials,  the  highest,  which  is  that  of  King, 
does  not  exceed  the  lowest,  which  is  that  of 
Finlaison,^  by  one  twelfth.  We  may,  therefore, 
with  confidence  pronounce  that,  when  James 
the  Second  reigned,  England  contained  be- 
tween five  million  and  five  million  five  hun- 
dred thousand  mhabitants.  On  the  very 
highest  supposition  she  then  had  less  than  one 
third  of  her  present  population,  and  less  than 
three  times  the  population  which  is  now  col- 
lected in  her  gigantic  capital. 

******* 

We  should  be  much  mistaken  if  we  pictiu-ed 
to  ourselves  the  squires  of  the  seventeenth 
century  as  men  bearing  a  close  resemblance  to 
their  descendants,  the  country  members  and 
chairmen  of  quarter  sessions  with  whom  we 
are  famihar.  The  modern  country  gentlemaii 
generally  receives  a  liberal  education,  passes 
from  a  distinguished  school  to  a  distinguished 
college,  and  has  ample  opportunity  to  become 

^  Gregory  King  (1648-17 12)  and  John  Fin- 
laison  (i 783-1860),  English  statisticians 


512 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


an  excellent  scholar.  He  has  generally  seen 
something  of  foreign  countries.  A  consider- 
able part  of  his  life  has  generally  been  passed 
in  the  capital ;  and  the  refinements  of  the  cap- 
ital follow  him  into  the  country.  There  is  per- 
haps no  class  of  dwellings  so  pleasing  as  the 
rural  seats  of  the  English  gentry.  In  the 
parks  and  pleasure  grounds,  nature,  dressed 
yet  not  disguised  by  art,  wears  her  most  allur- 
ing form.  In  the  buildings,  good  sense  and 
good  taste  combine  to  produce  a  happy  union 
of  the  comfortable  and  the  graceful.  The  pic- 
tures, the  musical  instruments,  the  library, 
would  in  any  other  country  be  considered  as 
proving  the  owner  to  be  an  eminently  polished 
and  accomplished  man.  A  country  gentle- 
.  man  who  witnessed  the  Revolution  was  prob- 
ably in  receipt  of  about  a  fourth  part  of  the 
rent  which  his  acres  now  yield  to  his  posterity. 
He  was,  therefore,  as  compared  with  his  pos- 
terity, a  poor  man,  and  was  generally  under 
the  necessity  of  residing,  with  little  interrup- 
tion, on  his  estate.  To  travel  on  the  Conti- 
nent, to  maintain  an  establishment  in  London, 
or  even  to  visit  London  frequently,  were  pleas- 
ures in  which  only  the  great  proprietors  could 
indulge.  It  may  be  confidently  afiirmed  that 
of  the  squires  whose  names  were  then  in  the 
Commissions  of  Peace  and  Lieutenancy  not 
one  in  twenty  went  to  town  once  in  five  years, 
or  had  ever  in  his  life  wandered  so  far  as  Paris. 
Many  lords  of  manors  had  received  an  educa- 
tion differing  little  from  that  of  their  menial 
servants.  The  heir  of  an  estate  often  passed 
his  boyhood  and  youth  at  the  seat  of  his 
family  with  no  better  tutors  than  grooms  and 
gamekeepers,  and  scarce  attained  learning 
enough  to  sign  his  name  to  a  Mittimus.^  If 
he  went  to  school  and  to  college,  he  generally 
returned  before  he  was  twenty  to  the  seclusion 
of  the  old  hall,  and  there,  unless  his  mind  were 
very  happily  constituted  by  nature,  soon  for- 
got his  academical  pursuits  in  rural  business 
and  pleasures.  His  chief  serious  employment 
was  the  care  of  his  property.  He  examined 
samples  of  grain,  handled  pigs,  and,  on  market 
days,  made  bargains  over  a  tankard  with 
drovers  and  hop  merchants.  His  chief  pleas- 
ures were  commonly  derived  from  field  sports 
and  from  an  unrefined  sensuality.  His  lan- 
guage and  pronunciation  were  such  as  we 
should  now  expect  to  hear  only  from  the  most 
ignorant  clowns.     His  oaths,  coarse  jests,  and 

^  a  writ  of  commitment  to  prison 


scurrilous  terms  of  abuse,  were  uttered  with 
the  broadest  accent  of  his  province.  It  was 
easy  to  discern,  from  the  first  words  which  he 
spoke,  whether  he  came  from  Somersetshire 
or  Yorkshire.  He  troubled  himself  little 
about  decorating  his  abode,  and,  if  he  at- 
tempted decoration,  seldom  produced  any- 
thing but  deformity.  The  litter  of  a  farmyard 
gathered  vxnder  the  windows  of  his  bedcham- 
ber, and  the  cabbages  and  gooseberry  bushes 
grew  close  to  his  hall  door.  His  table  was 
loaded  with  coarse  plenty ;  and  guests  were 
cordially  welcomed  to  it.  But,  as  the  habit 
of  drinking  to  excess  was  general  in  the  class 
to  which  he  belonged,  and  as  his  fortune  did 
not  enable  him  to  intoxicate  large  assemblies 
daily  with  claret  or  canary,  strong  beer  was 
the  ordinary  beverage.  The  quantity  of  beer 
consumed  in  those  days  was  indeed  enormous. 
For  beer  then  was  to  the  middle  and  lower 
classes,  not  only  all  that  beer  now  is,  but  all 
that  wine,  tea,  and  ardent  spirits  now  are. 
It  was  only  at  great  houses,  or  on  great 
occasions,  that  foreign  drink  was  placed 
on  the  board.  The  ladies  of  the  house, 
whose  business  it  had  commonly  been  to 
cook  the  repast,  retired  as  soon  as  the 
dishes  had  been  devoured,  and  left  the 
gentlemen  to  their  ale  and  tobacco.  The 
coarse  jollity  of  the  afternoon  was  often 
prolonged  till  the  revellers  were  laid  vmder 
the  table. 

It  was  very  seldom  that  the  country  gentle- 
man caught  glimpses  of  the  great  world ;  and 
what  he  saw  of  it  tended  rather  to  confuse  than 
to  enlighten  his  understanding.  His  opinions 
respecting  religion,  government,  foreign  coun- 
tries and  former  times,  having  been  derived, 
not  from  study,  from  observation,  or  from  con- 
versation with  enlightened  companions,  but 
from  such  traditions  as  were  current  in  his 
own  small  circle,  were  the  opinions  of  a  child. 
1  le  adhered  to  them,  however,  with  the  obsti- 
nacy which  is  generally  found  in  ignorant  men 
accustomed  to  be  fed  with  flattery.  His  ani- 
mosities were  numerous  and  bitter.  He  hated 
Frenchmen  and  Italians,  Scotchmen  and  Irish- 
men, Papists  and  Presbyterians,  Independents 
and  Baptists,  Quakers  and  Jews.  Towards 
London  and  Londoners  he  felt  an  aversion 
which  more  than  once  produced  important 
poHtical  effects.  His  wife  and  daughter  were 
in  tastes  and  acquirements  below  a  house- 
keeper or  a  still-room  maid  of  the  present  day. 
They  stitched  and  spun,  brewed  gooseberry 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


513 


wine,  cured  marigolds/  and  made  ihe  crust  for 
the  venison  pasty. 

From  this  description  it  might  be  supposed 
that  the  EngHsh  esquire  of  the  seventeenth 
century  did  not  materially  differ  from  a  rustic 
miller  or  alehouse  keeper  of  our  time.  There 
are,  however,  some  important  parts  of  his 
character  stiU  to  be  noted,  which  will  greatly 
modify  this  estimate.  Unlettered  as  he  was 
and  unpolished,  he  was  still  in  some  most 
important  points  a  gentleman.  He  was  a 
member  of  a  proud  and  powerful  aristocracy, 
and  was  distinguished  by  many  both  of  the 
good  and  of  the  bad  qualities  which  belong 
to  aristocrats.  His  family  pride  was  beyond 
that  of  a  Talbot  or  a  Howard.-  He  knew  the 
genealogies  and  coats  of  arms  of  all  his  neigh- 
bours, and  could  tell  which  of  them  had 
assumed  supporters  ^  without  any  right,  and 
which  of  them  were  so  unfortunate  as  to  be 
great-grandsons  of  aldermen.  He  was  a 
magistrate,  and,  as  such,  administered  gratu- 
itously to  those  who  dwelt  around  him  a  rude 
patriarchal  justice,  which,  in  spite  of  innu- 
merable blunders  and  of  occasional  acts  of 
tyranny,  was  yet  better  than  no  justice  at  all. 
He  was  an  officer  of  the  trainbands ;  and  his 
military  dignity,  though  it  might  move  the 
mirth  of  gallants  who  had  served  a  campaign 
in  Flanders,  raised  his  character  in  his  own 
eyes  and  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbours.  Nor 
indeed  was  his  soldiership  justly  a  subject  of 
derision.  In  every  county  there  were  elderly 
gentlemen  who  had  seen  service  which  was 
no  child's  play.  One  had  been  knighted  by 
Charles  the  First,  after  the  battle  of  Edge- 
hm.  Another  still  wore  a  patch  over  the 
scar  which  he  had  received  at  Naseby.  A 
third  had  defended  his  old  house  tiU  Fair- 
fax had  blown  in  the  door  with  a  petard. 
The  presence  of  these  old  Cavaliers,  with 
their  old  swords  and  holsters,  and  with  their 
old  stories  about  Goring  and  Lunsford,''  gave 
to  the  musters  of  militia  an  earnest  and  war- 
like aspect  which  would  otherwise  have  been 
wanting.  Even  those  country  gentlemen 
who  were  too  young  to  have  themselves  ex- 

^  used  for  making  conserves,  for  flavoring 
soups,  and  for  coloring  cheese  -  two  of  the  most 
distinguished  families  of  the  nobility  ^  a  term  in 
heraldry  for  figures  supporting  an  escutcheon,  cf. 
the  lion  and  the  unicorn  that  support  the  shield 
of  Great  Britain  "*  noted  persons  of  the  Parlia- 
mentary War 


changed  blows  with  the  cuirassiers  of  the  Par- 
liament had,  from  childhood,  been  surrounded 
by  the  traces  of  recent  war,  and  fed  with 
stories  of  the  martial  exploits  of  their  fathers 
and  imcles.  Thus  the  character  of  the  Eng- 
lish esquire  of  the  seventeenth  century  was 
compounded  of  two  elements  which  we  sel- 
dom or  never  find  united.  His  ignorance 
and  uncouthness,  his  low  tastes  and  gross 
phrases,  would,  in  our  time,  be  considered 
as  indicating  a  nature  and  a  breeding  thor- 
oughly plebeian.  Yet  he  was  essentially  a 
patrician,  and  had,  in  large  measure,  both 
the  virtues  and  the  vices  which  flourish  among 
men  set  from  their  birth  in  high  place,  and 
used  to  respect  themselves  and  to  be  respected 
by  others.  It  is  not  easy  for  a  generation 
accustomed  to  find  chivalrous  sentiments 
only  in  company  with  liberal  studies  and 
polished  manners  to  image  to  itself  a  man 
with  the  deportment,  the  vocabulary,  and 
the  accent  of  a  carter,  yet  punctilious  on  mat- 
ters of  genealogy  and  precedence,  and  ready 
to  risk  his  life  rather  than  see  a  stain  cast 
on  the  honour  of  his  house.  It  is,  however, 
only  by  thus  joining  together  things  seldom 
or  never  foimd  together  in  our  own  experi- 
ence that  we  can  form  a  just  idea  of  that 
rustic  aristocracy  which  constituted  the  main 
strength  of  the  armies  of  Charles  the  First, 
and  which  long  supported,  with  strange 
fidelity,  the  interest  of  his  descendants. 


A\Tioever  examines  the  maps  of  London 
which  were  published  toward  the  close  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  the  Second  will  see  that  only 
the  nucleus  of  the  present  capital  then  existed. 
The  town  did  not,  as  now,  fade  by  imper- 
ceptible degrees  into  the  country.  No  long 
avenues  of  villas,  embowered  in  lilacs  and 
laburnums,  extended  from  the  great  centre 
of  wealth  and  civilisation  almost  to  the  boun- 
daries of  ]Middlesex  and  far  into  the  heart  of 
Kent  and  Surrey.  In  the  east,  no  part  of 
the  immense  line  of  warehouses  and  artificial 
lakes  which  now  stretches  from  the  Tower 
to  BlackwaU  had  even  been  projected.  On 
the  west,  scarcely  one  of  those  stately  piles 
of  building  which  are  inhabited  by  the  noble 
and  wealthy  was  in  existence ;  and  Chelsea, 
which  is  now  peopled  by  more  than  forty 
thousand  human  beings,  was  a  quiet  country 
village  with  about  a  thousand  inhabitants. 
On  the  north,  cattle  fed.  and  sportsmen  wan- 


514 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


dered  with  dogs  and  guns,  over  the  site  of 
the  borough  of  Marylebone,  and  over  far 
the  greater  part  of  the  space  now  covered 
hy  the  boroughs  of  Finsbury  and  of  the 
Tower  Hamlets.  Islington  was  almost  a 
solitude;  and  poets  loved  to  contrast  its 
silence  and  repose  with  the  din  and  turmoil 
of  the  monster  London.  On  the  south  the 
capital  is  now  connected  with  its  suburb  by 
several  bridges,  not  inferior  in  magnificence 
and  solidity  to  the  noblest  Avorks  of  the 
Cffisars.  In  1685,  a  single  line  of  irregular 
arches,  overhung  by  piles  of  mean  and  crazy 
houses,  and  garnished,  after  a  fashion  worthy 
of  the  naked  barbarians  of  Dahomy,  with 
scores  of  mouldering  heads,  impeded  the 
navigation  of  the  river. 

Of  the  metropolis,  the  City,  properly  so 
called,  was  the  most  important  division.  At 
the  time  of  the  Restoration  it  had  been  built, 
for  the  most  part,  of  wood  and  plaster ;  the 
few  bricks  that  were  -used  w^ere  ill  baked ;  the 
booths  where  goods  were  exposed  to  sale-pro- 
jected far  into  the  streets,  and  were  overhung 
by  the  upper  stories.  A  few  specimens  of 
this  architecture  may  still  be  seen  in  those 
districts  which  were  not  reached  by  the  great 
fire.  That  fire  had,  in  a  few  days,  covered 
a  space  of  less  than  a  square  mile  with  the 
ruins  of  eighty-nine  churches  and  of  thirteen 
thousand  houses.  But  the  City  had  risen 
again  w^th  a  celerity  which  had  excited  the 
admiration  of  neighbouring  countries.  Un- 
fortunately, the  old  lines  of  the  streets  had 
been  to  a  great  extent  preserved ;  and  those 
hnes,  originally  traced  in  an  age  when  even 
princesses  performed  their  journeys  on  horse- 
back, were  often  too  narrow  to  allow  wheeled 
carriages  to  pass  each  other  with  ease,  ajid 
were  therefore  ill  adapted  for  the  residence 
of  wealthy  persons  in  an  age  when  a  coach 
and  six  was  a  fashionable  luxury.  The  style 
of  building  was,  however,  far  superior  to 
that  of  the  (Mty  which  had  perished.  The 
ordinary  material  was  brick,  of  much  better 
quality  than  had  formerly  been  used.  On 
the  sites  of  the  ancient  parish  churches  had 
arisen  a  multitude  of  new  domes,  towers,  and 
spires  which  bore  the  mark  of  the  fertile 
genius  of  Wren.  In  ever}'  place  save  one 
the  traces  of  the  great  devastation  had  been 
completely  effaced.  But  the  crowds  of 
workmen,  the  scaffolds,  and  the  masses  of 
hewn  stone  were  still  to  be  seen  where  the 
noblest  of    Protestant    temples  was    slowly 


rising  on  the  ruins  of  the  old  Cathedral  of 
Saint  Paul. 


He  who  then  rambled  to  what  is  now  the 
gayest  and  most  crowded  part  of  Regent 
Street  found  himself  in  a  solitude,  and  was 
sometimes  so  fortunate  as  to  have  a  shot  at 
a  woodcock.  On  the  north  the  Oxford  road 
ran  between  hedges.  Three  or  four  hundred 
yards  to  the  south  were  the  garden  walls  of  a 
few  great  houses  which  were  considered  as 
quite  out  of  town.  On  the  west  was  a  meadow 
renowned  for  a  spring  from  which,  long  after- 
wards. Conduit  Street  was  named. "  On  the 
east  was  a  field  not  to  be  passed  without  a 
shudder  by  any  Londoner  of  that  age.  There, 
as  in  a  place  far  from  the  haunts  of  men,  had 
been  dug,  twenty  years  before,  when  the 
great  plague  was  raging,  a  pit  into  which 
the  dead  carts  had  nightly  shot  corpses  by 
scores.  It  was  popularly  believed  that  the 
earth  was  deeply  tainted  with  infection,  and 
could  not  be  disturbed  without  imminent 
risk  to  human  life.  No  foundations  were 
laid  there  till  two  generations  had  passed 
without  any  return  of  the  pestilence,  and  till 
the  ghastly  spot  had  long  been  surrounded 
by  buildings. 

We  should  greatly  err  if  we  were  to  suppose 
that  any  of  the  streets  and  squares  then  bore 
the  same  aspect  as  at  present.  The  great 
majority  of  the  houses,  indeed,  have,  since 
that  time,  been  wholly,  or  in  great  part, 
rebuilt.  If  the  most  fashionable  parts  of  the 
capital  could  be  placed  before  us  such  as 
they  then  were,  we  should  be  disgusted  by 
their  squalid  appearance,  and  poisoned  by 
their  noisome  atmosphere. 

In  Covent  Garden  a  filthy  and  noisy 
market  was  held  close  to  the  dwellings  of 
the  great.  Fruit  women  screamed,  carters 
fought,  cabbage  stalks  and  rotten  apples 
accumulated  in  heaps  at  the  thresholds  of 
the  Countess  of  Berkshire  and  of  the  Bishop 
of  Durham. 

The  centre  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  was  an 
open  space  where  the  rabble  congregated 
every  evening,  within  a  few  yards  of  Cardigan 
House  and  Winchester  House,  to  hear  mounte- 
banks harangue,  to  see  bears  dance,  and  to 
set  dogs  at  oxen.  Rubbish  was  shot  in  eveiT 
part  of  the  area.  Horses  were  exercised  there. 
The  beggars  were  as  noisy  and  importunate  as 
in  the  worst  governed  cities  of  the  Continent. 


THE    HISTORY   OF   ENGLAND 


515 


A  Lincoln's  Inn  mumper  ^  was  a  proverb. 
The  whole  fraternity  knew  the  arms  and 
liveries  of  every  charitably  disposed  grandee 
in  the  neighbourhood,  and,  as  soon  as  his 
lordship's  coach  and  six  appeared,  came  hop- 
ping and  crawling  in  crowds  to  persecute 
him.  These  disorders  lasted,  in  spite  of 
many  accidents,  and  of  some  legal  proceed- 
ings, till,  in  the  reign  of  George  the  Second, 
Sir  Joseph  JekyU,  Master  of  the  Rolls,  was 
knocked  down  and  nearly  killed  in  the  middle 
of  the  square.  Then  at  length  palisades  were 
set  up,  and  a  pleasant  garden  laid  out. 

Saint  James's  Square  was"  a  receptacle  for 
ail  the  otial  and  cinders,  for  all  the  dead  cats 
and  dead  dogs  of  Westminster.  At  one 
time  a  cudgel  player  kept  the  ring  there. 
At  another  time  an  impudent  squatter  settled 
himself  there,  and  built  a  shed  for  rubbish 
under  the  windows  of  the  gilded  saloons  in 
which  the  first  magnates  of  the  realm,  Nor- 
folk, Ormond,  Kent,  and  Pembroke,  gave 
banquets  and  balls.  It  was  not  till  these 
nuisances  had  lasted  through  a  whole  genera- 
tion, and  till  much  had  been  written  about 
them,  that  the  inhabitants  applied  to  Parlia- 
ment for  permission  to  put  up  rails,  and  to 
plant  trees. 

When  such  was  the  state  of  the  region  in- 
habited by  the  most  luxurious  portion  of  soci- 
ety, we  may  easily  believe  that  the  great  body 
of  the  population  suffered  what  would  now  be 
considered  as  insupportable  grievances.  The 
pavement  was  detestable  :  all  foreigners  cried 
shame  upon  it.  The  drainage  was  so  bad 
that  in  rainy  weather  the  gutters  soon  became 
torrents.  Several  facetious  poets  have  com- 
memorated the  fury  with  which  these  black 
rivulets  roared  down  Snow  Hill  and  Ludgate 
Hill,  bearing  to  Fleet  Ditch  a  vast  tribute  of 
animal  and  vegetable  filth  from  the  stalls  of 
butchers  and  green-grocers.  This  flood  was 
profusely  thrown  to  right  and  left  by  coaches 
and  carts.  To  keep  as  far  from  the  carriage 
road  as  possible  was  therefore  the  wish  of 
every  pedestrian.  The  mild  and  timid  gave 
the  wall.  The  bold  and  athletic  took  it. 
If  two  roisterers  met,  they  cocked  their  hats* 
in  each  other's  faces,  and  pushed  each  other 
about  till  the  weaker  was  shoved  towards 
the  kennel.  If  he  was  a  mere  bully 
he  sneaked  off,  muttering  that  he  should 
find    a   time.     If   he   was   pugnacious,    the 

1  beggar 


encounter  probably  ended  in  a  duel  behind 
Montague  House. 

The  houses  were  not  numbered.  There 
would  indeed  have  been  little  advantage  in 
numbering  them ;  for  of  the  coachmen,  chair- 
men, porters,  and  errand  boys  of  London,  a 
very  small  proportion  could  read.  It  was 
necessary  to  use  marks  which  the  most  igno- 
rant could  understand.  The  shops  were 
therefore  distinguished  by  painted  or  sculp- 
tured signs,  which  gave  a  gay  and  grotesque 
aspect  to  the  streets.  The  walk  from  Char- 
ing Cross  to  Whitechapel  lay  through  an 
endless  succession  of  Saracens'  Heads,  Royal 
Oaks,  Blue  Bears,  and  Golden  Lambs,  which 
disappeared  when  they  were  no  longer  re- 
quired for  the  direction  of  the  common 
people. 


We  may  easily  imagine  what,  in  such  times, 
must  have  been  the  state  of  the  quarters  of 
London  which  were  peopled  by  the  outcasts 
of  society.  Among  those  quarters  one  had 
attained  a  scandalous  preeminence.  On  the 
confines  of  the  City  and  the  Temple  had 
been  founded,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  a 
House  of  Carmelite  Friars,  distinguished  by 
their  white  hoods.  The  precinct  of  this 
house  had,  before  the  Reformation,  been  a 
sanctuary  for  criminals,  and  stiU  retained 
the  privilege  of  protecting  debtors  from 
arrest.  Insolvents  consequently  were  to 
be  found  in  every  dwelling,  from  ceUar  to 
garret.  .  Of  these  a  large  proportion  were 
knaves  and  Ubertines,  and  were  followed 
to  their  asylum  by  women  more  abandoned 
than  themselves.  The  civil  power  was  im- 
able  .to  keep  order  in  a  district  swarming 
v:ith  such  inhabitants ;  and  thus  White- 
friars  became  the  favourite  resort  of  all  who 
wished  to  be  emancipated  from  the  restraints 
of  the  law.  Though  the  immtmities  legally 
belonging  to  the  place  extended  only  to 
cases  of  debt,  cheats,  false  witnesses,  forgers, 
and  highwa>Tnen  found  refuge  there.  For 
amidst  a  rabble  so  desperate  no  peace  officer's 
life  was  in  safety.  At  the  cry  of  ''Rescue," 
bullies  with  swords  and  cudgels,  and  ter- 
magant hags  with  spits  and  broomsticks, 
poured  forth  by  hundreds ;  and  the  intruder 
was  fortunate  if  he  escaped  back  into  Fleet 
Street,  hustled,  stripped,  and  pumped  upon. 
Even  the  warrant  of  the  Chief-justice  of 
England  could  not  be  executed  without  the 


5^6 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MAC  AULA  Y 


help  of  a  company  of  musketeers.  Such 
reUcs  of  the  barbarism  of  the  darkest  ages 
were  to  be  found  within  a  short  walk  of  the 
chambers^  where  Somers-  was  studying  his- 
tory and  law,  of  the  chapel^  where  Tillotson 
was  preachmg,  of  the  coffee-house^  where 
Dryden  was  passing  judgment  on  poems 
and  plays,  and  of  the  hall  where  the  Royal 
Society  was  examining  the  astronomical 
system  of  Isaac  Newton. 


The  coffee-house  must  not  be  dismissed 
with  a  cursory  mention.  It  might,  mdeed, 
at  that  time  have  been  not  improperly  called 
a  most  important  political  institution.  No 
Parliament  had  sat  for  years.  The  mimic- 
ipal  council  of  the  city  had  ceased  to  speak 
the  sense  of  the  citizens.  Public  meetings, 
harangues,  resolutions,  and  the  rest  of  the 
modern  machinery  of  agitation  had  not  yet 
come  into  fashion.  Nothing  resembling  the 
modern  newspaper  existed.  In  such  cir- 
cumstances the  coffee-houses  were  the 
chief  organs  through  vv'hich  the  public  opinion 
of  the  metropolis  vented  itself. 

The  first  of  these  establishments  had  been 
set  up,  in  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth, 
by  a  Turkey  merchant,  who  had  acquired 
among  the  Mahometans  a  taste  for  their 
favourite  beverage.  The  convenience  of 
being  able  to  make  appointments  in  any  part 
of  the  town,  and  of  being  able  to  pass  even- 
ings socially  at  a  very  small  charge,  was  so 
great  that  the  fashion  spread  fast.  Every 
man  of  the  upper  or  middle  class  went  daily 
to  his  coffee-house  to  learn  the  news  and  to 
discuss  it.  Every  coffee-house  had  one  or 
more  orators  to  whose  eloquence  the  cjowd 
listened  with  admiration,  and  who  soon  be- 
came, what  the  journalists  of  our  time  have 
been  called,  a  fourth  Estate  of  the  realm. 
The  court  had  long  seen  with  uneasiness  the 
growth  of  this  new  power  in  the  state.  An 
attempt  had  been  made,  during  Danby's 
administration,^  to  close  the  coffee-houses. 
But  men  of  all  parties  missed  their  usual 
places  of  resort  so  much  that  there  was  a 

^  in  the  Middle  Temple  ^  Lord  Somers,  made 
lord  chancellor  in  1697  '  Lincoln's  Inn  chapel, 
where  Tillotson  preached  until  he  became  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  in  1691  *  Will's  coffee- 
house, cf.  below,  p.  517  ^  Danby  was  lord  treas- 
urer, 1673-8 


universal  outcry.  The  government  did  not 
venture,  in  opposition  to  a  feeling  so  strong 
and  general,  to  enforce  a  regulation  of  which 
the  legahty  might  well  be  questioned.  Since 
that  time  ten  years  had  elapsed,  and  during 
those  years  the  number  and  influence  of  the 
coffee-houses  had  been  constantly  increasing. 
Foreigners  remarked  that  the  coffee-house 
was  that  which  especially  distinguished 
London  from  all  other  cities ;  that  the  coffee- 
house was  the  Londoner's  home,  and  that 
those  who  wished  to  find  a  gentleman  com- 
monly asked,  not  whether  he  lived  in  Fleet 
Street  or  Chancery  Lane,  but  whether  he 
frequented  the  Grecian  or  the  Rainbow.  No- 
body was  excluded  from  these  places  who 
laid  down  his  penny  at  the  bar.  Yet  every 
rank  and  profession,  and  every  shade  of 
religious  and  political  opinion,  had  its  own 
headquarters.  There  were  houses  near  Saint 
James's  Park  where  fops  congregated,  their 
heads  and  shoulders  covered  with  black  or 
flaxen  wigs,  not  less  ample  than  those  which 
are  now  worn  by  the  Chancellor  and  by  the 
Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons.  The 
wig  came  from  Paris;  and  so  did  the  rest 
of  the  fine  gentleman's  ornaments,  his  em- 
broidered coat,  his  fringed  gloves,  and  the 
tassels  which  upheld  his  pantaloons.  The 
conversation  was  in  that  dialect  which,  long 
after  it  had  ceased  to  be  spoken  in  fashion- 
able circles,  continued,  in  the  mouth  of  Lord 
Foppington,^  to  excite  the  mirth  of  theatres. 
The  atmosphere  was  like  that  of  a  perfumer's 
shop.  Tobacco  in  any  other  form  than  that 
of  richly  scented  snuff  was  held  in  abomina- 
tion. If  any  clown,  ignorant  of  the  usages 
of  the  house,  called  for  a  pipe,  the  sneers  of 
the  whole  assembly  and  the  short  answers  of 
the  waiters  soon  convinced  him  that  he  had 
better  go  somewhere  else.  Nor,  indeed, 
would  he  have  had  far  to  go.  For,  in  gen- 
eral, the  coffee-rooms  reeked  with  tobacco 
hke  a  guard-room;  and  strangers  sometimes 
expressed  their  surprise  that  so  many  people 
should  leave  their  own  firesides  to  sit  in 
the  midst  of  eternal  fog  and  stench.  No- 
where was  the  smoking  more  constant  than 
at  Will's.  That  celebrated  house,  situated 
between   Covent    Garden   and   Bow    Street, 

'  a  popular  personification  of  foppery,  in  Van- 
brugh's  comedy  The  Relapse  (1697),  Gibber's  The 
Careless  Husband  (1704),  and  Sheridan's  A  Trip 
to  Scarborough  (1777) 


THE    HISTORY   OF    ENGLAND 


517 


was  sacred  to  polite  letters.  There  the  talk 
was  about  poetical  justice  and  the  unities 
of  place  and  time.  There  was  a  faction  for 
Perrault  and  the  moderns,  a  faction  for 
Boileau  and  the  ancients.  One  group  de- 
bated whether  Paradise  Lost  ought  not  to 
have  been  in  rhyme.  To  another  an  envious 
poetaster  demonstrated  that  Venice  Preserved  ^ 
ought  to  have  been  hooted  from  the  stage. 
Under  no  roof  was  a  greater  variety  of  figures 
to  be  seen.  There  were  earls  in  stars  and 
garters,  clergymen  in  cassocks  and  bands, 
pert  Templars,  sheepish  lads  from  the  Uni- 
v^ersities,  translators  and  index-makers  in 
ragged  coats  of  frieze.  The  great  press 
was  to  get  near  the  chair  where  John  Dryden 
sat.  In  winter  that  chair  was  always  in 
the  warmest  nook  by  the  fire;  in  summer  it 
stood  in  the  balcony.  To  bow  to  the 
Laureate,  and  to  hear  his  opinion  of  Racine's 
last  tragedy  or  of  Bossu's  treatise  on  epic 
poetr>',  was  thought  a  privilege.  A  pinch 
from  his  snuffbox  was  an  honour  sui3&cient 
to  turn  the  head  of  a  young  enthusiast. 
There  were  coflee-houses  where  the  first 
medical  men  might  be  consulted.  Dr.  John 
Radcliffe,  who,  in  the  year  1685,  rose  to  the 
largest  practice  in  London,  came  daily,  at 
the  hour  when  the  Exchange  was  full,  from 
his  house  in  Bow  Street,  then  a  fashionable 
part  of  the  capital,  to  Garraway's,  and  was 
to  be  found,  surrotmded  by  surgeons  and 
apothecaries,  at  a  particular  table.  There 
were  Puritan  coffee-houses  where  no  oath  v.as 
heard,  and  where  lank-haired  men  discussed 
election  and  reprobation  through  their  noses ; 
Jew  coffee-houses  where  dark-eyed  money 
changers  from  \^enice  and  from  Amsterdam 
greeted  each  other ;  and  popish  coffee-houses 
where,  as  good  Protestants  believed,  Jesuits 
planned,  over  their  cups,  another  great  fire, 
and  cast  silver  buUets  to  shoot  the  King. 

These  gregarious  habits  had  no  small  share 
in  forming  the  character  of  the  Londoner  of 
that  age.  He  was,  indeed,  a  dift'erent  being 
from  the  rustic  EngUshmxan.  There  was  not 
then  the  intercourse  which  now  exists  be- 
tween the  two  classes.  Only  very  great  men 
were  in  the  habit  of  dividing  the  year  be- 
tween town  and  countr^^  Few  esquires 
came  to  the  capital  thrice  in  their  lives.  Nor 
was  it  yet  the  practice  of  all  citizens  in  easy 
circumstances    to   breathe    the   fresh    air   of 


the  fields  and  woods  during  some  weeks  of 
every  summer.  A  cockney  in  a  rural  vil!u<;e 
was  stared  at  as  much  as  if  he  had  intruded 
into  a  kraal  of  Hottentots.  On  the  other 
hand,  when  the  lord  of  a  Lincolnshire  or 
Shropshire  manor  appeared  in  Fleet  Street, 
he  was  as  easily  distinguished  from  the  resi- 
dent population  as  a  Turk  or  a  Lascar.  His 
dress,  his  gait,  his  accent,  the  manner  in 
which  he  gazed  at  the  shops,  stumbled  into 
the  gutters,  ran  against  the  porters,  and 
stood  under  the  waterspouts,  marked  him 
out  as  an  excellent  subject  for  the  opera- 
tions of  swindlers  and  banterers.  Bullies 
jostled  him  into  the  kennel.  Hackney 
coachmen  splashed  him  from  head  to  foot. 
Thieves  explored  with  perfect  security  the 
huge  pockets  of  his  horseman's  coat,  while 
he  stood  entranced  by  the  splendour  of  the 
Lord  Mayor's  show.  jMoney  droppers,  sore 
from  the  cart's  tail,  introduced  themselves 
to  him,  and  appeared  to  him  the  most  honest 
friendly  gentlemen  that  he  had  ever  seen. 
Painted  women,  the  refuse  of  Lewkner  Lane 
and  Whetstone  Park,  passed  themselves  on 
him  for  countesses  and  maids  of  honour. 
If  he  asked  his  way  to  Saint  James's,  his 
informants  sent  him  to  ]\Iile  End.  If  he 
went  into  a  shop,  he  was  instantly  discerned 
to  be  a  fit  purchaser  of  ever>-thing  that  no- 
body else  w'ould  buy,  of  second-hand  em- 
broidery, copper  rings,  and  watches  that 
would  not  go.  If  he  rambled  into  any 
fashionable  coffee-house,  he  became  a  mark 
for  the  insolent  derision  of  fops  and  the  grave 
v^'aggery  of  Templars.  Enraged  and  morti- 
fied, he  soon  returned  to  his  mansion,  and 
there,  in  the  homage  of  his  tenants  and  the 
conversation  of  his  boon  companions,  found 
consolation  for  the  vexations  and  humiha- 
tions  which  he  had  undergone.  There  ha 
was  once  more  a  great  man,  and  saw  nothing 
above  himself  except  when  at  the  assizes 
he  took  his  seat  on  the  bench  near  the  judge, 
or  when  at  the  muster  of  the  militia  he  saluted 
the  Lord  Lieutenant. 


a  tragedy  by  Otway  (1682) 


5i8 


JOHN   HENRY,    CARDINAL    NEWMAN 


JOHN    HENRY,    CARDINAL 

NEWMAN   (1801-1890) 

From   THE   IDEA   OF   A   UNI\'ERSITY 

DISCOURSE  VI 

ilxowledge     viewed     in     relation     to 
Learning 

3 

I  suppose  the  primd-Jacie  view  which  the 
pubhc  at  large  would  take  of  a  University, 
considering  it  as  a  place  of  Education,  is  noth- 
ing more  or  less  than  a  place  for  accjuiring  a 
great  deal  of  kiaowledge  on  a  great  many  sub- 
jects. Memory  is  one  of  the  first  developed 
of  the  mental  faculties  ;  a  boy's  business  when 
he  goes  to  school  is  to  learn,  that  is,  to  store 
up  things  in  his  memory.  For  some  years 
his  intellect  is  little  more  than  an  mstrument 
for  taking  in  facts,  or  a  receptacle  for  storing 
them  ;  he  welcomes  them  as  fast  as  they  come 
to  him ;  he  lives  on  what  is  without ;  he  has 
his  eyes  ever  about  him ;  he  has  a  lively  sus- 
ceptibility of  impressions;  he  imbibes  infor- 
mation of  every  kind ;  and  little  does  he 
make  his  own  in  a  true  sense  of  the  word,  Uv- 
ing  rather  upon  his  neighbours  aU  around 
him.  He  has  opinions,  rehgious,  ix)htical, 
and  literary,  and,  for  a  boy,  is  very  positive 
in  them  and  sure  about  them ;  but  he  gets 
them  from  his  schoolfellows,  or  his  masters, 
or  his  parents,  as  the  case  may  be.  Such  as 
he  is  in  his  other  relations,  such  also  is  he 
in  his  school  exercises  ;  his  mind  is  observant, 
sharp,  ready,  retentive;  he  is  almost  passive 
in  the  acquisition  of  knowledge.  I  say  this 
in  no  disparagement  of  the  idea  of  a  clever 
boy.  Geography,  chronology,  histor}^,  lan- 
guage, natural  history,  he  heaps  up  the  matter 
of  these  studies  as  treasures  for  a  future  day. 
It  is  the  seven  years  of  plenty  with  him :  he 
gathers  in  by  handfuls,  like  the  Egyptians,' 
without  counting;  and  though,  as  time 
goes  on,  there  is  exercise  for  his  argumenta- 
tive powers  in  the  Elements  of  Mathematics, 
and  for  his  taste  in  the  Poets  and  Orators, 
still,  while  at  school,  or  at  least,  till  quite 
the  last  years  of  his  time,  he  acquires,  and 
Httle  more;  and  when  he  is  leaving  for  the 
University,  he  is  mainly  the  creature  of  for- 

^  cf .  Genesis,  xli :  49 


eign  influences  and  circumstances,  and  made 
up  of  accidents,  homogeneous  or  not,  as 
the  case  may  be.  Moreover,  the  moral 
habits,  which  are  a  boy's  praise,  encourage 
and  assist  this  result ;  that  is,  diligence,  assi- 
duity, regularity,  despatch,  persevering  appli- 
cation ;  for  these  are  the  direct  conditions  of 
acquisition,  and  naturally  lead  to  it.  Ac- 
cjuirements,  again,  are  emphatically  pro- 
ducible, and  at  a  moment ;  they  are  a  some- 
thing to  show,  both  for  master  and  scholar ; 
an  audience,  even  though  ignorant  them- 
selves of  the  subjects  of  an  examination, 
can  comprehend  when  questions  are  answered 
and  when  they  are  not.  Here  again  is  a  rea- 
son why  mental  culture  is  in  the  minds  of  men 
identified  with  the  acquisition  of  knowledge. 

The  same  notion  possesses  the  public  mind, 
when  it  passes  on  from  the  thought  of  a  school 
to  that  of  a  University :  and  with  the  best 
of  reasons  so  far  as  this,  that  there  is  no  true 
culture  without  acquirements,  and  that  phi- 
losophy presupposes  knowledge.  It  requires 
a  great  deal  of  reading,  or  a  wide  range  of 
information,  to  warrant  us  in  putting  forth 
our  opinions  on  any  serious  subject ;  and 
without  such  learning  the  most  original  mind 
may  be  able  indeed  to  dazzle,  to  amuse,  to 
refute,  to  perplex,  but  not  to  come  to  any 
useful  result  or  any  trustworthy  conclu- 
sion. There  are  indeed  persons  who  profess 
a  different  view  of  the  matter,  and  even  act 
upon  it.  Every  now  and  then  you  wUl  find 
a  person  of  vigorous  or  fertile  mind,  who 
relies  upon  his  own  resources,  despises  all 
former  authors,  and  gives  the  world,  with  the 
utmost  fearlessness,  his  viev/s  upon  religion, 
or  history,  or  any  other  popular  subject. 
And  his  works  may  sell  for  a  while ;  he  may 
get  a  name  in  his  day ;  but  this  will  be  all. 
His  readers  are  sure  to  find  on  the  long  run 
that  his  doctrines  are  mere  theories,  and  not 
the  expression  of  facts,  that  they  are  chaff 
instead  of  bread,  and  then  his  popularity 
drops  as  suddenly  as  it  rose. 

Knowledge  then  is  the  indispensable  condi- 
tion of  expansion  of  mind,  and  the  instrument 
of  attaining  to  it ;  this  cannot  be  denied,  it  is 
ever  to  be  insisted  on ;  I  begin  with  it  as  a 
first  principle ;  however,  the  very  truth  of  it 
carries  men  too  far,  and  confirms  to  them  the 
notion  that  it  is  the  whole  of  the  matter.  A 
narrow  mind  is  thought  to  be  that  which  con- 
tains little  knowledge  ;  and  an  enlarged  niind, 
that   which  holds  a  great   deal ;    and  what 


THE    IDEA   OF    A    UNIVERSITY 


519 


seems  to  put  the  matter  beyond  dispute  is, 
the. fact  of  the  great  number  of  studies  which 
are  pursued  in  a  University,  by  its  ven'  pro- 
fession. Lectures  are  given  on  every  kind  of 
subject ;  examinations  are  held ;  prizes 
awarded.  There  are  moral,  metaphysical,  phys- 
ical Professors ;  Professors  of  languages,  of  his- 
tory, of  mathematics,  of  experimental  science. 
Lists  of  questions  are  published,  wonderful 
for  their  range  and  depth,  variety  and  diffi- 
culty ;  treatises  are  -ssTitten,  which  carry 
upon  their  ver>^  face  the  evidence  of  exten- 
sive reading  or  multifarious  information ; 
what  then  is  wanting  for  mental  culture 
to  a  person  of  large  reading  and  scientific 
attainments?  what  is  grasp  of  mind  but 
acquirement?  where  shall  philosophical  re- 
pose be  found,  but  in  the  consciousness  and 
enjoyment  of  large  intellectual  possessions  ? 

And  yet  this  notion  is,  I  conceive,  a  mis- 
take, and  my  present  business  is  to  show  that 
it  is  one,  and  that  the  end  of  a  Liberal  Educa- 
tion is  not  mere  knowledge,  or  knowledge  con- 
sidered in  its  matter;  and  I  shall  best  attain 
my  object,  by  actually  setting  down  some 
I  cases,  which  wiU  be  generally  granted  to  be 
instances  of  the  process  of  enlightenment  or 
enlargement  of  mind,  and  others  which  are 
not,  and  thus,  by  the  comparison,  you  will  be 
able  to  judge,  for  yourselves,  Gentlemen, 
whether  Kjnowledge,  that  is,  acquirement, 
is  after  all  the  real  principle  of  the  enlarge- 
ment, or  whether  that  principle  is  not  rather 
something  beyond  it. 


For  instance,  let  a  person,  whose  experi- 
ence has  hitherto  been  confined  to  the  more 
calm  and  unpretending  scenery  of  these 
islands,  whether  here^  or  in  England,  go  for 
the  first  time  into  parts  where  physical 
nature  puts  on  her  wilder  and  more  awful 
forms,  whether  at  home  or  abroad,  as  mto 
mountainous  districts ;  or  let  one,  who  has 
ever  Hved  in  a  quiet  village,  go  for  the  first 
time  to  a  great  metropolis,  —  then  I  suppose 
he  will  have  a  sensation  which  perhaps  he 
never  had  before.  He  has  a  feeling  not  in 
addition  or  increase  of  -former  feelings,  but 
of  something  different  in  its  nature.  He 
will  perhaps  be  borne  forw'ard,  and  find  for 
a  time  that  he  has  lost  his  bearings.     He 

^  in  Ireland 


has  made  a  certain  progress,  and  he  has  a 
consciousness  of  mental  enlargement ;  he 
does  not  stand  where  he  did,  he  has  a  new 
centre,  and  a  range  of  thoughts  to  which  he 
was  before  a  stranger. 

Again,  the  view  of  the  heavens  which  the 
telescope  opens  upon  us,  if  allowed  to  fiU 
and  possess  the  mind,  may  almost  whirl  it 
round  and  make  it  dizzy.  It  brings  in  a 
flood  of  ideas,  and  is  rightly  called  an  intel- 
lectual enlargement,  whatever  is  meant  by 
the  term. 

And  so  again,  the  sight  of  beasts  of  pre\' 
and  other  foreign  animals,  their  strangeness, 
the  originality  (if  I  may  use  the  term)  of  their 
forms  and  gestures  and  habits  and  their' va- 
riety and  mdependence  of  each  other,  throw 
U5  out  of  ourselves  into  another  creation,  and 
as  if  under  another  Creator,  if  I  may  so  ex- 
press the  temptation  which  may  come  on  the 
mind.  We  seem  to  have  new  faculties,  or  a 
new  exercise  for  our  faculties,  by  this  addition 
to  our  knowledge ;  Uke  a  prisoner,  who,  hav- 
ing been  accustomed  to  wear  manacles  or 
fetters,  suddenly  finds  his  arms  and  legs 
free. 

Hence  Physical  Science  generally,  in  all  its 
departments,  as  bringing  before  us  the  exu- 
berant riches  and  resoiu-ces,  yet  the  orderly 
course,  of  the  Universe,  elevates  and  excites 
the  student,  and  at  first,  I  may  say,  almost 
takes  away  his  breath,  while  in  time  it  exer- 
cises a  tranquilHsing  mfluence  upon  him. 

Again,  the  study  of  histor>'  is  said  to  enlarge 
and  enlighten  the  mind,  and  why?  because, 
as  I  conceive,  it  gives  it  a  power  of  judging  of 
passing  events,  and  of  all  events,  and  a  con- 
scious superiority  over  them,  which  before 
it  did  not  possess. 

And  in  like  manner,  what  is  called  seeing 
the  world,  entering  mto  active  fife,  going  into 
society,  travelling,  gaining  acquaintance  with 
the  various  classes  of  the  commimity,  coming 
into  contact  with  the  principles  and  modes  of 
thought  of  various  parties,  interests,  and  races, 
their  views,  aims,  habits  and  manners,  their 
religious  creeds  and  forms  of  worship,  —  gain- 
ing experience  how  various  yet  how  alike 
men  are,  how  low-minded,  how  bad,  hov 
opposed,  yet  how  confident  in  their  opinions ; 
all  this  exerts  a  perceptible  influence  upon 
the  mind,  which  it  is  impossible  to  mistake, 
be  it  good  or  be  it  bad,  and  is  popularly  called 
its  enlargement. 

And  then  again,  the  first  time  the  mind 


520 


JOHN    HENRY,    CARDINAL    NEWMAN 


comes  across  the  arguments  and  speculations 
of  unbelievers,  and  feels  what  a  novel  hght 
they  cast  upon  what  he  has  hitherto  accounted 
sacred ;  and  still  more,  if  it  gives  in  to  therti 
and  embraces  them,  and  throws  off  as  so 
much  prejudice  what  it  has  hitherto  held, 
and,  as  if  waking  from  a  dream,  begins  to 
realise  to  its  imagination  that  there  is  now  no 
such  thing  as  law  and  the  transgression  of 
law,  that  sin  is  a  phantom,  and  punishment  a 
bugbear,  that  it  is  free  to  sin,  free  to  enjoy 
the  world  and  the  flesh ;  and  stiU  further, 
when  it  does  enjoy  them,  and  reflects  that  it 
may  think  and  hold  just  what  it  will,  that 
"the  world  is  all  before  it  where  to  choose,"  ^ 
and  W'hat  system  to  build  up  as  its  own  private 
persuasion ;  when  this  torrent  of  wilful 
thoughts  rushes  over  and  inundates  it,  who 
wiU  deny  that  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowl- 
edge, or  what  the  mind  takes  for  knowledge, 
has  made  it  one  of  the  gods,  with  a  sense  of 
expansion  and  elevation,  —  an  intoxication  in 
reality,  still,  so  far  as  the  subjective  state 
of  the  mind  goes,  an  illumination?  Hence 
the  fanaticism  of  individuals  or  nations,  who 
suddenly  cast  off  their  Maker.  Their  eyes 
are  opened ;  and,  like  the  judgment-stricken 
king  in  the  Tragedy,'^  they  see  two  suns,  and 
a  magic  universe,  out  of  which  they  look  back 
upon  their  former  state  of  faith  and  innocence 
with  a  sort  of  contempt  and  indignation,  as 
if  they  were  then  but  fools,  and  the  dupes  of 
imposture. 

On  the  other  hand.  Religion  has  its  own 
enlargement,  and  an  enlargement,  not  of  tu- 
mult, but  of  peace.  It  is  often  remarked  of 
uneducated  persons,  who  have  hitherto 
thought  little  of  the  unseen  world,  that,  on 
their  turning  to  God,  looking  into  themselves, 
regulating  their  hearts,  reforming  their  con- 
duct, and  meditating  on  death  and  judgment, 
heaven  and  hell,  they  seem  to  become,  in 
point  of  intellect,  different  beings  from  what 
they  were.  Before,  they  took  things  as  they 
came,  and  thought  no  more  of  one  thing  than 
another.  But  now  every  event  has  a  mean- 
ing;  they  have  their  own  estimate  of  what- 
ever happens  to  them ;  they  are  mindful 
of  times  and  seasons,  and  compare  the  present 

'cf.  Par.  Lost,  XII,  646  '-^  In  the  Bac-ha  of 
Euripides  (11.  918-9)  Pentheus,  King  of  Tlicbes, 
smitten  with  madness  for  defying  the  god  Diony- 
sus, says:  "Lo,  I  seem  to  see  two  suns  and  a 
double  Thebes,  the  seven-gated  city." 


with  the  past ;  and  the  world,  no  longer  dull, 
monotonous,  unprofitable,  and  hopeless,  is  a 
various  and  complicated  drama,  with  parts 
and  an  object,  and  an  av/ful  moral. 


Now  from  these  instances,  to  which  many 
more  might  be  added,  it  is  plain,  first,  that 
the  communication  of  knowledge  certainly 
is  either  a  condition  or  the  means  of  that 
sense  of  enlargement  or  enlightenment, '  of 
which  at  this  day  we  hear  so  much  in  certain 
quarters :  this  cannot  be  denied ;  but  next, 
it  is  equally  plain,  that  such  communica- 
tion is  not  the  whole  of  the  process.  The 
enlargement  consists,  not  merely  in  the  pas- 
sive reception  into  the  mind  of  a  number  of 
ideas  hitherto  unknown  to  it,  but  in  the 
mind's  energetic  and  simultaneous  action 
upon  and  towards  and  among  those  new  ideas, 
which  are  rushing  in  upon  it.  It  is  the  ac- 
tion of  a  formative  power,  reducing  to  order 
and  meaning  the  matter  of  our  acquirements; 
it  is  a  making  the  objects  of  our  knowledge 
subjectively  our  ov/n,  or,  to  use  a  familiar » 
word,  it  is  a  digestion  of  what  we  receive, 
into  the  substance  of  our  previous  state  of 
thought ;  and  without  this  no  enlargement 
is  said  to  foUow.  There  is  no  enlargement, 
unless  there  be  a  comparison  of  ideas  one 
with  another,  as  they  come  before  the  mind, 
and  a  systematising  of  them.  We  feel  our 
minds  to  be  growing  and  expanding  then, 
when  we  not  only  learn,  but  refer  what  we 
learn  to  what  we  know  already.  It  is  not 
the  mere  addition  to  our  knowledge  that 
is  the  illumination;  but  the  locomotion,  the 
m.ovement  onwards,  of  that  mental  centre, 
to  which  both  what  we  know,  and  what  we 
are  learning,  the  accumulating  mass  of  our 
acquirements,  gravitates.  And  therefore  a 
truly  great  intellect,  and  recognised  to  be  such 
by  the  common  opinion  of  mankind,  such  as 
the  intellect  of  Aristotle,  or  of  St.  Thomas, 
or  of  Newton,  or  of  Goethe,  (I  purposely  take 
instances  within  and  without  the  Catholic 
pale,  when  I  would  speak  of  the  intellect  as 
such),  is  one  which  takes  a  connected  view 
of  old  and  new,  past  and  present,  far  and  near, 
and  which  has  an  insight  into  the  influence 
of  all  these  one  on  another ;  without  which 
there  is  no  whole,  and  no  centre.  It  possesses 
the  knowledge,  not  only  of  things,  but  also 
of  their  mutual  and  true  relations;    knowl- 


THE    IDEA   OF    A    UNIVERSITY 


521 


edge,  not  merely  considered  as  acquirement, 
but  as  philosophy. 

Accordingh',  when  this  analytical,  distribu- 
tive, harmonising  process  is  away,  the  mind 
experiences  no  enlargement,  and  is  not  reck- 
oned as  enlightened  or  comprehensive,  what- 
ever it  may  add  to  its  knowledge.  For  in- 
stance, a  great  memory,  as  I  have  already 
said,  does  not  make  a  philosopher,  any  more 
than  a  dictionary  can  be  called  a  grammar. 
There  are  men  who  embrace  in  their  minds 
a  vast  multitude  of  ideas,  but  with  little 
sensibility  about  their  real  relations  towards 
each  other.  These  may  be  antiquarians, 
annalists,  naturalists;  they  may  be  learned 
in  the  law  ;  they  may  be  versed  in  statistics ; 
they  are  most  useful  in  their  own  place ;  I 
should  shrink  from  speaking  disrespectfully 
of  them  ;  still,  there  is  nothing  in  such  attain- 
ments to  guarantee  the  absence  of  narrowness 
of  mind.  If  they  are  nothing  more  than  well- 
read  men,  or  men  of  information,  they  have 
not  what  specially  deserves  the  name  of 
culture  of  mind,  or  fulfils  the  type  of  Liberal 
Education. 

In  like  manner,  we  sometimes  fall  in  with 
persons  who  have  seen  much  of  the  world, 
and  of  the  men  who,  in  their  day,  have  played 
a  conspicuous  part  in  it,  but  who  generalise 
nothing,  and  have  no  observation,  in  the  true 
sense  of  the  word.  They  abound  in  informa- 
tion in  detail,  curious  and  entertaining,  about 
men  and  things ;  and,  having  lived  under 
the  influence  of  no  very  clear  or  settled  prin- 
ciples, religious  or  political,  they  speak  of 
every  one  and  everything,  only  as  so  many 
phenomena,  which  are  complete  in  themselves, 
and  lead  to  nothing,  not  discussing  them, 
or  teaching  any  truth,  or  instructing  the 
hearer,  but  simply  talking.  No  one  would 
say  that  these  persons,  well  informed  as  they 
are,  had  attained  to  any  great  culture  of 
intellect  or  to  philosophy. 

The  case  is  the  same  still  more  strikingly 
where  the  persons  in  question  are  beyond  dis- 
pute men  of  inferior  powers  and  deficient  edu- 
cation. Perhaps  they  have  been  much  in 
foreign  countries,  and  they  receive,  in  a  pas- 
sive, otiose,  unfruitful  way,  the  various  facts 
which  are  forced  vipon  them,  there.  Sea- 
faring men,  for  example,  range  from  one  end 
of  the  earth  to  the  other ;  but  the  multiplicity 
of  external  objects  which  they  have  encoun- 
tered forms  no  symmetrical  and  consistent 
picture   upon   their   imagination;     they   see 


the  tapestry  of  human  life,  as  it  were,  on  the 
wrong  side,  and  it  tells  no  story.  They  sleep, 
and  they  rise  up,  and  they  find  themselves, 
now  in  Europe,  now  in  Asia ;  they  see  visions 
of  great  cities  and  wild  regions;  they  are 
in  the  marts  of  commerce,  or  amid  the  islands 
of  the  South;  they  gaze  on  Pompey's  Pillar,^ 
or  on  the  Andes;  and  nothing  which  meets 
them  carries  them  forward  or  backward,  to 
any  idea  beyond  itself.  Nothing  has  a  drift 
or  relation ;  nothing  has  a  history  or  a 
promise.  Everything  stands  by  itself,  and 
comes  and  goes  in  its  turn,  like  the  shifting 
scenes  of  a  show,  which  leave  the  spectator 
where  he  was.  Perhaps  you  are  near  such 
a  man  on  a  particular  occasion,  and  expect  him 
to  be  shocked  or  perplexed  at  something 
which  occurs ;  but  one  thing  is  much  the 
same  to  him  as  another,  or,  if  he  is  perplexed, 
it  is  as  not  knowing  what  to  say,  whether 
it  is  right  to  admire,  or  to  ridicule,  or  to  disap- 
prove, while  conscious  that  some  expression 
of  opinion  is  expected  from  him ;  for  in  fact 
he  has  no  standard  of  judgment  at  aU,  and 
no  landmarks  to  guide  him  to  a  conclusion. 
Such  is  mere  acquisition,  and,  I  repeat,  no 
one  would  dream  of  calling  it  philosophy. 


Instances,  such  as  these,  confirm,  by  the 
contrast,  the  conclusion  I  have  already  drawn 
from  those  which  preceded  them.  That 
only  is  true  enlargement  of  mind  which  is 
the  power  of  viewing  many  things  at  once  as 
one  whole,  of  referring  them  severally  to 
their  true  place  in  the  universal  system,  of 
understanding  their  respective  values,  and 
determining  their  mutual  dependence.  Thus 
is  that  form  of  Universal  Knowledge,  of  which 
I  have  on  a  former  occasion  spoken,  set  up 
in  the  individual  intellect,  and  constitutes  its 
perfection.  Possessed  of  this  real  illumina- 
tion, the  mind  never  views  any  part  of  the 
extended  subject-matter  of  Knowledge  with- 
out recollecting  that  it  is  but  a  part,  or  with- 
out the  associations  which  spring  from  this 
recollection.  It  makes  ever>^thing  in  some 
sort  lead  to  everything  else ;  it  would  com- 
municate the  image  of  the  whole  to  every 
separate  portion,  till  that  whole  becomes  in 

^  a  beautiful  column  in  .Alexandria,  Egj^t, 
falsely  connected  with  Pompey,  really  erected  in 
honor  of  the  Emperor  Diocletian 


522 


JOHN   HENRY,    CARDINAL   NEWMAN 


imagination  like  a  spirit,  everywhere  per- 
vading and  penetrating  its  component  parts, 
and  giving  them  one  definite  meaning.  Just 
as  our  bodily  organs,  when  mentioned,  recall 
their  function  in  the  body,  as  the  word 
"creation"  suggests  the  Creator,  and  "sub- 
jects" a  sovereign,  so,  in  the  mind  of  the 
Philosopher,  as  we  are  abstractedly  conceiving 
of  him,  the  elements  of  the  physical  and 
moral  world,  sciences,  arts,  pursuits,  ranks, 
offices,  events,  opinions,  individualities,  are 
all  viewed  as  one,  with  correlative  functions, 
and  as  gradually  by  successive  combinations 
converging,  one  and  all,  to  the  true  centre. 

To  have  even  a  portion  of  this  illuminative 
reason  and  true  philosophy  is  the  highest 
state  to  which  nature  can  aspire,  in  the  way 
of  intellect;  it  puts  the  mind  above  the 
influence  of  chance  and  necessity,  above 
anxiety,  suspense,  unsettlement,  and  super- 
stition, which  is  the  lot  of  the  many.  Men, 
whose  minds  are  possessed  with  some  one 
object,  take  exaggerated  views  of  its  impor- 
tance, are  feverish  in  the  pursuit  of  it,  make 
it  the  measure  of  things  which  are  utterly 
foreign  to  it,  and  are  startled  and  despond 
if  it  happens  to  fail  them.  They  are  ever 
in  alarm  or  in  transport.  Those  on  the  other 
hand  who  have  no  object  or  principle  what- 
ever to  hold  by,  lose  their  way,  every  step 
they  take.  They  are  thrown  out,  and  do  not 
know  what  to  think  or  say,  at  every  fresh 
juncture ;  they  have  no  view  of  persons,  or 
occurrences,  or  facts,  which  come  suddenly 
upon  them,  and  they  hang  upon  the  opinion 
of  others,  for  want  of  internal  resources. 
But  the  intellect,  which  has  been  disciplined 
to  the  perfection  of  its  powers,  which  knows, 
and  thinks  while  it  knows,  which  has  learned 
to  leaven  the  dense  mass  of  facts  and  events 
with  the  elastic  force  of  reason,  such  an  intel- 
lect cannot  be  partial,  cannot  be  exclusive, 
cannot  be  impetuous,  cannot  be  at  a  loss, 
cannot  but  be  patient,  collected,  and  majesti- 
cally calm,  because  it  discerns  the  end  in  every 
beginning,  the  origin  in  every  end,  the  law 
in  every  interruption,  the  limit  in  each  delay; 
because  it  ever  knows  where  it  stands,  and 
how  its  path  lies  from  one  point  to  another. 
It    is    the    TeT/aaywvos*   of    the    Peripatetic, 


and     has     the    "nil     admirari"*     of     the 

Stoic,  — 

Felix  qui  potuit  rerum  cognoscere  causas, 
Atque  raetus  omnes,  et  inexorabile  fatum 
Subjccit  pedibus,  strepitumque  Acherontis  avari.  - 

There  are  men  who,  when  in  difficulties,  origi- 
nate at  the  moment  vast  ideas  or  dazzling 
projects;  who,  under  the  influence  of  excite- 
ment, are  able  to  cast  a  light,  almost  as  if 
from  inspiration,  on  a  subject  or  course  of 
action  which  comes  before  them ;  who  have 
a  sudden  presence  of  mind  equal  to  any  emer- 
gency, rising  with  the  occasion,  and  an  un- 
daunted magnanimous  bearing,  and  an  energy 
and  keenness  which  is  but  made  intense  by 
opposition.  This  is  genius,  this  is  heroism ; 
it  is  the  exhibition  of  a  natural  gift,  which 
no  culture  can  teach,  at  which  no  Institution 
can  aim ;  here,  on  the  contrary,  we  are  con- 
cerned, not  with  mere  nature,  but  with  train- 
ing and  teaching.  That  perfection  of  the 
Intellect,  which  is  the  result  of  Education, 
and  its  beau  ideal,  to  be  imparted  to  indi- 
viduals in  their  respective  measures,  is  the 
clear,  calm,  accurate  vision  and  comprehen- 
sion of  all  things,  as  far  as  the  finite  mind 
can  embrace  them,  each  in  its  place,  and  with 
its  own  characteristics  upon  it.  It  is  almost 
prophetic  from  its  knowledge  of  history ; 
it  is  almost  heart-searching  from  its  knowledge 
of  human  nature ;  it  has  almost  supernatural 
charity  from  its  freedom  from  littleness  and 
prejudice ;  it  has  almost  the  repose  of  faith, 
because  nothing  can  startle  it ;  it  has  al- 
most the  beauty  and  harmony  of  heavenly 
contemplation,  so  intimate  is  it  with  the 
eternal  order  of  things  and  the  music  of  the 
spheres. 

^  The  Stoic  philosophy  (so  called  because  its 
founder  Zeno  taught  in  a  porch)  is  phrased  by 
Horace  in  "nil  admirari,"  meaning  "to  be  dazzled 
by  nothing  "  or  "  to  be  without  emotion."  This,  he 
says,  is  the  only  way  to  win  happiness  and  retain 
it  (Epist.  I.  6.  i).  2  Fortunate  is  he  who  is  able 
to  understand  things  in  their  real  nature  and  can 
trample  upon  fears  of  all  sorts  and  inexorable 
fate  and  the  noise  of  greedy  yVcheron. 

Vergil,  Georgics,  II,  490-2. 


^  "four-square"  — a  term  appHed  to  the  ideal 
man  by  Aristotle,  founder  of  the  Peripatetic 
school  of  philosophy  (so  called  because  he  lec- 
tured in  the  shady  wallis  of  the  Lyceum) 


ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


523 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

(1809-1892) 

THE  LADY  OF   SHALOTT 
PART  I 

On  either  side  the  river  he 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  grey  walls,  and  four  grey  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  wUlow-veil'd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail 'd 
By  slow  horses  ;  and  unhail'd 
The  shaUop  flitteth  silken-saU'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 
Or  is  she  known  in  aU  the  land. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  ? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley. 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  v.-eary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers,  "  'Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 

PART  n 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colours  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 
To  look  down  to  Camelot. 


She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily. 
And  little  other  care  hath  she. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  45 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  aU  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot : 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls. 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott.  54 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
9      An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad. 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad. 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two ; 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  63 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
jg      To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights. 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead. 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed ; 
"I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  72 

PART   III 

27 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 

He  rode  between  the  barley -sheaves, 

The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves. 

And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  forever  kneel'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield. 
That  sparkled  on  the  yeUow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott.  81 

36      The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 

Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  doTV^^  to  Camelot : 
And  from  his  blazon 'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armour  rung. 

Beside  remote  Shalott.  90 


5^4 


ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still  Shalott.  99 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd ; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  strode ; 
P>om  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash 'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot.  108 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lfly  bloom. 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume. 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide ; 
The  mirror  crack 'd  from  side  to  side; 
"The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


117 


PART   IV 


In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 

The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 

The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining. 

Heavily  the  low  sky  raining, 

Over  tower'd  Camelot ; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat. 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  oj  Shalott.  126 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance. 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  135 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white. 

That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 


The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot : 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  144 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy. 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly. 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot. 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side. 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  153 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 

The  Lady  oJ  Shalott.  162 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer ; 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space ; 
He  said,  "She  has  a  lovely  face; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott."  171 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN 

I  read,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their  shade,' 
"The  Legend  of  Good  Women,"  long  ago 

Sung  by  the  morning-star  of  song,  who  made 
His  music  heard  below ;  4 

Dan  2  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet 
breath 

Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 

With  sounds  that  echo  still.  8 

'  i.e.,  before  I  fell  asleep  ^  not  a  name  but  a 
title  of  respect,  like  the  Spanish  Don,  from  Latin 
dominus 


A   DREAM   OF    FAIR    WOMEN 


525 


And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his  art 
Held  me  above  the  subject,  as  strong  gales 

Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  tho'  my 
heart, 
Brimful  of  those  wild  tales,  12 

Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.  In  every 
land 

I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 
Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in  hand 

The  downward  slope  to  death.  16 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song 
Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burning  stars. 

And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame,  and 
wrong, 
And  trumpets  blown  for  wars ;  20 

And  clattering  flints  batter'd  with  clanging 
hoofs ; 

And  I  saw  crowds  in  column'd  sanctuaries ; 
And  forms  that  pass'd  at  windows  and  on  roofs 

Of  marble  palaces ;  24 

Corpses  across  the  threshold  ;  heroes  tall 
Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 

Upon  the  tortoise  ^  creeping  to  the  wall ; 
Lances  in  ambush  set ;  28 

And  high  shrine-doors  burst  thro'  with  heated 

blasts 

That  run  before  the  iluttering  tongues  of 

fire ; 

White  surf  wind-scatter'd  over  sails  and  masts, 

And  ever  climbing  higher  ;  3  2 

Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in  brazen  plates, 
Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water,  divers  woes, 

Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with  iron  grates, 
And  hush'd  seraglios.  36 

So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as,  when  to  land 
Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the  self-same 
way. 

Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level  sand, 
Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray.  40 

I  started  once,  or  seem'd  to  start  in  pain. 
Resolved  on  noble  things,   and  strove  to 
speak. 

As  when  a  great  thought  strikes  along  the  brain. 
And  flushes  all  the  cheek.  44 

^  a  dose  formation  of  troops  protected  by 
overlapping  their  shields  above  their  heads 


And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew  down 
A  cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow, 

That  bore  a  lady  from  a  leaguer  a  town; 
And  then,  I  know  not  how,  48 

All    those    sharp    fancies,    by    down-lapsing 
thought 
Stream'd  onward,  lost  their  edges,  and  did 
creep, 
Roll'd  on  each  other,  rounded,  smooth'd,  and 
brought 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep.  52 

« 
At  last  methought  that  I  had  wander'd  far 
In  an  old  wood :    fresh-wash'd  in  coolest 
dew 
The  maiden  splendours  of  the  morning  star 
Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue.  56 

Enormous  elm-tree-bolcs  did  stoop  and  lean 
Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  underneath 

Their  broad  curved  branches,   fledged  with 
clearest  green. 
New  from  its  silken  sheath.  60 

The  dim  red  morn   had  died,  her    journey 
done. 
And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the  twilight 
plain, 
Half-fall'n  across  the  threshold  of  the  sun, 
Never  to  rise  again.  64 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead  air, 
Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill ; 

Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 
Is  not  so  deadly  stfll  68 

As   that   wide   forest.     Growths   of   jasmine 
tiu-n'd 
Their  hiunid  arms  festooning  tree  to  tree. 
And   at    the   root    thro'   lush   green   grasses 
burn'd 
The  red  anemone.  72 

I  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves,  I  knew 
The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid  dawm 

On     those     long,     rank,     dark     wood-walks 
drench'd  in  dew, 
Leading  from  lawn  to  lawTi.  76 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 
Pour'd    back    into    my    empty   soul    and 
frame 

The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame.  80 


526 


ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


And  from  within  me  a  clear  undertone 

ThriU'd  thro'  mine  ears  in  that  imblissful 
cUme, 

"Pass  freely  thro' :  the  wood  is  all  thine  own, 
Until  the  end  of  time."  84 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  ^  within  call, 

Stiller    than     chisell'd    marble,     standing 
there ; 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall. 

And  most  divinely  fair.  88 

Her  lovehness  with  sl^iame  and  with  surprise 
Froze  my  swift  speech :  she,  turning  on  my 
face 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 

Spoke  slowly  in  her  place.  92 

"  I  had  great  beauty  :  ask  thou  not  my  name  : 
No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 

Many  drew  sw(jrds  and  died.     Where'er  I 
came 
I  brought  calamity."  96 

"No  marvel,  sovereign  lady:   in  fair  field 
Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly  died," 

I  answer'd  free ;   and  turning  I  appeal'd 
To  one  that  stood  beside.-  100 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks  averse, 
To  her  full  height  her  stately  stature  draws ; 

"My  youth,"  she  said,  "was  blasted  with  a 
curse : 
This  woman  was  the  cause.  104 

"I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad  place. 
Which  men  call'd  Aulis  in  those  iron  years : 

My  father  ^  held  his  hand  upon  his  face ; 
I,  blinded  with  my  tears,  108 

"Still  strove  to  speak:    my  voice  was  thick 
with  sighs 
As  in  a  dream.     Dimly  I  could  descry 
The  stern  black-bearded  kings  with  wolfish 
eyes. 
Waiting  to  see  me  die.  112 

"The  high  masts  ilicker'd  as  they  lay  afloat ; 
The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver'd,  and  the 
shore ; 
The   bright   death   quiver'd   at '  the   victim's 
throat ; 
Touch'd  ;  and  I  knew  no  more."  116 

^  Helen  of  Troy    ^  Iphigenia    '  Agamemnon 


Whereto  the  other  with  a  downward  brow : 
"I  would  the  white  cold  heavy-plunging 
foam, 

Whirl'd  by  the  wind,  had  roll'd  me  deep  below 
Then  when  I  left  my  home."  120 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro'   the  silence 
drear. 
As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a  sleeping  sea : 
Sudden  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried,  "Come 
here. 
That  I  may  look  on  thee."  ■  124 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery  rise. 
One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  unroll'd ;  ^ 

A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold  black 
eyes, 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold.  128 

She,  flashing  forth  a  haughty  smile,  began  : 
"  I  govern'd  men  by  change,  and  so  I  sway'd 

All  moods.     'Tis  long  since  I  have  seen  a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made  132 

"The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  humour  ebb  and  flow. 

I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood :       136 
That  makes  my  only  woe. 

"  Nay — yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could  not  bend 
One  will ;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with  mine  eye 

That    dull    cold-blooded    Caesar.     Prythee, 
friend. 
Where  is  Mark  Antony  ? 

"The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I  rode  sub- 
lime 

On  Fortune's  neck :  we  sat  as  God  by  God : 
The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his  time 

And  flooded  at  our  nod.  144 

"We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep,  and  lit 
Lamps  which  out-burn'd  Canopus,^    O  my 
life 

In  Egypt !     O  the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 
The  flattery  and  the  strife,  148 

"And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from  war's 
alarms. 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  int6  my  arms, 

Contented  there  to  die  !  152 

^  Cleopatra  ^  a  star  in  the  southern  constella- 
tion Argo 


A   DREx\M    OF    FAIR    WOMEN 


527 


"And  there  he  died:   and  when  I  heard  my 

name 

Sigh'd  forth  with  life,  I  would  not  brook  ^ 

my  fear 

Of  the  other  :  ^  with  a  worm  I  balk'd  his  fame. 

What  else  was  left  ?  look  here  !"  156 

(With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart,  and  half 
The  polish'd  argent  of  her  breast  to  sight 

Laid  bare.  Thereto  she  pointed  with  a  laugh, 
Showing  the  aspick's  bite.)  160 

"I  died  a  Queen.  The  Roman  soldier  found 
]Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my  brows, 

A  name  forever  !  —  lymg  robed  and  crown'd. 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse."  164 

Her.  warbling  voice,  a  l>Te  of  widest  range 
Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down  and 
glance 

From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro'  all  change 
Of  liveliest  utterance.  168 

When  she  made  pause  I  knew  not  for  delight : 

Because   with   sudden    motion    from    the 

ground 

She  rais'd  her  piercing  orbs,  and  liird  with 

light 

The  interval  of  sound.  172 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt   his   keenest 
darts ; 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning  rings 
All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty  hearts 

Of  captains  and  of  kings.  176 

Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.  Then  I  heard 
A  noise  of  some  one  ^  coming  thro'  the  lawn, 

And  singing  clearer  than  the  crested  bird*  ■ 
That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn.  180 

''The  torrent  brooks  of  hallow'd  Israel 

From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late  and  soon, 

Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  thro'  the  dell, 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon.  184 

"The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 

Floods  aU  the  deep-blue  gloom  with  beams 
divine : 

All  night  the  spUnter'd  crags  that  wall  the  dell 
With  spires  of  silver  shine."  188 

^  endure  ^  Octavius,  who  conquered  Antony 
'  Jephthah's  daughter,  cf .  Judges,  ix  *  the 
lark 


As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sunshine  laves 
The  lawn  by  some  cathedral,  thro'  the  door 

Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  wa^'es 

Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor  192 

Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm'd  and  tied 
To  where  he  stands,  —  so  stood  I,  when  that 
flow 

Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 

To  save  her  father's  vow ;  ig6 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite ; 

A  maiden  pure ;  as  when  she  went  along 
From  Mizpeh's  tower'd  gate  with  welcome 
light. 

With  timbrel  and  with  song.  200 

My  words  leapt  forth:    "Heaven  heads  the 
count  of  crimes 
With  that  wild  oath."     She  render'd  answer 
high: 
"Not  so,  nor  once  alone ;   a  thousand  times 
I  would  be  born  and  die.  204 

"Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant,  whose 
root 

Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes  beneath. 
Feeding  the  flower ;  but  ere  my  flower  to  fruit 

Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death.  208 

"My  God,  my  land,  my  father  —  these  did 
move 

jMe  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Xature  gave, 
Lower'd  softly  v/ith  a  threefold  cord  of  love 

Down  to  a  silent  grave.  212 

"And  I  went  mourning,  'No  fair  Hebrew  boy 
Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame  among 

The  Hebrew  mothers'  —  emptied  of  all  joy, 
Lea\dng  the  dance  and  song,  216 

''Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below, 
Lea\dng  the  promise  of  my  bridal  bower. 

The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that  glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower.  220 

"The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us.  Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his  den ; 

We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by  one. 
Or,  from  the  darken'd  glen,  224 

"  Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying  flame. 
And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills. 

I  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief  became 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ills.  228 


528 


ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


"When  the  next  moon  was  roU'd  into  the  sky, 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equall'd  my  desire. 

How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 

For  God  and  for  my  sire  !  232 

"It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to  dwell, 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's  will ; 

Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell, 

Sweetens  the  spirit  still.  236 

"Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 

Hew'd  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from  Aroer 

On  Arnon  unto  Minneth."     Here  her  face 
Glow'd  as  I  look'd  at  her.  240 

She  lock'd  her  lips  :  she  left  me  where  I  stood : 
"Glory  to  God,"  she  sang,  and  passed  afar, 

Thridding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the  wood. 
Toward  the  morning-star.  244 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively. 

As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans  his  head. 

When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  suddenly. 
And  the  old  year  is  dead.  248 

"Alas!   alas!"   a  low  voice,  full  of  care, 
Murmur'd  beside  me.     "Turn  and  look  on 
me : 

I  am  that  Rosamond,^  whom  men  call  fair, 
If  what  I  was  I  be.  252 

"Would  I  had  been  some  maiden  coarse  and 
poor ! 

O  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the  light ! 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 

Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night."  256 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope  and  trust : 

To  whom  the  Egyptian:    "O,  you  tamely 

died! 

You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia's  ^  waist,  and 

thrust 

The  dagger  thro'  her  side."  260 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's  creep- 
ing beams, 

Stol'n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the  mystery 
Of  folded  sleep.     The  captain  of  my  dreams 

Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky.  264 

Morn  broaden'd  on  the  borders  of  the  dark. 
Ere  I  saw  her,  who  clasp'd  in  her  last  trance 

^  loved  by  Henry  II  of  England,  whose  queen 
was  ELeanor  of  Aquitaine    ^  Antony's  wife 


Her  murder'd  father's  head,^  or  Joan  of  Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France ;  268 

Or  her  2  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish 
Death, 

Who  kneeling  with  one  arm  about  her  king. 
Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy  breath, 

Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring.  272 

No  memory  labours  longer  from  the  deep 
Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the  hidden  ore 

That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from  sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er  276 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.  With  what  dull 
pain 

Compass'd,  how  eagerly  I  sought  to  strike 
Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams  again ! 

But  no  two  dreams  are  like.  280 

As  when  a  soul  laments,  which  hath  been  blest, 
Desiring  what  is  mingled  with  past  years. 

In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  exprest 

By  sighs  or  groans  or  tears;  284 

Because  all  words,  tho'  cull'd  with  choicest  art, 
Faihng  to  give  the  bitter  of  the  sweet. 

Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the  heart 
Faints,  faded  by  its  heat.  288 


MORTE   D 'ARTHUR 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roU'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea ; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonness^  about  their  Lord, 
King  Arthur :    then,  because  his  wound  was 

deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him. 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land.  10 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 

1  Margaret,  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  More 
2  Eleanor  of  Castile,  wife  of  Edward  I  of  England 
^  supposed  to  lie  between  Cornwall  and  the  Scilly 
Isles,  now  subnacrged,  but  cf.  Layamon's  Brtd 


MORTE    D 'ARTHUR 


529 


They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think,  that 

we 
Shall  nevermore,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds. 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls     20 
Of  Camelot,'  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 
Tho'  Merlin  ^  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more  —  but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride :    for  thou  rememberest 

how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake,      30 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  row'd  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it  like  a  king: 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known : 
But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere : ' 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me 
word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus. 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm.  41 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  I  see,   and  lightly  bring  thee 
word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He,  step- 
ping down 
By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock,  50 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon. 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind,  60 
In  act  to  throw :   but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  water-flags, 

^  King  Arthur's  capital   "-  cf.  Layamon's  Brui, 
p.  8,  above    ^  the  middle  of  the  lake 


That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 

So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 

"Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which  I 

gave  ? 
WTiat  is  it   thou  hast  seen  ?    or  what  hast 

heard?" 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds,    70 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and 

pale: 
"Thou hast  betray 'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem 'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shamefid  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again, 
As  thou  art  lief  ^  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing  80 
I   bade   thee,   watch,   and  lightly  bring  me 

word." 
Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud: 
"And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Shoidd  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth,  90 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many 

men. 
What  good  shoidd  follow  this,  if  this  were 

done? 
\\liat  harm,  undone  ?   deep  harm  to  disobey. 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself  ? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath  99 
And  rumours  of  a  doubt  ?  but  were  this  kept. 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings. 
Some  one  might  sho\v  it  at  a  joust  of  arms. 
Saying,  'King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honour  and  much  fame  were 

lost." 

1  beloved 


530 


ALFRED,   LORD    TENNYSON 


So  spake  he  clouded  with  his  own  conceit,^ 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time,  1 1 1 

And  so   strode   back   slow   to  the  wounded 

King. 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily  : 
"Wliat  is  it  thou  hast  seen?   or  what  hast 

heard?" 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in 

wrath : 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !     Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king,  .121 

Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what  thou 

art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  ofilices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee 

hence : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur,  131 

I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 
Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,   and   clutch'd   the 

sword. 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.     The  great 

brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendour  of  the  moon. 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in 

an  arch. 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn,^ 
Seen  where  tjie  moving  isles  of  winter  ^  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea.   141 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur  : 
But  ere  he ''  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd 

him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker 

•  breath : 

"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :    what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or 
seen?" 

*  idea  ^  Aurora  Borealis  *  icc-bcrgs  ^  Excalibur, 
cf.  11.  145,  etc. 


And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  :  151 
"Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  .purpose,  for  I  never  saw. 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die. 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling 

him ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd 

him  1 60 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing 

hard : 
"My  end  draws  nigh;    'tis  time  that  I  were 

gone. 
Make   broad   thy   shoulders   to   receive   my 

weight. 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin ;   yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 
So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm. 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.    •Him  Sir  Bedivere  170 

Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not 

words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er   both   his   shoulders   drew   the   languid 

hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 
But,  as  he  walk'd.  King  Arthur  panted  hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd  the 

King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  "Quick, 

quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die."  iSo 

But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to 

ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he 

walk'd. 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him,  like  a 

goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him,  as  he 

based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake,  191 

And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 


MORTE    D 'ARTHUR 


531 


Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky 

barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them;    and   descending  they   were 

ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 

forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream  —  by 

these 
Three    Queens   with   crowns   of   gold  —  and 

from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony  200 

Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 
Then  murmur 'd  Arthur,  "Place  me  in  the 

barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those 

three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and 

wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and  chafed 

his  hands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood :   for  all  his  face  was 

white  212 

And  colourless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 

east ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with 

drops 
Of  onset ;   and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High   from   the   dais-throne  —  were   parch'd 

with  dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed 

his  lips.  220 

So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  King ; 
Not  hke  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest. 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament. 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"Ah  !   my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead. 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that 

led  232 


The  holy  Elders  ^  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days   darken    round   me,   and   the 

years. 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 
And    slowly    answered    Arthur    from    the 

barge : 
"The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to 

new. 
And  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways,     241 
Lest   one   good   custom   should   corrupt   the 

world. 
Comfort  thyself :   what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have 

done 
May  He  within  Himself  make  pure  !   but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again. 
Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are  wrought 

by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let 

thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and'  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain. 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them 

friend?  253 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
W' ith  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go  — 
(For  aU  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island- valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow,  260 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly ;   but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,   happy,   fair   with   orchard- 
lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea. 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and<sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted 

swan 
That,  fliJting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, ^ 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the 

flood 
W^ith  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull     270 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of 

dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

^  the   Wise  Men  of  the  East    "  The  swan  is 
fabled  to  sing  just  before  dying. 


532 


ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


ULYSSES 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 

Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,^  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race. 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not 

me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel :   I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees :   all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone ;    on  shore,  and 

when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades^    lo 
Vext  the  dim  sea ;    I  am  become  a  name ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;  cities  of  men, 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments. 
Myself  not  least,  but  honour'd  of  them  all ; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers. 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met. 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  where-thro' 
Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose  margin 
fades.  20 

Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end. 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled  on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains :   but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things ;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 
And  this  grey  spirit  yearning  in  desire  30 

To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star. 
Beyond  the  utmost  bomid  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  *  — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  faiP  40 

In  ofiices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.     He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 
There  lies  the  port ;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My  mar- 
iners, 

*  Penelope,  who  for  twenty  years  awaited  his 
return  from  Troy  ^  a  cluster  of  stars  in  Taurus, 
supposed  to  presage  rain  ^  Ithaca 


Souls   that   have   toil'd,   and   wrought,   and 

thought  with  me  — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  —  you  and  I  are 

old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil ;     50 
Death  closes  aU :   but  something  ere  the  end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not    unbecoming    men     that     strove    with 

Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks : 
The  long  day  wanes :   the  slow  moon  climbs : 

the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come,  my 

friends, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  ofT,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The    sounding    furrows;     for    my    purpose 

holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths  60 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  wiU  wash  us  down : 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles,^ 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides ;   and  tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old 

days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven ;  that  which  we  are, 

we  are ; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in 

will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield.  70 


LOCKSLEY  HALL 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet 

'tis  early  morn : 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  soiind 

upon  the  bugle-horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the 

curlews  call. 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over 

Locksley  Hall ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks 

the  sandy  tracts. 
And    the   hollow   ocean-ridges    roaring   into 

cataracts. 

^  islands  supposed  by  the  ancients  to  lie  west 
of  Gibraltar  and  to  be  the  abode  of  the  blest 


LOCKSLEY   HALL 


533 


Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement ,  ere 

I  went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to 

the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro', 

the  mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a 

silver  braid.  lo 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander 'd,  nourishing 

a  youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long 

result  of  Time ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fpaitful 

land  reposed ; 
WTien  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise 

that  it  closed : 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye 
could  see ; 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  aU  the  won- 
der that  would  be.  — 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the 

robin's  breast ; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself 

another  crest ; 

In  the  Spring  a  liveUer  iris  changes  on  the 

burnish'd  dove , 
In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly 

turns  to  thoughts  of  love.  20 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than 

should  be  for  one  so  young. 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute 

observance  hung. 

And  I  said,   "My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and 

speak  the  truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being 

sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  colour 

and  a  light. 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the 

northern  night. 

And  she  turn'd  —  her  bosom  shaken  with  a 

sudden  storm  of  sighs  — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of 

hazel  eyes  — 


Saying,  ''I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they 
should  do  me  wrong"; 

Saying,  "Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin?"  weep- 
ing, "I  have  loved  thee  long."  30 

Love  took  up  the  glass  ^  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it 

in  his  glowing  hands  ; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in 

golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on 

all  the  chords  with  might ; 
Smote   the   chord   of   Self,    that,    trembling, 

pass'd  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear 

the  copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the 

fullness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch 
the  stately  ships, 

And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touch- 
ing of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shaUow-hearted !  O  my  Amy, 

mine  no  more! 

O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland !  O  the  barren, 

barren  shore!  40 

Falser  than  aU  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all 

songs  have  sung. 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a 

shrewish  tongue! 

Is    it    well   to   wish    thee    happy  ?  —  having 

known  me  —  to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower 

heart  than  mine! 

Yet  it  shall  be :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level 
day  by  day, 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sym- 
pathise with  clay. 

As  the  tiusband  is,  the  wife  is  :  thou  art  mated 

with  a  clown. 
And  the  grossness  of   his  nature  will  have 

weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have 

spent  its  novel  force. 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer 

than  his  horse.  50 

^  hourglass 


534 


ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


What  is  this  ?  his  eyes  are  heavy ;  think  not  Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for 
they  are  glazed  with  wine.  .  the  love  she  bore  ? 

Go  to  him  :  it  is  thy  duty  :  kiss  him  :  take  his  No  —  she  never  loved  me  truly :  love  is  love 
hand  in  thine.  for  evermore. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is     .Comfort?    comfort  scorn'd  of  devils!    this  is 

truth  the  poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remember- 
ing happier  things.^ 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy 
heart  be  put  to  proof, 

In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain 
is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art 
staring  at  the  wall, 

Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the 
shadow's  rise  and  fall.  80 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing 
to  his  drunken  sleep. 

To  thy  widow'd  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears 
that  thou  wUt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "Never, never,"  whisper'd 
by  the  phantom  years, 

And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ring- 
ing of  thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient 
kindness  on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow :  get  thee 
to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace ;  for  a 
tender  voice  will  cry. 

'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine ;  a  lip  to  drain  thy 
trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down  :  my  latest  rival 

brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from 

the  mother's  breast.  90 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dear- 

ness  not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his :  it  will  be  worthy 

of  the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty 

part. 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down 

a  daughter's  heart. 


overwrought ; 
Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him 
with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to 

understand  — ■ 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew 

thee  with  my  hand! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the 

heart's  disgrace, 
Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a 

last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against 

the  strength  of  youth! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from 

the  living  truth!  60 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest 

Nature's  rule! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten'd 

forehead  of  the  fool! 

Well  — 'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster!  — 
Hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved  — 

Would  to  God  —  for  I  had  loved  thee  more 
than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which 

bears  but  bitter  fruit  ? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart 

be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length 

of  years  should  come 
As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads   the 

clanging  rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort?   in  division  of  the  records 

of  the  mind? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as 

I  knew  her,  kind?  70 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd:^  sweetly  did 

she  speak  and  move : 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at 

was  to  love. 


^  i.e.,  one  who  is  dead  to  him 


^  See  Notes  on  Dream  of  Fair  Women,  11.  73-6 


LOCKSLEY    HALL 


535 


"They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings  — 
she  herself  was  not  exempt  — 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suflfer'd"  —  Perish  in 
thy  self-contempt  ! 

Overlive  it  —  lower  yet  —  be  happy  !  where- 
fore should  I  care? 

I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither 
by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  hghting 

upon  days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but 

to  golden  keys.  loo 

Every  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,  all  the 

markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy ;    what  is  that 

which  I  should  do? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foe- 
man's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roU'd  in  vapour,  and  the 
winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt 

that  Honour  feels. 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at 

each  other's  heels. 


Men,   my  brothers,  men  the  'workers,  ever 

reaping  something  new : 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the 

things  that  they  shall  do : 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye 
could  see. 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  won- 
der that  would  be;  120 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies 

of  magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down 

with  costly  bales ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there 

rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the 

central  blue ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south- 
wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging 
thro'  the  thunder-st<3rm ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the 

battle-flags  were  furl'd 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of 

the  world. 


Can  I  but  reUve  in  sadness?  I  will  turn  that 
earlier  page. 

Hide  me  from  thy  deep  emotion,  O  thou  won- 
drous Mother- Age ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt 

before  the  strife. 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the 

tiunult  of  my  life ;  no 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the 

coming  years  would  yield. 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves 

his  father's  field, 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near 

and  nearer  drawn. 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like 

a  dreary  dawn ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone 

before  him  then, 
Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among 

the  throngs  of  men : 


There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a 

fretful  realm  in  awe, 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in 

universal  law.  130 

So  I  triumph'd  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro' 

me  left  me  dr>'. 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heah,  and  left  me 

with  the  jaundiced  eye ; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here 

are  out  of  joint : 
Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on 

from  point  to  point : 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion  creep- 
ing nigher. 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a 
slowly-dying  fixe. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing 

purpose  runs. 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen 'd  with  the 

process  oi  the  suns, 


536 


ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of 

his  youthful  joys, 
Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever 

like  a  boy's?  140 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I 

linger  on  the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is 

more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he 

bears  a  laden  breast, 
Full  of  sad  experience,   moving  toward  the 

stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding 
on  the  bugle-horn, 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  tar- 
get for  their  scorn : 

Shall  it  not  be  seorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a 

moulder'd  string? 
I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved 

so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness     to     be    wroth    with    weakness ! 

woman's  pleasure,  woman's  pain  — 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded 

in  a  shallower  brain  :  150 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions, 

match'd  with  mine, 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water 

unto  wine  — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing. 

Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life 

began  to  beat ; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  ^  fell  my  father 

evil-starr'd ;  — 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish 

uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit  —  there  to  wan- 
der far  away. 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of 
the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons 

and  happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster, 

knots  of  Paradise.  160 


Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  Euro- 
pean flag, 

SHdes  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings 
the  trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom'd  bower,  hangs  the 

heavy-fruited  tree  — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying   in   dark-purple 

spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment   more 

than  in  this  march  of  mind. 
In    the   steamship,    in    the    railway,    in    the 

thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall 
have  scope  and  breathing  space  ; 

I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear 
my  dusky  race. 

Iron  jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive, 

and  they  shall  run. 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their 

lances  in  the  sun ;  1 70 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the 
rainbows  of  the  brooks. 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miser- 
able books  — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy  !  but  I  know 

my  words  are  wild. 
But  I  count  the  grey  barbarian  lower  than  the 

Christian  child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our 

glorious  gains. 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast 

with  lower  pains ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage  —  what  to  me 

were  sun  or  clime  ? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files 

of  time  — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish 

one  by  one. 
Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like 

Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon  !^  180 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.     Forward, 

forward  let  us  range, 
Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the 

ringing  grooves  of  change. 


^  See  above,  p.  331,  n.  3. 


*  Joshua,  X  :  12,  13, 


SIR    GALAHAD 


537 


Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into 

the  younger  day : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of 

Cathay.^ 

Mother- Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not) ,  help  me  as 

when  life  begun : 
Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the 

lightnings,  weigh  the  Sun. 

0, 1  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath 

not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my 

fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to 

Locksley  Hall ! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for 

me  the  roof-tree  fall.  190 

Comes  a  vapour  from  the  margin,  blackening 

over  heath  and  holt. 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast 

a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail, 

or  fire  or  snow  ; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward, 

and  I  go. 

ST.   AGNES'  E\TE 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapour  goes : 

May  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward,  6 

Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord : 
ISIake  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies. 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies.  12 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'd  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground  ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee ;  18 

So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am. 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 

^  China 


Break  up  the  heavens,  0  Lord  !  and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen. 
Draw  me,  Thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean.  24 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strows  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up  !   the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within  30 

For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits. 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide  — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 

The  Bridegroom  with  His  bride  !  36 


SIR   GALAHAD 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure. 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel,. 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly. 

The  horse  and  rider  reel : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists. 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands,      10 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favours  fall ! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall": 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine : 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine.  20 

More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam. 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  storm}'  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims. 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride ; 

I  hear  a  voice  but  none  are  there ;  30 

The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide. 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 


538 


ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rmgs,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark  ; 
I  leap  on  board :   no  helmsman  steers : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark.  4° 

A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision!   blood  of  God! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides. 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go,  50 

The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and  mail ; 

But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whisthng  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields.         60 

A  maiden  knight  —  to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear ; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease. 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odours  haunt  my  dreams; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand. 

This  mortal  armour  that  I  wear,  70 

This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod. 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear : 
"O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God ! 

Ride  on  !   the  prize  is  near."  80 

So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK 

Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  grey  stones,  O  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me.  4 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  !        8 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  stiU  !      1 2 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me.  16 


WAGES 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song, 

Paid  with  a  voice  flying  by  to  be  lost  on  an 

endless  sea  — 

Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right 

the  wrong  — • 

Nay,  but  she  aim'd  not  at  glory,  no  lover  of 

glory  she :  4 

Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death :  if  the  wages  of  Vir- 
tue be  dust. 
Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life 
of  the  worm  and  the  fly? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats 
of  the  just. 
To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a 
summer  sky :  9 

Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 

THE   HIGHER  PANTHEISM 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the 

hills  and  the  plains  — 
Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who 

reigns  ? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He?    tho'  He  be  not  that 

which  He  seems? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not 

live  in  dreams?  4 


MAUD 


539 


Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body 

and  limb, 
Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division 

from  Him  ? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee :    thyself  art  the 

reason  why ; 
For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast  power 

to  feel  "I  am  I"?  8 

Glor)^  about  thee,  without  thee ;  and  thou  ful- 

fillest  thy  doom 
INIaking  Him  broken  gleams,   and  a  stifled 

splendour  and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit 

with  Spirit  can  meet  — 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than 

hands  and  feet.  12 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise ;   0  Soul,  and  let  us 

rejoice. 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet 

His  voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some :  no  God  at  all,  says  the 

fool; 
For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight  staff 

bent  in  a  pool;  16 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye 

of  man  cannot  see  ; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision  — 

were  it  not  He  ? 

From  MAUD 
XXII 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  waftgd  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown.  6 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high. 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sim  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die.  12 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 
The  flute,  violin,  bassoon ; 


All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 
.   To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird. 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon.  18 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  tbe  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away.  26 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

"For  ever  and  ever,  mine."  32 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  mj^  blood, 
As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall ; 

And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood. 
For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 

From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the 
wood. 
Our  w^ood,  that  is  dearer  than  all;  38 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so 
sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes. 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise.  44 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  ^  dozed  on  the  lea ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me.; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake. 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee.  52 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls. 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done. 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun.  58 

^  probably  the  scarlet  pimpernel,  a  flower  of  the 
primrose  family 


540 


ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate ; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she  is  near ;" 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "She  is  late;" 
The  larkspur  listens,  "I  hear,  I  hear;" 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "I  wait."  66 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet. 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red.  74 


From  IN  MEMORIAM 
PROEM 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove ;  4 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade ; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute  ; 

Thou  madest  Death ;   and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made.  8 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 
Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why, 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die  ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him  :   thou  art  just.     12 


Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 
The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou : 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 


16 


Our  little  systems  have  their  day ; 
They  have 'their  day  and  cease  to  be: 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee. 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith  :  we  cannot  know ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness :  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more. 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well. 

May  make  one  music  as  before. 


24 


28 


But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight ; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear : 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear ; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me ; 
What  seem'd  my  worth  since  I  began : 
For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 

And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed. 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 


32 


36 


40 


Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 

Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth  ; 

Forgive  them  where  they  fail  iii  truth, 
And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise.  44 


I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones  ,^ 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things.  4 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match  ? 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  far-oflf  interest  of  tears  ?  8 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown'd, 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss : 
Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground,    12 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 
"Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost, 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn."  16 

XXVII 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage. 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods :  4 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
Ilis  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes ;  8 

^  Tennyson  said  he  meant  Goethe. 


IN   MEMORIAM 


541 


Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth  ; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest.  12 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall ; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most ; 

'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all.  16 


XXXI 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave, 
And  home  to  Mary's  house  return'd. 
Was  this  demanded  —  if  he  yearn'd 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave  ?  4 

"Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those  four  days?" 

There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 

Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 
Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise.  8 

From  every  house  the  neighbours  met, 
The  streets  were  fill'd  with  joyful  sound, 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crown 'd 

The  purple  brows  of  Olivet.  12 

Behold  a  man  raised  up  by  Christ ! 

The  rest  remaineth  unreveal'd ; 

He  told  it  not ;  or  something  seal'd 
The  lips  of  that  Evangelist.  16 


XXXII 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits. 

And  He  that  brought  him  back  is  there.        4 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face. 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed.  8 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete. 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears.  12 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful  prayers, 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure  ; 
What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pure, 

Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs  ?  16 


LIV 

Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 

Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 

To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood ;  4 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 

That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete ;       8 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain ; 

That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 

Is  shrivell'd  in  a  fruitless  fire. 
Or  but  subserves  another's  gain.  12 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything ; 
I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last  —  far  off  —  at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring.  16 

So  runs  my  dream ;  but  what  am  I  ? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry.  20 

LVII 

Peace ;  come  away  :   the  song  of  woe 

Is  after  all  an  earthly  song : 

Peace ;   come  away :   we  do  him  wrong 
To  sing  so  wildly :  let  us  go.  4 

Come ;  let  us  go  :   your  cheeks  are  pale ; 
But  half  my  life  I  leave  behind : 
Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined ; 

But  I  shall  pass  ;  my  work  will  fail.  8 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies, 
One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes.  12 

I  hear  it  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 

Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead ; 

And  "Ave,^  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 
"x\dieu,  adieu"  for  evermore.  16 

XCVI 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn. 

Sweet-hearted,  j'ou,  whose  light-blue  eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies. 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born.  4 

^  Ave  (the  Latin  word  of  greeting)  is  dissyllabic. 


542 


ALFRED,    LORD   TENNYSON 


I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew 
In  many  a  subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch'd  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true :  8 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 

At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 

There  Hves  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
BeUeve  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds.  12 

He  fought  his  doubts  and  gather'd  strength. 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment  blind, 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 

And  laid  them  :   thus  he  came  at  length       16 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own  ; 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night, 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the  light, 

And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone,  20 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old. 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 


24 


CVI 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor. 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankmd. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 


16 


Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes. 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in.      »  20 


Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite  ; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good.  24 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Rmg  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace.  28 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free. 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be.  32 

cxxx 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air ; 

I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  riui ; 

Thou  standest  m  the  rising  sun, 
And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair.  4 

What  art  thou  then  ?     I  cannot  guess ; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  dift'usive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less :  .    8 

My  love  involves  the  love  before ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now ; 

Tho'  mix'd  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more.  1 2 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh ; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice ; 

I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice ; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die.  16 


From  THE  EPILOGUE 

And  rise,  O  moon,  from  yonder  down^ 
Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  shining  vapour  sail 

And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town,  112 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing  rills, 
And  catch  at  every  mountain  head. 
And  o'er  the  friths  that  branch  and  spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  thro'  the  hills  ;  116 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors. 

With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall ; 

And  breaking  let  the  splendour  fall 
To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores  1 20 


MERLIN   AND    THE    GLEAM 


543 


By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds, 

And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 
A  soul  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 
And  strike  his  being  into  bounds,  124 

And,  moved  thro'  Ufe  of  lower  phase, 
Result  in  man,  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a  closer  link 

Betwixt  us  and  the  cro-miing  race  128 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 
On  knowledge  ;  under  whose  command 
Is  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  their  hand 

Is  Nature  like  an  open  book ;  132 

No  longer  half-akin  to  brute. 

For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and  did, 
And  hoped,  and  suflfer'd,  is  but  seed 

Of  what  "in  them  is  flower  and  fruit ;  136 


Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a  noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe. 

That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 


That  God,  which  ever  Uves  and  loves. 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-off  divine  event, 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


140 


144 


SIR  JOHN   FRANKLIN 

ON  THE   CENOTAPH  IN  WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY 

Not  here !    the  white  North  has  thy  bones ; 
and  thou, 
Heroic  sailor-soifl. 
Art  passing  on  thine  happier  voyage  now 
•    Toward  no  earthly  pole.  4 


TO   DANTE 

WRITTEN  AT  REQUEST  OF  THE  FLOR- 
ENTINES 

King,  that  hast  reign'd  six  hundred  years,  and 

grown 
In  power,  and  ever  growest !   since  thine  own 
Fair  Florence  honouring  thy  nativity. 
Thy  Florence  now  the  crown  of  Italy, 
Hath  sought  the  tribute  of  a  verse  from  me, 
I,  wearing  but  the  garland  of  a  day,  6 

Cast  at  thy  feet  one  flower  that  fades  away. 


THE   SILENT  VOICES 

When  the  dumb  Hour,  clothed  in  black. 
Brings  the  Dreams  about  my  bed, 
CaU  me  not  so  often  back, 
Silent  Voices  of  the  dead. 
Toward  the  lowland  ways  behind  me, 
And  the  sunhght  that  is  gone  ! 
CaU  me  rather,  silent  voices, 
Forward  to  the  starry  track 
Glimmering  up  the  heights  beyond  me 
On,  and  always  on  !  ic 

MERLIN  AND   THE   GLEAM 


O  yoimg  Mariner, 

You  from  the  haven 

Under  the  sea-cliff. 

You  that  are  watching 

The  gray  Magician 

With  eyes  of  wonder, 

/  am  Merlua, 

And  /  am  dying, 

/  am  INIerlin 

Who  follow  The  Gleam.  10 

n 

Mighty  the  Wizard 

Who  found  me  at  sunrise 

Sleeping,  and  woke  me 

And  learn'd  me  Magic  ! 

Great  the  INIaster, 

And  sweet  the  Magic, 

When  over  the  valley, 

In  early  summers, 

Over  the  mountain, 

On  human  faces,  20 

And  all  around  me, 

Mb\dng  to  melody. 

Floated  The  Gleam. 

ni 

Once  at  the  croak  of  a  Raven  who  crost  it, 

A  barbarous  people, 

Blind  to  the  magic, 

And  deaf  to  the  melody, 

Snarl'd  at  and  cursed  me. 

A  demon  vext  me. 

The  Ught  retreated,  30 

Th.e  landskip  darken'd, 

The  melody  deaden'd. 

The  Master  whisper'd 

"Follow  The  Gleam." 


544 


ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


IV 

Then  to  the  melody, 

Over  a  wilderness 

Gliding,  and  glancing  at 

Elf  of  the  woodland, 

Gnome  of  the  cavern, 

Griffin  and  Giant, 

And  dancing  of  Fairies 

In  desolate  hollows, 

And  wraiths  of  the  mountain, 

And  rolling  of  dragons 

By  warble  of  water, 

Or  cataract  music 

Of  falling  torrents, 

FUtted  The  Gleam. 


V 


Down  from  the  mountain 

And  over  the  level, 

And  streaming  and  shining  on 

Silent  river, 

SUvery  willow, 

Pasture  and  plowland, 

Horses  and  oxen, 

Innocent  maidens. 

Garrulous  children. 

Homestead  and  harvest, 

Reaper  and  gleaner. 

And  rough-ruddy  faces 

Of  lowly  labour, 

Slided  The  Gleam.  — 

VI 

Then,  with  a  melody 
Stronger  and  statelier, 
Led  me  at  length 
To  the  city  and  palace 
Of  Arthur  the  king  ; 
Touch'd  at  the  golden 
Cross  of  the  churches, 
Flash'd  on  the  Tournament, 
Flickcr'd  and  bickcr'd 
From  helmet  to  helmet. 
And  last  on  the  forehead 
Of  Arthur  the  blameless 
Rested  The  Gleam. 


40 


so 


60 


70 


Arthur  had  vanish'd 

I  knew  not  whither, 

The  king  who  loved  me,  80 

And  cannot  die ; 

For  out  of  the  darkness 

Silent  and  slowly 

The  Gleam,  that  had  waned  to  a  wintry 

glimmer 
On  icy  fallow 
And  faded  forest. 
Drew  to  the  valley 
Named  of  the  shadow, 
And  slowly  brightening 
Out  of  the  glimmer,  90 

And  slowly  moving  again  to  a  melody 
Yearningly  tender. 
Fell  on  the  shadow, 
No  longer  a  shadow, 
But  clothed  with  The  Gleam.     * 

VIII 

And  broader  and  brighter 

The  Gleam  flying  onward. 

Wed  to  the  melody. 

Sang  thro'  the  world ; 

And  slower  and  fainter,  100 

Old  and  weary. 

But  eager  to  follow, 

I  saw,  whenever 

In  passing  it  glanced  upon 

Hamlet  or  city. 

That  under  the  Crosses 

The  dead  man's  garden. 

The  mortal  hillock. 

Would  break  into  blossom  ; 

And  to  the  land's  no 

Last  limit  I  came  — 

And  can  no  longer, 

But  die  rejoicing,  * 

For  thro'  the  Magic 

Of  Him  the  Mighty, 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood. 

There  on  the  border 

Of  boundless  Ocean, 

And  all  but  in  Heaven 

Hovers  The  Gleam.  120 


TX 


VII 

Clouds  and  darkness 
Closed  upon  Camclot ; 


Not  of  the  sunhght. 
Not  of  the  moonlight, 
Not  of  the  starlight ! 
O  young  Mariner, 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 


545 


Down  to  the  haven, 
Call  your  companions, 
Launch  your  vessel, 
And  crowd  your  canvas, 
And,  ere  it  vanishes 
Over  the  margin, 
After  it,  follow  it, 
Follow  The  Gleam. 


Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the 

hair; 
And  a  voice  said  in  mastery  while  I  strove, 
"Guess  now  who  holds  thee?" — "Death!" 

I  said.     But  there, 
130      The  silver  answer  rang:    "Not  Death,  but 

Love." 


CROSSING  THE  BAR 

Sunset  and  evening  star. 

And  one  clear  call  for  me  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar. 

When  I  put  out  to  sea,  4 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep. 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam. 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless 
deep 

Turns  again  home.  8 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark ;  1 2 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and 
Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar.  16 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWN- 
ING (1806-1861) 

SONNETS    FROM    THE    PORTUGUESE 

I 

I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 
Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for 

years. 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young : 
And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 
I  saw  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears. 
The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years. 
Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 
A    shadow   across   me.     Straightway   I   was 

'ware. 
So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move  10 


VII 

The  face  of  all  the  world  is  changed,  I  think, 
Since  first  I  heard  the  footsteps  of  thy  soul 
Move  still,  oh,  still,  beside  me ;   as  they  stole 
Betwixt  me  and  the  dreadful  outer  brink 
Of  obvious  death,  where  I  who  thought  to  sink 
Was  caught  up  into  love  and  taught  the  whole 
Of  life  in  a  new  rhythm.     The  cup  of  dole  ^ 
God  gave  for  baptism,  I  am  fain  ^  to  drink. 
And  praise  its  sweetness.   Sweet,  with  thee 

anear. 
The  name  of  country,  heaven,  are  changed 

away 
For  where  thou  art  or  shaft  be,  there  or  here ; 
And  this  —  this  lute  and  song  —  loved  yester- 
day, 1 2 
(The  singing  angels  know)  are  only  dear, 
Because  thy  name  moves  right  in  what  they 
say. 

XIV 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 
E.xcept  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say, 
'T  love  her  for  her  smile  —  her  look  —  her  way 
Of  speaking  gently,  —  for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day ; "  — 
For  these  things  in  themselves.  Beloved,  may 
Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee,  —  and  love  so 

WTOUght, 

]\Iay  be  unwro'ught  so.  Neither  love  me  for 
Thine  owti  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry : 
A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore  1 1 
Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby. 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  may'st  love  on  through  love's  eternity. 

XVII 

My  poet,  thou  canst  touch  on  all  the  notes 
God  set  between  His  After  and  Before, 
And  strike  up  and  strike  off  the  general  roar 
Of  the  rushing  worlds  a  melody  that  floats 

^  sorrow  ^  glad 


546 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING 


In  a  serene  air  purely.     Antidotes 
Of  medicated  music,  answering  for 
Mankind's  forlornest  uses,  thou  canst  pour 
Frorti    thence    into    their    ears.     God's    will 

devotes 
Thine  to  such  ends  and  mine  to  wait  on  thine  ! 
How,  Dearest,  wilt  thou  have  me  for  most  use? 
A  hope,  to  sing  by  gladly?  —  or  a  fine  1 1 

Sad  memory,  with  thy  songs  to  interfuse? 
A  shade,  in  which  to  sing  —  of  palm  or  pine? 
A  grave  on  which  to  rest   from  singing?  — 

Choose. 

XX 

Beloved,  my  Beloved,  when  I  think 
That  thou  wast  in  the  world  a  year  ago, 
What  time  I  sate  alone  here  in  the  snow 
And  saw  no  footprint,  heard  the  silence  sink 
No  moment  at  thy  voice,  —  but  link  by  link 
Went  counting  all  my  chains  as  if  that  30 
They  never  could  fall  off  at  any  blow 
Struck  by  thy  possible  hand,  —  why,  thus  I 

drink 
Of  life's  great  cup  of  wonder.     Wonderful, 
Never  to  feel  thee  thrill  the  day  or  night         10 
With  personal  act  or  speech,  —  nor  ever  cull 
Some  prescience  of  thee  with  the  blossoms 

white 
Thou  sawest  growing !    Atheists  are  as  dull, 
Who  cannot  guess  God's  presence  out  of  sight. 

XXI 

Say  over  again  and  yet  once  over  again 
That  thou  dost  love  me.     Though  the  word 

repeated 
Should  seem  "a  cuckoo-song,"^  as  thou  dost 

treat  it, 
Remember  never  to  the  hill  or  plain, 
Valley  and  wood,  without  her  cuckoo-strain, 
Comes  the  fresh  Spring  in  all  her  green  com- 
pleted! 
\Beloved,  I,  amid  the  darkness  greeted 
By  a  doubtful  spirit-voice,  in  that  doubt's 

pain 
Cry,  "Speak  once  more,  thou  lovest  !"    Who 

can  fear 
Too  many  stars,  though  each  in  heaven  shall 

roll  —  10 

Too  many  flowers,  though  each  shall  crown 

the  year? 
Say  thou  dost  love  me,  love  me,  love  me  — 

toll 

^  a  constant  repetition  of  the  same  few  notes 


The  silver  iterance  !  —  only  minding.  Dear, 
To  love  me  also  in  silence,  with  thy  soul. 

xxn 

When  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong, 
Face  to  face,  silent,  drawing  nigh  and  nigher, 
Until  the  lengthening  wings  break  into  fire 
At  either  curved  point,  —  What  bitter  wrong 
Can  the  earth  do  to  us,  that  we  should  not 

long 
Be   here   contented  ?     Think.     In  mounting 

higher. 
The  angels  would  press  on  us,  and  aspire 
To  drop  some  golden  orb  of  perfect  song 
Into  our  deep,  dear  silence.     Let  us  stay 
Rather  on  earth.  Beloved,  —  where  the  unfit, 
Contrarious  moods  of  men  recoil  away         11 
And  isolate  pure  spirits,  and  permit 
A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a  day. 
With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  rounding  it. 

XXVIII 

My  letters  all  dead  paper,  mute  and  white! 
And  yet  they  seem  alive  and  quivering 
Against  my  tremulous  hands  which  loose  the 

string 
And  let  them  drop  down  on  my  knee  to-night. 
This  said,  he  wished  to  have  me  in  his  sight 
Once,  as  a  friend ;  this  fixed  a  day  in  spring 
To  come  and  touch  my  hand  —  a  simple  thing. 
Yet    I    wept    for    it !  —  this  —  the    paper's 

light  — 
Said,  "Dear,  I  love  thee";   and  I  sank  and 

quailed 
As  if  God's  future  thundered  on  my  past :  10 
This  said,  "I  am  thine"  —  and  so  its  ink  has 

paled 
With  lying  at  my  heart  that  beat  too  fast : 
And    this  —  O    Love,    thy    words    have    ill 

availed. 
If,  what  this  said,  I  dared  repeat  at  last ! 

XLIII 

How  do  I  love  thee  ?    Let  me  count  the  ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and 

height 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 
For  the  ends  of  Being  and  Ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyday's 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 
I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right ; 


THE    CRY    OF    THE    CHILDREN 


547 


I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise ; 

I  love  thee  ^\ath  the  passion  put  to  use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's 

faith ;  ■      lo 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints,  —  I  love  thee  with  the 

breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  hfe !  —  and,  if  God 

choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 


THE   CRY  OF  THE   CHILDREN 

Do   ye   hear   the    children   weepmg,    O   my 
brothers, 
Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against 
their  mothers, 
And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 
The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  meadows  : 
The  young  birds  are  cliirping  in  the  nest ; 
The  yomig  fawns  are  playing  with  the  shadows; 
The  yoimg  flowers  are  blowing  toward 
the  west  — 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my  brothers. 
They  are  weeping  bitterly  !  lo 

They  are  weeping   in   the   playtime  of   the 
others. 
In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  their 
sorrow, 

Wliy  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow 

Which  is  lost  in  Long  Ago  ; 
The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest, 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost. 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest, 

The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost :        20 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my  brothers, 

Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 
Weeping   sore    before    the   bosoms   of   their 
mothers, 

In  oiur  happy  Fatherland  ? 

They  look  up  T\-ith  their  pale  and  sunken 
faces. 
And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see, 
For    the    man's   hoary   anguish    draws    and 
presses 
Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy ; 
*'Yovir  old  earth,"  they  say,  "is  very  dreary, 
Our  young  feet,"  they  say,  "are  very 
weak! 


Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary  —  31 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek : 
Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  and  not  the 
children, 
For  the  outside  earth  is  cold, 
And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our 
bewildering, 
And  the  graves  are  for  the  old : 

"True,"  say  the  children,  "it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time ; 
Little  Alice  died  last  year,  her  grave  is  shapen 
Like  a  snowball,  in  the  rime.  40 

W^e  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take  her : 
Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close 
clay ! 
From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  will 
wake  her 
Crying,  '  Get  up,  little  Alice  !  it  is  day.'  . 
If  you  listen  by  that  grave,  in  sun  and  shower, 
With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never 
cries ; 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should  not 
know  her, 
For  a  smile  has  time  for  growing  in  her 
eyes : 
And  merry  go  her  moments,  lulled  and  stilled 
in 
The  shroud  by  the  kirk-chime.  50 

It  is  good  when  it  happens,"  say  the  children, 
"That  we  die  before  our  time." 

Alas,  alas,  the  children !  they  are  seeking 

Death  in  life  as  best  to  have : 
They  are  binding  up  their  hearts  away  from 
breaking. 
With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 
Go  out,  chfldren,  from  the  mine  and  from 
the  city. 
Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes 
do ; 
Pluck  your  handfuls  of  the  meadow-cowslips 
pretty. 
Laugh  aloud,  to  feel  your  fingers  let  them 
through !  60 

But  they  answer,  "Are  your  cowslips  of  the 
meadows 
Like  our  weeds  anear  the  mine  ? 
Leave  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  the  coal-shadows, 
From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine  ! 

"For  oh,"  say  the  children,  "we  are  weary. 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap ; 
If  we  cared  for  any  meadows,  it  were  merely 

To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 


548 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 


Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping, 

We  fall  upon  our  faces,  trying  to  go ;    70 
And,  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  drooping, 

The  reddest  flower  would  look  as  pale  as 
snow. 
For,  all  day,  we  drag  our  burden  tiring, 

Through  the  coal-dark,  underground ; 
Or,  all  day,  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 

In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 

"For,    all    day,    the    wheels    are    droning, 
turning ; 
Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces, . 
Till  our  hearts  turn,  our  heads,  with  pulses 
burning, 
And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places :       80 
Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window,  blank  and 
reeling. 
Turns  the  long  light  that  drops  adown 
the  wall, 
Turn   the   black  flies   that   crawl   along   the 
ceiling : 
All  are  turning,  all  the  day,  and  we  with 
all. 
And  all  day  the  iron  wheels  are  droning : 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
'O  ye  wheels,'  (breaking  out  in  a  mad  moan- 
ing) 
'Stop!  be  silent  for  to-day!'" 

Ay,   be  silent !     Let   them  hear  each  other 
breathing 
For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth  !        90 
Let  them  touch  each  other's  hands,  in  a  fresh 
wreathing 
Of  their  tender  human  youth  ! 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion 
Is    not    all    the    life    God    fashions    or 
reveals : 
Let  them  prove  their  living  souls  against  the 
notion 
That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  O 
wheels  ! 
StUl,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward. 
Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark ; 
And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is  calling 
sunward, 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark.  100 

Now   tell   the   poor   young   children,   O   my 
brothers. 
To  look  up  to  Him  and  pray ; 
So    the    blessed    One    who    blesseth  all  the 
others, 
Will  bless  them  another  day. 


They  answer,  "Who  is  God  that  He  should 
hear  us, 
While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  is 
stirred  ? 
When   we   sob  aloud,   the   human   creatures 
near  us 
Pass  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not  a 
word. 
And  we  hear  not   (for  the  wheels  in   their 
resounding) 
Strangers  speaking  at  the  door :  1 10 

Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round  Him, 
Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 

"Two  words,  indeed,  of  praying  we  remember ; 

And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 
'Our  Father,'  looking  upward  in  the  chamber, 

We  say  softly  for  a  charm. 
We  know  no  other  words,  except '  Our  Father,' 
And  we  think  that,   in  some  pause  of 
angels'  song, 
God  may  pluck  them  with  the  silence  sweet  to 
gather, 
And  hold  both  within  His  right  hand 
which  is  strong.  120 

'  Our  Father  ! '     If  He  heard  us,  He  would 
surely 
(For  they  call  Him  good  and  mild) 
Answer,  smiling  down  the  steep  world  very 
purely, 
'Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child.' 

"But  no!"  say  the  children,  weeping  faster, 

"He  is  speecliless  as  a  stone: 
And  they  tell  us,  of  His  image  is  the  master 

Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 
Go  to  !"  say  the  children,  —  "Up  in  Heaven, 
Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clouds  are  all 
we  find :  130 

Do  not  mock  us  ;  grief  has  made  us  unbeliev- 
ing: 
We  look  up  for  God,  but  tears  have  made 
us  blind." 
Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping  and  dis- 
proving, 
O  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach  ? 
For  God's  possible  is  taught  by  His  world's 
loving. 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  before  you ! 

They  are  weary  ere  they  run ; 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the 
glory 

Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun :  140 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


549 


They  know  the  grief  of  man,   without   its 
wisdom ; 
They  sink  in  man's  despair,  without  its 
calm; 
And  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Chris tdom, 
Are  martyrs,  by  the  pang  without  the 
palm : 
Are  worn  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretrievingly 
The    harvest    of    its    memories    cannot 
reap,  — 
Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heav- 
enly. 
Let  them  weep  !  let  them  weep  ! 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken 
faces. 
And  their  look  is  dread  to  see,  150 

For  they  mind  you  of  their  angels  in  high 
places, 
With  eyes  turned' on  Deity. 
"How  long,"  they  say,  "how  long,  O  cruel 
nation, 
Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  a 
child's  heart,  — 
Stifle  down  with  a  mailed  heel  its  palpitation. 
And  tread  onward  to  your  throne  amid 
the  mart  ? 
Our  blood  splashes  upward,  O  gold-heaper. 

And  your  purple  shows  your  path  ! 
But  the  child's  sob  in  the  silence  curses  deeper 
Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath."    160 


A  MUSICAL   INSTRUMENT 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan,^ 

Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river  ? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 

With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river  ?  6 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river, 

The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 

And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 

And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 

Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river.  1 2 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river. 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can 

^  the  goat-footed  god,  traditional  inventor  of 
the  shepherd's  flute 


With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  the  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river.  18 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river  !), 

Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man, 

Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 

And  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 

In  holes  as  he  sat  by  the  river.  24 

"This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god  Pan, 

(Laughed  while  he  sat  by  the  river) 
"The  only  way  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the 
reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river.  30 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  0  Pan ! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river  ! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan  ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die. 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river.  36 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan 
To  laugh,  as  he  sits  by  the  river. 

Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man : 

The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain  — 

For  the  reed  which  grows  never  more  again 
As  the  reed  with  the  reeds  of  the  river.    42 


ROBERT  BROWNING   (1812-1889) 

CAVALIER  TUNES 

I.   MARCHING  ALONG 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 
Bidding  the  crop-headed^  Parliament  swing: 
And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 
And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk 

droop. 
Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song.  6 

God  for  King  Charles  !     Pym  ^  and  such  carles 
To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treason- 
ous paries ! 

^  short-haired.  Roundheads  ^  Pym,  Hampden, 
Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  Sir  Harry  Vane  the 
younger  were  prominent  Parliamentarians. 


55^ 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


Cavaliers,  up  !     Lips  from  the  cup. 

Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup 

Till  you're  — 

Chorus.  —  Marching     along,     fifty-score 
strong. 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  sing- 
ing this  song.  12 

Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell 
Serve  ^  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  yovmg  Harry  as 

well ! 
England,  good  cheer  !     Rupert  ^  is  near  ! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,,  keep  we  not  here, 
Cho.  —  jMarching  along,  fifty-score  strong. 
Great-hearted   gentlemen,    singing 
this  song  ?  1 8 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles !     Pym  and  his 

snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent 

carles ! 

Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might ; 

So,  onward  to  Nottingham,^  fresh  for  the  fight, 

Cho.  —  March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted   gentlemen,   singing 

this  song !  24 

II.    GIVE  A   ROUSE 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now  ? 
Kmg  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse :   here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles !  4 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  smce  ? 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once  ? 
Who  helped  m.e  to  gold  I  spent  since  ? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once  ?        8 
Cho.  —  King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him 
right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for 

fight  now  ? 
Give    a   rouse :     here's,    in    hell's 

despite  now. 
King  Charles  !  1 2 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him  ? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 
While  Noll's  ■•  damned  troopers  shot  him  ?    16 

^  Let  it  serve  ^  Prince  Rupert,  nephew  of  King 
Ciiarles  and  commander  of  his  cavalry  *  where 
the  King's  troops  assembled  in  1642  *  Oliver 
Cromwell 


Cho.  —  King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him 

right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for 

fight  now  ? 
Give   a    rouse:     here's,    in   hell's 

despite  now. 
King  Charles !  20 

"HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD 
NEWS  FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX" 

(16-) 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he ; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all 
three ; 

"Good  speed  !"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate- 
bolts  midrew ; 

"Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping 
through ; 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank 
to  rest. 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast.  6 

Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  we  kept  the  great 

pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing 

our  place ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths 

tight. 
Then   shortened   each    stirrup,   and   set   the 

pique  ^  right, 
RebuckJed  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker 

the  bit. 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit.   12 

'Twas   moonset   at   starting;    but   while  we 

drew  near 
Lokeren,  thq  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned 

clear ; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see  ; 
At  Duffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could 

be; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard 

the  half -chime,  17 

So  Joris  broke  silence  with,   "Yet  there  is 

time!" 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun. 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every 

one, 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 

^  pommel 


E\^LYN   HOPE 


551 


With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away  23 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its 
spray : 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp 

ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on 

his  track ; 
And  one  ej'-e's  black  intelUgence,  —  ever  that 

glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master, 

askance ! 
And  the  thick  heavj'-  spimie-flakes  which  aye 

and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned ;   and  cried  Joris, 

"Stay  spur!  31 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not 

in  her, 
We'll  remember  at  Aix"  —  for  one  heard  the 

quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,   saw  the  stretched  neck  and 

staggering  knees. 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  hatmches  she  shuddered  and 

sank.  36 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud,  in  the 

sky; 
The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble 

like   chaff ; 
Till  over  by  Dalhem   a   dome-spire  sprang 

white, 
And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in 

sight  I"  42 

"How    they'll    greet    us!"  —  and    all    in    a 

moment  his  roan 
•Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a 

stone ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole 

weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from 

her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the 

brim,  47 

And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff  coat,  each  holster 

let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and 

aU, 


Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called  my  Roland   his  pet-name,  my   horse 

without  peer ; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any 

noise,  bad  or  good,  53 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and 

stood. 

And    all    I    remember    is  —  friends   flocking 

round 
As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the 

groimd; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of 

mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure 

of  wine, 
•Which    (the    biu-gesses    voted    by    common 

consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good 

news  from  Ghent.  60 


SONG 

Nay  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her, 
Is  she  not  pure  gold,  my  mistress? 

Holds   earth   aught  —  speak    truth  —  above 
her? 
Aught  like  this  tress,  see,  and  this  tress, 

And  this  last  fairest  tress  of  all. 

So  fair,  see,  ere  I  let  it  fall?  6 

Because  you  spend  your  lives  in  praising ; 

To  praise,  you  search  the  wide  world  over : 
Then  why  not  witness,  calmly  gazing, 

If    earth    holds    aught  —  speak    truth  — 
above  her  ? 
Above  this  tress,  and  this,  I  touch 
But  cannot  praise,  I  love  so  much !  12 


EVELYN  HOPE 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranixun-flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass ; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think: 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  through   the  hinge's 
chmk.  8 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name; 


552 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


It  v/as  not  her  time  to  love ;  beside, 
Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 

Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 
And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 

Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares,  — 
And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her.     i6 

Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true. 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew  — 
And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was -naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told? 

We  v/ere  fellow  mortals,  naught  beside?  24 

No,  indeed  !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love : 

I  claim  you  stiU,  for  my  own  love's  sake ! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet. 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few : 
Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you.        32 

But  the  time  will  come,  —  at  last  it  will, 

When ,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant  (I  shall  say) 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still. 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine. 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's 
red  — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine. 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times,  42 

Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men. 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes ; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me : 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope ! 

What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see  !  48 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while ! 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold ; 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank 
young  smile. 
And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's 
young  gold. 
So  hush,  —  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep: 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand  ! 
There,  that  is  our  secret :   go  to  sleep  !  55 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  under- 
stand. 


HOME-THOUGHTS,   FROM  ABROAD 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  April's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware. 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brush-wood 

sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf. 
While  the  chafiinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England  —  now  ! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows,  9 

And    the    whitethroat    builds,    and    all    the 

swallows ! 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the 

hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops  —  at  the  bent  spray's 


That's  the  wise  thrush;    he  sings  each  song 

twice  over, 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary 

dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower  19 
—  Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower ! 

From   SAUL 
XVII 

"I  have  gone  the  whole  roxmd  of  creation: 
I  saw  and  I  spoke ; 

I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose,  re- 
ceived in  my  brain 

And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  handwork 
—  returned  him  again  no 

His  creation's  approval  or  censure:  I  spoke 
as  I  saw : 

I  report,  as  a  man  may  of  God's  work  —  all's 
love,  yet  all's  law. 

Now  I  lay  down  the  judgeship  he  lent  me. 
Each  faculty  tasked 

To  perceive  him,  has  gamed  an  abyss,  where 
a  dewdrop  was  asked. 

Have  I  knowledge?  confounded  it  shrivels  at 
Wisdom  laid  bare. 

Have  I  forethought?  how  purblind,  how 
blank,  to  the  Infinite  Care  ! 

Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest,  to  image  suc- 
cess ? 

I  but  open  my  eyes,  —  and  perfection,  no 
more  and  no  less, 


SAUL 


553 


In  the  kind  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me,  and 

God  is  seen  God 
In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in  the 

soul  and  the  clod.  120 

And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me,  I 

ever  renew 
(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bending 

upraises  it  too) 
The  submission  of  man's  nothing-perfect  to 

God's  all-complete, 
As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb  to 

his  feet. 
Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience,  this 

deity  known, 
I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province,  some 

gift  of  my  own. 
There's  a  faculty  pleasant  to  exercise,  hard  to 

hcfodwink, 
I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance,  (I  laugh 

as  I  think) 
Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it,  wot 

ye,  I  worst 
E'en  the  Giver  in.  one  gift.  —  Behold,  I  covdd 

love  if  I  durst !  130 

But  I  sink  the  pretension  as  fearing  a  man 

may  o'ertake 
God's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love:    I 

abstain  for  love's  sake. 
—  What,    my    soul?    see    thus    far    and    no 

farther  ?  when  doors  great  and  small, 
Nine-and-ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch,  should 

the  hundredth  appall? 
In  the  least  things  have  faith,  yet  distrust  in 

the  greatest  of  all  ? 
Do  I  find  love  so  fvdl  in  my  nature,  God's 

ultimate  gift, 
That  I  doubt  his  o\\-n  love  can  compete  with 

it  ?     Here,  the  parts  shift  ? 
Here,   the  creature  surpass  the   Creator,  — 

the  end,  what  Began? 
Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do 

all  for  this  man, 
And  dare  doubt  he  alone  shall  not  help  him, 

who  yet  alone  can?  140 

Would  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the 

bare  will,  much  less  power, 
To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the 

marvellous  dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with?  to 

make  such  a  soul. 
Such   a  body,   and  then  such  an  earth  for 

insphering  the  whole  ? 
And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my  warm 

tears  attest) 


These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and 
give  one  more,  the  best  ? 

Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  main- 
tain at  the  height 

This  perfection,  —  succeed  with  life's  day- 
spring,  death's  minute  of  night? 

Interpose  at  the  difficult  minute,  snatch  Saul 
the  mistake, 

Saul  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now,  — ■ 
and  bid  him  awake  150 

From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  prelude, 
to  find  himself  set 

Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life,  — 
a  new  harmony  yet 

To  be  run.  and  continued,  and  ended  —  who 
knows  ?  —  or  endure  ! 

The  man  taught  enough  by  life's  dream,  of 
the  rest  to  make  sure ; 

By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  winning  in- 
tensified bliss. 

And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose,  by 
the  struggles  in  this. 

xvm 

"I  believe  it !  'Tis  thou,  God,  that  givest,  'tis 

I  who  receive : 
In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  thy  wUl  is  my  power 

to  believe. 
All's  one  gift :   thou  canst  grant  it  moreover, 

as  prompt  to  my  prayer 
As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these 

arms  to  the  air.  160 

From  thy  wfll  stream  the  worlds,   life  and 

nature,  thy  dread  Sabaoth :  ^ 
/  will  ?  —  the  mere  atoms  despise  me !    Why 

am  I  not  loth 
To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  too  ?    \^^y 

is  it  I  dare 
Think    but    lightly    of  •  such    impuissance  ? 

What  stops  my  despair? 
This ;  —  'tis  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts 

him,  but  what  man  Would  do ! 
See  the  King  —  I  would  help  him  but  cannot, 

the  wishes  fall  through. 
Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow, 

grow  poor  to  enrich. 
To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I  would 

—  knowing  which, 
I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.     Oh,  speak 

through   me   now ! 
Would  I   suffer  for  him   that  I  love?     So 

wovddst  thou  —  so  wUt  thou !  170 


554 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


So  shall  crown  thee  the  topmost,  ineff ablest, 

uttermost  crown  — 
And  thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor  leave 

up  nor  down 
One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in !     It  is 

by  no  breath. 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation  joins 

issue  with  death ! 
As  thy  Love  is  discovered  almighty,  almighty 

be  proved 
Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and  for  it,  of 

being  Beloved ! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most ;  the  strong- 
est shall  stand  the  most  weak. 
'Tis  the  weakness  in  strength,  that  I  cry  for ! 

my  flesh,  that  I  seek 
In  the  Godhead !  I  seek  and  I  find  it.     O  Saul, 

it  shall  be 
A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee;    a 

Man  like  to  me,  i8o 

Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  forever :   a 

Hand  like  this  hand 
Shall  throw  open   the  gates  of  new  life  to 

thee !     See  the  Christ  stand ! " 

SONG 
MY   STAR 

AU  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 
They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue ! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird :   like  a  flower,  hangs 
furled:  '  lo 

They    must    solace    themselves    with    the 
Saturn    above    it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world  ? 
Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me ;   therefore 
I  love  it. 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS 

FERRARA 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 

Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 

That   piece   a  wonder,   now :    Fra   Pandolf 's 

hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 


WiU't  please  you  sit  and  look. at  her?  I  said 
"Fra  Pandolf"  by  design,  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I)  lo 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they 

durst. 
How  such  a  glance  came  there ;    so,  not  the 

first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  'twas  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek :  perhaps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say,  "Her  mantle  laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half -flush  that  dies  along  her  throat:"   such 

stuff 
Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 
For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had    21 
A  heart  —  how  shall  I  say  ?  —  too  soon  made 

glad. 
Too  easily  impressed :    she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,   and  her  looks  went   every- 
where. 
Sir,  'twas  all  one !     My  favour  at  her  breast, 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace  —  all  and 

each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving 

speech. 
Or   blush,    at    least.     She    thanked    men,  — 

good  !  but  thanked  31 

Somehow  — ■  I    know    not    how  —  as    if    she 

ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With  anybody's  gift.     Who'd  stoop  to  blame 
This  sort  of  trifling?     Even  had  you  skill 
In  speech  —  (which  I  have  not)  —  to  make 

your  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just 

this 
Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me ;  here  you  miss. 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark"  —  and  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set  40 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 
—  E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping;   and  I 

choose 
Never  to  stoop.     Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 
Whene'er  I  passed  her ;  but  who  passed  with- 
out 
Much  the  same  smile?     This  grew;   I  gave 

commands ; 


A    GRAMMARIAN'S    FUNERAL 


555 


Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she 

stands 
As  if  alive.     Will't  please  you  rise?     We'U 

meet 
The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat. 
The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 
Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence        50 
Of  mine  for  dowry  vnh  be  disallowed ; 
Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 
At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we'll  go 
Together      down,      sir.     Notice      Neptune, 

though, 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity. 
Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for 

me  I 


A  GRAIVIMARIAN'S  FUNERAL 

SHORTLY  AFTER  THE   REVIVAL   OF 
LEARNING  IN   EUROPE      ' 

Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 

Singing  together. 
Leave    we    the   common   crofts,    the   vulgar 
thorpes 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow : 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again 

Rimming  the  rock-row ! 
That's  the  appropriate  country ;  there,  man's 
thought, 

Rarer,  intenser,  10 

Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought. 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  imlettered  plain  its  herd  and 
crop; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top, 

Crowded  with  culture ! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels ; 

Clouds  overcome  it ; 
No !  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit.  20 

Thither   our   path    lies;     wind    we    up    the 
heights ; 

Wait  ye  the  warning  ? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's  ; 

He's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tvme,   square  chests,  erect    each 
head, 

'Ware  the  beholders ! 
This  is  our  master,  famous,  calm  and  dead, 

Borne  on  our  shoulders. 


Sleep,  crop  and  herd!  sleep,  darkling  thorpe 
and  croft, 

Safe  from  the  weather  !  30 

He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft. 

Singing  together, 
He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat, 

Lyric  Apollo ! 
Long  he  lived  nameless:    how  should  Spring 
take  note 

Winter  would  follow? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone  I 

Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he,  "New  measures,  other  feet  anon ! 

]My  dance  is  finished"?  40 

No,  that's  the  world's  way :   (keep  the  moun- 
tain-side. 

Make  for  the  city  !) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity ; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with  the 
world 

Bent  on  escaping : 
"What's   in   the   scroll,"    quoth    he,    "thou 
keepest  furled? 

Show  me  their  shaping, 
Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and 
sage, — 

Give!"  —  So,  he  gowned  him,  50 

Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its  last 
page: 

Learned,  we  found  him. 
Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald  too,  eyes  like 
lead. 

Accents  imcertam : 
"Time   to   taste  life,"   another   would  have 
said, 

"Up  with  the  curtain  !" 
This   man   said   rather,    "Actual   life   comes 
next? 

Patience  a  moment ! 
Grant  I  have  mastered  learning's  crabbed  text, 

StiU  there's  the  comment.  60 

Let  me  know  all !     Prate  not  of  most  or  least, 

Painfvd'  or  easy ! 
Even  to  the  crumbs  I'd  fain  eat  up  the  feast, 

Ay,  nor  feel  queasy." 
Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live, 

When  he  had  learned  it. 
When  he  had  gathered  aU  books  had  to  give ! 

Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 
Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts  — 

Fancy  the  fabric  70 

Quite,  ere  you  buUd,  ere  steel  strike  fire  from 
quartz, 

Ere  mortar  dab  brick ! 


55^ 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


(Here's  the  town-gate  reached:    there's  the 
market-place 

Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  pecxiliar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus !) 
That  before  living  he'd  learn  how  to  live  — 

No  end  to  learning  : 
Earn  the  means  first  —  God  surely  will  con- 
trive 

Use  for  our  earning.  80 

Others  mistrust  and  say,  "But  time  escapes: 

Live  now  or  never  !" 
He  said,  "  What's  time  ?     Leave  Now  for  dogs 
and  apes ! 

Man  has  Forever." 
Back  to  his  book  then:    deeper  drooped  his 
head : 

Calculus  1  racked  him  : 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead: 

Tussis  ^  attacked  him. 
"Now,  master,  take  a  little  rest ! "  —  not  he  ! 

(Caution  redoubled,  90 

Step  two  abreast,  the  way  winds  narrowly  !) 

Not  a  whit  troubled. 
Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He  (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst)  ' 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 
Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain. 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 

Bad  is  our  bargain  !  100 

Was  it  not  great  ?  did  not  he  throw  on  God, 

(He  loves  the  burthen)  — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 

Perfect  the  earthen? 
Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show  clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant? 
He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools  do  here, 

Paid  by  instalment. 
He    ventured    neck    or    nothing  —  heaven's 
success 

Found,  or  earth's  failure :  no 

"Wilt   thou  trust   death  or  not?"     He  an- 
swered "Yes ! 

Hence  with  life's  pale  lure  !" 
That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it : 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue. 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one, 

His  hundred's  soon  hit : 


This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  an  unit.  120 

That,  has  the  world  here  —  should  he  need  the 
next, 

Let  the  world  mind  him  ! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unperplexed 

Seeking  shall  find  him. 
So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  death  at  strife. 

Ground  he  at  grammar ; 
Still,  through  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech  were 
rife: 

While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  Hoti's  business  —  let  it  be  !  — 

Properly  based  Omi  —  130 

Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De,^ 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 
Well,  here's  the  platform,  here's  the  proper 
place ; 

Hail  to  your  purlieus, 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race. 

Swallows  and  curlews ! 
Here's  the  top-peak ;   the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there : 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know  — 

Bury  this  man  there?  140 

Here  —  here's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot, 
clouds  form. 

Lightnings  are  loosened, 
Stars  come  and  go !     Let  joy  break  with  the 
storm', 

Peace  let  the  dew  send  ! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects : 

Loftily  lying. 
Leave  him — stiU  loftier  than  the  world  suspects 

Living  and  dying. 

"CHILDE2    ROLAND    TO    THE    DARK 
TOWER   CAME" 

(See  Edgar's  song  in  Lear) 

My  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every  word, 
That  hoary  cripple,  with  malicious  eye 
Askance  to  watch  the  working  of  his  lie 
On  mine,  and  mouth  scarce  able  to  afford 
Suppression  of  the  glee,  that  pursed  and  scored 
Its  edge,  at  one  more  victim  gained  thereby. 

What  else  should  he  be  set  for,  with  his  staff  ?  7 
What,  save  to  waylay  with  his  lies,  ensnare 
All  travellers  who  might  find  him  posted 
there, 


^  the  stone 
has  dropsy 


a  cough    ^  thirsty  like  one  who 


'  minute    but    difficult    problems    of    Greek 
grammar    ^  a  young  knight 


"CHILDE    ROLAND    TO    THE    DARK    TOWER    CAME" 


557 


And  ask  the  road?     I  guessed  what  skull-like 

laugh 
Would   break,    what    crutch    'gin   write   my 

epitaph 
For  pastime  in  the  dusty  thoroughfare,     12 

If  at  his  counsel  I  should  turn  aside 

Into  that  ominous  tract  which,  all  agree, 
Hides  the  Dark  Tower.     Yet  acquiescingly 
I  did  turn  as  he  pointed  :  neither  pride 
Nor  hope  rekindling  at  the  end  descried,       1 7 
So  much  as  gladness  that  some  end  might  be. 

For,  what  with  my  whole  world-wide  wander- 
ing, 
What  with  my  search  drawn  out  through 

years,  my  hope 
Dwindled  into  a  ghost  not  fit  to  cope 
With   that   obstreperous   joy   success   would 

bring,  — 
I  hardl}'  tried  now  to  rebuke  the  spring 

My  heart  made,  finding  failure  in  its  scope. 

As  when  a  sick  man  very  near  to  death       25 
Seems  dead  indeed,  and  feels  begin  and  end 
The  tears,  and  takes  the  farewell  of  each 
friend. 
And  hears  one  bid  the  other  go,  draw  breath 
FreeUer  outside,  ("since  all  is  o'er,"  he  saith, 
"And    the    blow    fallen    no    grieving    can 
amend;")  30 

While  some  discuss  if  near  the  other  graves 
Be  room  enough  for  this,  and  when  a  day 
Suits  best  for  carrying  the  corpse  away, 
With  care  about   the  banners,   scarves  and 

staves : 
And  still  the  man  hears  all,  and  only  craves  35 
He  may  not  shame  such  tender  love  and 
stay. 

Thus,  I  had  so  long  suffered  in  this  quest. 
Heard  failure  prophesied  so  oft,  been  writ 
So  many  times  among  "The  Band"  —  to 
wit. 
The  knights  who  to  the  Dark  Tower's  search 
addressed  40 

Their  steps  —  that  just  to  fail  as  they,  seemed 
best. 
And  all  the  doubt  was  now  —  should  I  be 
fit? 

So,  quiet  as  despair,  I  turned  from  him, 
That  hateful  cripple,  out  of  his  highway 
Into  the  path  he  pointed.     All  the  day    45 


Had  been  a  dreary  one  at  best,  and  dim 
Was  settling  to  its  close,  yet  shot  one  grim 
Red  leer  to  see  the  plain  catch  its  estray. 

For  mark !  no  sooner  was  I  fairly  found 
Pledged  to  the  plain,  after  a  pace  or  two, 
Than,  pausing  to  throw  backward  a  last 
view 
O'er  the  safe  road,  'twas  gone ;   grey  plain  aU 

round : 
Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's  bound. 
I  might  go  on ;  naught  else  remained  to  do. 

So,  on  I  went.     I  think  I  never  saw  55 

Such    starved    ignoble    nature ;     nothing 

throve : 
For  flowers  —  as  well  expect  a  cedar  grove! 
But  cockle,  spurge,  according  to  their  law 
Might  propagate  their  kind,   with   none  to 
awe,         .  59 

You'd  think :    a  burr  had  been  a  treasure 
trove. 

No  !  penury,  inertness  and  grimace, 

In  some  strange  sort,  were  the  land's  por- 
tion.    "See 
Or  shut  your  eyes,"  said  Nature  peevishly, 
"It  nothing  skills  :  ^  I  cannot  help  my  case : 
'Tis  the  Last  Judgment's  fire  must  cure  this 
place. 
Calcine  its  clods  and  set  my  prisoners  free." 

If  there  pushed  any  ragged  thistle-stalk         67 
Above  its  mates,  the  head  was  chopped ;  the 

bents ^ 
Were  jealous  else.     What  made  those  holes 
and  rents 
In  the  dock's  harsh  swarth  leaves,  bruised  as 

to  balk 
All   hope   of   greenness?    'tis   a   brute    must 
walk 
Pashing  their  life  out,  with  a  brute's  intents. 

As  for  the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair         73 
In  leprosy;    thin   dry   blades  pricked  the 

mud 
Which  underneath  looked  kneaded  up  with 
blood. 
One  stiff  bhnd  horse,  his  every  bone  a-stare, 
Stood  stupefied,  however  he  came  there :       77 
Thrust  out  past  seivice  from  the  devil's 
stud  ! 

^  it   makes   no    difference  ^  the  .old   stalks   of 
weeds  or  grass 


558 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


Alive?  he  might  be  dead  for  aught  I  know, 
With  that  red  gaunt  and   colloped^  neck 

a-strain, 
And  shut  eyes  underneath  the  rusty  mane ; 
Seldom  went  such  grotesqueness  with  such 

woe; 
I  never  saw  a  brute  I  hated  so ; 

He  must  be  wicked  to  deserve  such  pain.  84 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  turned  them  on  my  heart. 
As  a  man  calls  for  wine  before  he  fights, 
I  asked  one  draught  of  earlier,  happier  sights, 

Ere  fitly  I  could  hope  to  play  my  part. 

Think  first,  fight  afterwards  —  the  soldier's 
art: 
One  taste  of  the  old  time  sets  all  to  rights.  90 

Not  it !  I  fancied  Cuthbert's  reddening  face 
Beneath  its  garniture  of  curly  gold. 
Dear  fellow,  till  I  almost  felt  him  fold 
An  arm  in  mine  to  fix  me  to  the  place, 
That  way  he  used.    Alas,  one  night's  disgrace  ! 
Out  went  my  heart's  new  fire  and  left  it 
cold.  96 

Giles  then,   the  soul   of  honour  —  there  he 

stands 

Frank  as  ten  years  ago  when  knighted  first. 

What  honest  man  should  dare  (he  said)  he 

durst. 

Good  —  but  the  scene  shifts  —  faugh  !  what 

hangman  hands 
Pin  to  his  breast   a  parchment?     His  own 
bands 
Read  it.     Poor  traitor,  spit  upon  and  curst ! 

Better  this  present  than  a  past  like  that ;  103 
Back  therefore  to  my  darkening  path  again! 
No  sound,  no  sight  as  far  as  eye  could  strain. 

Will  the  night  send  a  howlet  or  a  bat  ? 

I  asked :  when  something  on  the  dismal  flat 
Came  to  arrest  my  thoughts  and  change 
their  train.  108 

A  sudden  little  river  crossed  my  path 
As  unexpected  as  a  serpent  comes. 
No  sluggish  tide  congenial  to  the  glooms ; 
This,  as  it  frothed  by,  might  have  been  a  bath 
For  the   fiend's   glowing  hoof  —  to   see   the 
wrath 
Of  its  black  eddy  bespate  ^  wdth  flakes  and 
spumes. 

^  Used  of  .the  folds  or  ridges  of  the  horse's 
withered  neck.    ^  bespattered 


So  petty  yet  so  spiteful!     All  along,  115 

Low  scrubby  alders  kneeled  down  over  it ; 
Drenched  willows  flung  them  headlong  in  a 
fit 
Of  mute  despair,  a  suicidal  throng : 
The  river  which  had  done  them  all  the  wrong, 
Whate'er  that  was,  rolled  by,  deterred  no 
whit. 

Which,  while  I  forded,  —  good  saints,  how  I 
feared  i 2 i 

To  set  my  foot  upon  a  dead  man's  cheek. 
Each  step,  or  feel  the  spear  I  thrust  to  seek 

For  hollows,  tangled  in  his  hair  or  beard  ! 

—  It  may  have  been  a  water-rat  I  speared, 
But,  ugh  !  it  sounded  like  a  baby's  shriek. 

Glad  was  I  when  I  reached  the  other  bank.  127 

Now  for  a  better  country.     Vain  presage! 

Who  were  the  strugglers,  what  war  did  they 

wage. 

Whose  savage  trample  thus  could  pad  the 

dank 
Soil  to  a  plash?     Toads  in  a  poisoned  tank. 
Or  wild  cats  in  a  red-hot  iron  cage  —        132 

The  fight  must  so  have  seemed  in  that  fell 
cirque. 
What  penned  them  there,  with  all  the  plain 

to  choose? 
No  footprint  leading  to  that  horrid  mews. 
None  out  of  it.     Mad  brewage  set  to  work 
Their  brains,  no  doubt,  like  galley-slaves  the 
Turk 
Pits  for  his  pastime,  Christians  against  JeAvs. 

And  more  than  that  —  a  furlong  on  —  why, 

there!  139 

What  bad  use  was  that  engine  for,  that 

wheel. 
Or  brake,  not  wheel  —  that  harrow  fit  to 
reel 
Men's  bodies  out  like  silk  ?  with  all  the  air  ^ 
Of  Tophet's  tool,^  on  earth  left  unaware,      143 
Or  brought  to  sharpen  its  rusty  teeth  of 
steel. 

Then  came  a  bit  of  stubbed  ground,  once  a 

wood, 
Next   a  marsh,   it   would  seem,   and   now 

mere  earth 
Desperate -and  done  with:    (so  a  fool  finds 

mirth, 

^  look       -  an  instrument  of  hell 


FRA    LIPPO    LIPPI 


559 


JNIakes  a  thing  and  then  mars  it,  till  his  mood 
Changes  and  off  he  goes  !)  within  a  rood  — 
Bog,  clay  and  rubble,  sand  and  stark  black 
dearth.      •  150 

Now  blotches  rankling,  coloured  gay  and  grim, 
Now  patches  where  some  leanness  of  the 

soil's 
Broke  into  moss  or  substances  like  boils; 
Then  came  some  palsied  oak,  a  cleft  in  him 
Like  a  distorted  mouth  that  splits  its  rim 
Gaping  at  death,  and  dies  while  it  recoils. 

And  just  as  far  as  ever  from  the  end  !  157 

Naught  in  the  distance  but  the  evening, 
naught 

,  To   point    my   footstep    further !     At    the 
thought, 

A  great  black  bird,  Apollyon's  bosom-friend, 

Sailed  past,  nor  beat  his  wide  wing  dragon- 
penned  ^ 
That    brushed    my    cap  —  perchance    the 
guide  I  sought.  162 

For,  looking  up,  aware  I  somehow  grew, 
'Spite  of  the  dusk,  the  plain  had  given  place 
All  round  to  mountains  —  with  such  name 
to  grace 
Mere  ugly  heights  and  heaps  now  stolen  in 

view. 
How  thus  they  had  surprised  me,  —  solve  it, 
you ! 
How  to  get  from  them  was  no  clearer  case. 

Yet  half  I  seemed  to  recognise  some  trick     1 6g 
Of  mischief  happened  to  me,  God  knows 

when  — 
In  a  bad  dream  perhaps.     Here  ended,  then, 
Progress  this  way.     When,  m  the  verj^  nick 
Of  giving  up,  one  time  more,  came  a  click  173 
As  when  a  trap  shuts  —  you're  inside  the 
den ! 

Burningly  it  came  on  me  all  at  once. 

This  was  the  place !  those  two  hills  on  the 

right, 
Crouched  like  two  bulls  locked  horn  in  horn 
in  fight ; 
While  to  the  left,  a  tall  scalped  mountain  .  .  . 

Dunce, 
Dotard,  a-dozing  at  the  very  nonce, ^ 

After  a  life  spent  training  for  the  sight !   180 

^  provided  with  dragon  feathers  ;    of.   p.    240 
^  critical  moment 


What  in  the  midst  lay  but  the  Tower  itself? 
The  round  squat  turret,  blind  as  the  fool's 

heart, 
Built  of  brown  stone,  without  a  counterpart 
In  the  whole  world.     The  tempest's  mocking 

elf 
Points  to  the  shipman  thus  the  unseen  shelf 
He  strikes  on,  only  when  the  timbers  start. 

Not  see  ?  because  of  night  perhaps  ?  —  why, 
day  187 

Came  back  again  for  that !  before  it  left. 
The  dying  sunset  kindled  through  a  cleft: 
The  hills,  like  giants  at  a  hunting,  lay. 
Chin  upon  hand,  to  see  the  game  at  bay,  — 
"Now  stab  and  end  the  creature  —  to  the 
heft!"  192 

Not  hear  ?  when  noise  was  everywhere !  it 
tolled 
Increasuig  like  a  bell.     Names  in  my  ears, 
Of  all  the  lost  adventurers  my  peers,  — 
How  such  a  one  was  strong,  and  such  was  bold, 
And  such  was  fortunate,  yet  each  of  old 
Lost,  lost !  one  moment  knelled  the  woe  of 
years.  '  198 

There  they  stood,  ranged  along  the  hillsides, 
met 
To  view  the  last  of  me,  a  living  frame 
For  one  more  picture  !  in  a  sheet  of  flame 
I  saw  them  and  I  knew  them  ail.     And  yet 
Dauntless  the  slug-horn  to  my  lips  I  set, 
And    blew.    "Childe   Roland    to    the   Dark 
Tower  came."  204 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI 

I  am  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave ! 
You  need  not  clap  your  torches  to  my  face. 
Zooks,^  what's  to  blame  ?  you  think  you  see  a 

monk ! 
What,   'tis  past  midnight,   and  you  go  the 

rounds, 
And  here  you  catch  me  at  an  alley's  end 
Where  sportive  ladies  leave  their  doors  ajar? 
The  Carmine's  my  cloister :   hiuit  it  up. 
Do,  —  harry  out,  if  you  must  show  your  zeal. 
Whatever  rat,  there,  haps  on  his  w-rong  hole. 
And  nip  each  softling  of  a  wee  white  mouse,  10 
Weke,  weke,  that's  crept  to  keep  him  company  ! 
Aha,  you  know  your  betters  !   Then,  you'll  take 

^  a  mincing  oath 


56o 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


Your  hand  away  that's  fiddling  on  my  throat, 
And  please  to  know  me  likewise.     Who  am  I? 
Why,  one,  sir,  who  is  lodging  with  a  friend 
Three  streets  off  —  he's  a  certain  .  .  .  how 

d'ye  call? 
Master  —  a  .  .  .  Cosimo  of  the  Medici,^ 
I'  the  house  that  caps  the  corner.     Boh !  you 

were  best ! 
Remember  and  tell  me,  the  day  you're  hanged. 
How  you  affected  such  a  guUet's-gripe  !         20 
But  you,  sir,2  it  concerns  you  that  your  knaves 
Pick  up  a  manner  nor  discredit  you : 
Zooks,  are  we  pilchards,  that  they  sweep  the 

streets 
And  count  fair  prize  what  comes  into  their 

net? 
He's  Judas  to  a  tittle,  that  man  is  ! 
Just  such  a  face  !   Why,  sir,  you  make  amends. 
Lord,  I'm  not  angry  !     Bid  your  hangdogs  go 
Drink  out  this  quarter-florin  to  the  health 
Of  the  munificent  House  that  harbours  me 
(And  many  more  beside,  lads  !  more  beside  !) 
And  all's  come  square  again.  I'd  like  his  face  — 
His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade  in  the  door     32 
With  the  pike  and  lantern,  —  for  the  slave 

that  holds 
John  Baptist's  head  a-dangle  by  the  hair 
With  one  hand  ("Look  you,  now,"  as  who 

should  say) 
And  his  weapon  in  the  other,  yet  unwiped  ! 
It's  not  your  chance  to  have  a  bit  of  chalk, 
A  wood-coal  or  the  like  ?  or  you  should  see  ! 
Yes,  I'm  the  painter,  since  you  style  me  so. 
What,  brother  Lippo's  doings,  up  and  down. 
You  know   them   and   they   take  you?   like 

enough !  41 

I  saw  the  proper  twinkle  in  your  eye  — • 
'Tell  you,  I  liked  your  looks  at  very  first. 
Let's  sit  and  set  things  straight  now,  hip  to 

haunch. 
Here's  spring  come,  and  the  nights  one  makes 

up  bands 
To  roam  the  town  and  sing  out  carnival, 
And  I've  been  three  weeks  shut  within  my 

mew, 
A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and  saints 
And    saints    again.     I    could    not    paint    all 

night  —  '  49 

Ouf !     I  leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh  air. 
There  came  a  hurry  of  feet  and  little  feet, 
A  sweep  of  lute-strings,  laughs,  and  whifts  of 

song,  — 

^  Cosimo   de'   Medici,    the   leading    citizen    of 
Florence  ^  the  leader  of  the  band  of  watchmen 


Flower  0'  the  broom. 

Take  away  love,  and  our  earth  is  a  tomb  I 

Flower  0'  the  quince, 

I  let  Lisa  go,  and  what  good  in  life  since? 

Flower  0'  the  thyme  —  and  so  on.     Round  they 

went.^ 
Scarce  had  they  turned  the  corner  when  a 

titter 
Like  the  skipping  of  rabbits  by  moonlight,  — ■ 

three  slim  shapes, 
And  a  face  that  looked  up  .  .  .  zooks,  sir, 

flesh  and  blood,  60 

That's  all  I'm  made  of  !     Into  shreds  it  went, 
Curtain  and  counterpane  and  coverlet, 
All  the  bed-furniture  —  a  dozen  knots, 
There  was  a  ladder, !     Down  I  let  myself. 
Hands  and  feet,  scrambling  somehow,  and  sq 

dropped. 
And  after  them.     I  came  up  with  the  fun 
Hard   by   Saint   Laurence,^  hail  fellow,  well 

met,  — 
Flower  0'  the  rose. 

If  I've  been  merry,  what  matter  who  knows? 
And  so  as  I  was  stealing  back  again  70 

To  get  to  bed  and  have  a  bit  of  sleep 
Ere  I  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 
On  Jerome  ^  knocking  at  his  poor  old  breast 
With  his  great  round  stone  to  subdue  the 

flesh, 
You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.     Ah,  I  see ! 
Though  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you  shake  your 

head  — 
Mine's    shaved  —  a    monk,    you    say  —  the 

sting's  in  that ! 
If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself. 
Mum's  the  word  naturally ;    but  a  monk ! 
Come,  what  am  I  a  beast  for  ?  tell  us,  now  !  80 
I  was  a  baby  when  my  mother  died 
And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street. 
I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a  year  or  two 
On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rinds  and  shucks, 
Refuse  and  rubbish.     One  fine  frosty  day,        1 
My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat, 
The  wind  doubled  me  up  and  down  I  went. 
Old  Aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  *  me  with  one  hand, 
(Its  fellow  was  a  stinger  as  I  knew) 
And  so  along  the  wall,  over  the  bridge,  90 

By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent.     Six  words 

there. 
While  I  stood  munching  my  first  bread  that 

month : 

^  i.e.,  they   sang   in  turn  ^  the  famous  church_ 
of  San  Lorenzo  ^  an  ascetic,  and  one  of  the  four 
greatest  church  fathers    ^  seized 


FRA    LIPPO    LIPPI 


S6i 


"So,  boy,  you're  minded,"  quoth  the  good  fat 

father, 
Wiping  his  own  mouth,  'twas  refection-time, — 
"To  quit  this  very  miserable  world  ? 
Will  you  renounce"  .  .  .  "the  mouthful  of 

bread?"    thought    I; 
"By  no  means  !"  Brief,  they  made  a  monk  of 

me ; 
I  did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride  and  greed, 
Palace,  farm,  villa,  shop,  and  banking-house, 
Trash,  such  as  these  poor  devils  of  Medici   loo 
Have  given  their  hearts  to  —  all  at  eight  years 

old. 
Well,  sir,  I  found  in  time,  you  may  be  sure, 
'Twas  not  for  nothing  —  the  good  bellyful. 
The  warm  serge  and  the  rope  that  goes  all 

roimd. 
And  day-long  blessed  idleness  beside ! 
"Let's  see  what  the  urchin's  fit  for"  —  that 

came  next. 
Not  overmuch  their  way,  I  must  confess. 
Such   a   to-do !     They   tried   me   with   their 

books ; 
Lord,  they'd  have  taught  me  Latin  in  pure 

waste ! 
Flower  o'  the  dove,  i  lo 

All  the  Latin  I  construe  is  " amo"  I  love! 
But,  mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves  in  the 

streets 
Eight  years  together,  as  my  fortune  was. 
Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who  will  fling 
The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-bunch  he  desires, 
And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him  for  his  pains, — 
Which  gentleman  processional  ^  and  fine. 
Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament, 
Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and  catch 
The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again,         1 20 
Or  hoUa  for  the  Eight  ^  and  have  him  whipped. 
How  say  I  ?  —  nay,  which  dog  bites,  which 

lets  drop 
His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the  street, — 
Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike, 
He  learns  the  look  of  things,  and  none  the  less 
For  admonition  from  the  hunger-pinch. 
I  had  a  store  of  such  remarks,  be  sure, 
Which,  after  I  found  leisure,  turned  to  use. 
I  drew  men's  faces  on  my  copy-books. 
Scrawled    them   within    the   antiphonary's ' 

marge,  130 

Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long  music-notes, 
Found  eyes  and  nose  and  chin  for  A's  and  B's, 

^  walking  in  procession  with  the  Sacrament 
*  the  magistrates  ^  book  of  antiphons  or  respon- 
sive songs 


And  made  a  string  of  picttu-es  of  the  world 
Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs  of  verb  and  noun, 
On  the  wall,  the  bench,  the  door.     The  monks 

looked  black. 
"Nay,"  quoth  the  Prior,  "turn  him  out,  d'ye 

say? 
In  no  wise.     Lose  a  crow  and  catch  a  lark. 
What  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of  parts. 
We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldolese^     139 
And  Preaching  Friars,-  to  do  our  church  up  fine 
And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to  be  !" 
And  hereupon  he  bade  me  daub  away. 
Thank  you !  my  head  being  crammed,   the 

walls  a  blank. 
Never  was  such  prompt  disemburdening. 
First,  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black  and  white, 
I  drew  them,   fat  and  lean :    then,   folk  at 

church. 
From  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  confess 
Their    cribs  ^    of    barrel-droppings,    candle- 
ends, — ■ 
To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar-foot, 
Fresh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sitting  there 
With  the  little  children  round  him  in  a  row  151 
Of  admiration,  half  for  his  beard  and  half 
For  that  white  anger  of  his  victim's  son 
Shaking  a  fist  at  him  with  one  fierce  arm. 
Signing  himself  with   the   other   because  of 

Christ 
(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only  this 
After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years) 
Till  some  poor  girl,  her  apron  o'er  her  head, 
(Which    the    intense    eyes    looked    through) 

came  at  eve 
On  tiptoe,  said  a  word,  dropped  in  a  loaf,     160 
Her  pair  of  earrings  and  a  bunch  of  flowers 
(The  brute  took  growling),  prayed,  and  so  was 

gone. 
I  painted  all,  then  cried  "  'Tis  ask  and  have  ; 
Choose,  for  more's  ready  !"  —  laid  the  ladder 

flat, 
And  showed  my  covered  bit  of  cloister-wall. 
The  monks  closed  in  a  circle  and  praised  loud 
Till  checked,  taught  what  to  see  and  not  to  see. 
Being    simple    bodies,  —  "That's    the    very 

man  ! 
Look  at  the  boy  who  stoops  to  pat  the  dog  ! 
That  woman's  like  the  Prior's  niece  who  comes 
To  care  about  his  asthma  :  it's  the  hfe!"     171 
But  there  my  triumph's  straw-fire  flared  and 

funked ; 
Their  betters  took  their  turn  to  see  and  say : 

^  Benedictine  monks    at    CamaldoH   ^  Domini- 
cans ;    their  painter  was  Fra  AngeHco  '  thefts 


562 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


The  Prior  and  the  learned  pulled  a  face 

And  stopped  all  that  in  no  time.     "How? 

what's  here  ? 
Quite  from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless  us  all ! 
Faces,  arms,  legs,  and  bodies  like  the  true 
As  much  as  pea  and  pea  !  it's  devil's-game  ! 
Your  business  is  not  to  catch  men  with  show, 
With  homage  to  the  perishable  clay,  180 

But  lift  them  over  it,  ignore  it  all, 
Make  them  forget  there's  such  a  thing  as  flesh. 
Your  business  is  to  paint  the  souls  of  men  — 
Man's  soul,  and  it's  a  fire,  smoke  ...  no,  it's 

not  .  .  . 
It's  vapour  done  up  like  a  new-born  babe  —  ' 
(In  that  shape  when  you  die  it  leaves  your 

mouth) 
It's  .  .  .  well,  what  matters  talking,  it's  the 

soul ! 
Give  us  no  more  of  body  than  shows  soul ! 
Here's    Giotto/    with    his    Saint    a-praising 

God, 
That  sets  us  praising,  —  why  not  stop  with 

him  ?  190 

Why  put  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of  our  head 
With  wonder  at  lines,  colours,  and  what  not  ? 
Paint  the  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and  arms  ! 
Rub  all  out,  try  at  it  a  second  time. 
Oh,    that    white    smallish    female    with    the 

breasts. 
She's  just  my  niece  .  .  .  Herodias,^  I  would 

say, — 
Who  went  and  danced  and  got  men's  heads 

cut  off ! 
Have  it  all  out ! "  Now,  is  this  sense,  I  ask  ? 
A  fine  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting  body 
So  ill,  the  eye  can't  stop  there,  must  go  further 
And  can't  fare  worse  !     Thus,  yellow  does  for 

white  201 

When  what  you  put  for  yellow's  simply  black, 
And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 
When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  naught. 
Why  can't  a  painter  lift  each  foot  in  turn, 
Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a  double  step, 
Make  his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more  like, 
Both  in  their  order  ?     Take  the  prettiest  face, 
The  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  patron-saint  —  is  it  so 

pretty 
You  can't  discover  if  it  means  hope,  fear,     2 10 
Sorrow  or  joy?  won't  beauty  go  with  these? 
Suppose  I've  made  her  eyes  all  right  and  blue. 
Can't  I  take  breath  and  try  to  add  life's  flash, 


And  then  add  soul  and  heighten  them  three- 
fold ? 
Or  say  there's  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all  — 
(I  never  saw  it  —  put  the  case  the  same  — ) 
If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught  else, 
You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents  : 
That's  somewhat :  and  you'll  find  the  soul  you 

have  missed. 
Within  yourself,  when  you  return  him  thanks. 
"Rub  all  out !"     WeU,  well,  there's  my  Hfe, 
in  short,  221 

And  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  ever  since. 
I'm   grown   a   man   no   doubt,   I've   broken 

bounds : 
You  should  not  take  a  fellow  eight  years  old 
And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the  girls. 
I'm  my  own  master,  paint  now  as  I  please  — 
Having  a  friend,  you  see,  in  the  Corner-house  ! 
Lord,  it's  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in  front  — 
Those  great  rings  serve  more  purposes  than 

just 
To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse  !  230 

And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks,  the  old  grave 

eyes 
Are  peeping  o'er  my  shoulder  as  I  work. 
The  heads  shake  stiU  —  "It's  art's  decline, 


my  son 


You're  not  of  the  true  painters,  great  and  old : 
Brother  Angelico's^  the  man,  you'll  find ; 
Brother  Lorenzo^  stands  his  single  peer: 
Fag  on  at  flesh,  you'U  never  make  the  third  ! " 
Flower  0'  the  pine, 
You  keep  your  mistr  .  .  .  manners,  and  I'll 

stick  to  mine  ! 

I'm  not  the  third,  then :   bless  us,  they  must 

know !  240 

Don't  you  thmk  they're  the  likeliest  to  know. 

They  with  their  Latin?     So,  I  swallow  my 

rage, 
Clench  my  teeth,  suck  my  lips  in  tight,  and 

paint 
To  please  them  —  sometimes  do  and  some- 
times don't ; 
For,  doing  most,  there's  pretty  sure  to  come 
A   turn,   some   warm   eve   finds    me   at   my 

saints  — 
A  laugh,  a  cry,  the  business  of  the  world  — 
(Flower  0'  the  peach,  ' 

Death  for  us  all,  and  his  own  life  for  each  !)  249 
And  my  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup  runs  over, 
The  world  and  life's  too  big  to  pass  for  a  dream, 


^  the  first  great  Italian  painter  (i276?-i337) 
The    Prior's    raemory   is    at    fault,    cf.   Matt. 


^  Giovanni  da  Fiesole,  called  Fra  Angelico 
.from  his  fondness  for  painting  angels  ^  Lorenzo 
Monaco,  of  Sienna 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI 


563 


And  I  do  these  wild  things  in  sheer  despite, 
And  play  the  fooleries  you  catch  me  at, 
In  pure  rage  !     The  old  mill-horse,  out  at  grass 
After  hard  years,  throws  up  his  stiff  heels  so, 
Although  the  miller  does  not  preach  to  him 
The  only  good  of  grass  is  to  make  chaff. 
What  would  men  have  ?     Do  they  like  grass  or 

no  — 
May  they  or  mayn't  they  ?  all  I  want's  the 

thing 
Settled  forever  one  way.     As  it  is,  260 

You  teU  too  many  lies  and  hurt  yourself : 
You  don't  like  what  you  only  like  too  much. 
You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at  your  word, 
You  find  abundantly  detestable. 
For  me,  I  think  I  speak  as  I  was  taught ; 
I  always  see  the  garden  and  God  there 
A-making  man's  wife  :  and,  my  lesson  learned, 
The  value  and  significance  of  flesh, 
I  can't  unlearn  ten  minutes  afterwards. 

You  understand  me :   I'm  a  beast,  I  know. 
But  see,  now  —  why,  I  see  as  certainly         271 
As  that  the  morning-star's  about  to  shine. 
What  will  hap  some  day.     We've  a  youngster 

here 
Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I  do. 
Slouches  and  stares  and  lets  no  atom  drop : 
His    name  is   Guidi  ^  —  he'U    not   mind   the 

monks  — 
They  call  him  Hulking  Tom,^  he  lets  them 

talk  — 
He  picks  my  practice  up  —  he'll  paint  apace, 
I  hope  so  —  though  I  never  Uve  so  long, 
I  know  what's  sure  to  follow.     You  be  judge  ! 
You  speak  no  Latin  more  than  I,  belike  ;     281 
However  you're  my  man,  you've  seen  the  world 

—  The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power, 
The  shapes  of  things,  their  colours.  Hghts  and 

shades, 
Changes,  surprises,  —  and  God  made  it  all ! 

—  For  what  ?  Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no, 
For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's  line. 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above. 
Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child, 
These  are  the  frame  to  ?  What's  it  all  about  ? 
To  be  passed  over,  despised  ?  or  dwelt  upon, 
Wondered  at  ?  oh,  this  last  of  course  !  —  you 

say.  292 

But  why  not  do  as  weU  as  say,  —  paint  these 
Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it? 
God's  works  —  paint  any  one,  and  count  it 

crime 

^  Tommaso  Guidi  (1401-28)    ^  Masaccio 


To  let  a  truth  slip.     Don't  object,  "His  works 
Are  here  already  ;   nature  is  complete  : 
Suppose    you    reproduce    her  —  (which    you 

can't) 
There's  no  advantage !  you  must  beat  her, 

then." 
For,  don't  you  mark  ?  we're  made  so  that  we 

love  300 

First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we 

have  passed 
Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see ; 
And  so  they  are  better,  painted  —  better  to  us, 
Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given  for 

that; 
God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so. 
Lending  oiu:  minds  out.     Have  you  noticed, 

now, 
Your  cullion's  hanging  face!     A  bit  of  chalk, 
And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though  !     Hovv^ 

much  more, 
If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth ! 
That  were  to  take  the  Prior's  pulpit-place,  310 
Interpret  God  to  all  of  you !     Oh,  oh. 
It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 
And  we  in  oxir  graves !     This  world's  no  blot 

for  us. 
Nor  blank;    it  means  intensely,  and  means 

good: 
To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 
"Ay,  but  you  don't  so  instigate  to  prayer  ! " 
Strikes  in  the  Prior:    "when  your  meaning's 

plain 
It  does  not  say  to  folk  —  remember  matins. 
Or,  mind  you  fast  next  Friday!"  Why,  for 

this 
What  need  of  art  at  all  ?     A  skull  and  bones, 
Two  bits  of  stick  nailed  crosswise,  or,  what's 

best,  321 

A  bell  to  chime  the  hour  with,  does  as  well. 
I  painted  a  Saint  Laurence  ^  six  months  since 
At  Prato,^  splashed  the  fresco  in  fine  style : 
"How  looks  my  painting,  now  the  scaffold's 

down  ?" 

1  ask  a  brother :  "Hugely,"  he  returns  — 
"Already  not  one  phiz  of  your  three  slaves 
Who  turn  the  Deacon  oft'  his  toasted  side,^ 
But's  scratched  and  prodded  to  our  heart's 

content. 
The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their  own     330 
With  coming  to  say  prayers  there  in  a  rage  : 
We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  beneath. 

^  a   martyr   who    was   broiled   on    a   gridiron 

2  twelve  miles  west   of   Florence    ^  He  asked  to 
be  turned  over,  as  one  side  was  "done." 


5^4 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


Expect  another  job  this  time  next  year, 
For  pity  and  reUgion  grow  i'  the  crowd  — 
Your  painting  serves  its  purpose  !"  Hang  the 
fools ! 

—  That  is  —  you'll  not  mistake  an  idle  word 
Spoke  in  a  huff  by  a  poor  monk,  God  wot, 
Tasting  the  air  this  spicy  night  which  turns 
The  unaccustomed  head  like  Chianti  wine ! 
Oh,  the  church  knows !  don't  misreport  me, 

now !  340 

It's  natural  a  poor  monk  out  of  bounds 
Should  have  his  apt  word  to  excuse  himself : 
And  hearken  how  I  plot  to  make  amends. 
I  have  bethought  me :    I  shall  paint  a  piece 
.  .  .  There's  for  you !     Give  me  six  months, 

then  go,  see 
Something  in  Sant'  Ambrogio's  !  ^     Bless  the 

nmis ! 
They  want  a  cast  o'  my  office.     I  shall  paint 
God  in  the  midst.  Madonna  and  her  babe, 
Ringed  by  a  bowery,  flowery  angel-brood, 
Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces,  sweet 
As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root  351 

When  ladies  crowd  to  Church  at  midsummer. 
And  then  i'  the  front,  of  course  a  saint  or 

two  — 
Saint  John, 2  because  he  saves  the  Florentines, 
Saint  Ambrose,  who  puts  down  in  black  and 

white 
The  convent's  friends  and  gives  them  a  long 

day. 
And  Job,  I  must  have  him  there  past  mistake, 
The  man  of  Uz  (and  Us  without  the  z, 
Painters  who  need  his  patience).     Well,  all 

these 
Secured  at  their  devotion,  up  shall  come     360 
Out  of  a  corner  when  you  least  expect. 
As  one  by  a  dark  stair  into  a  great  light, 
Music  and  talking,  who  but  Lippo  !     I !  — 
Mazed,   motionless,   and   moonstruck  —  I'm 

the  man  ! 
Back   I   shrink  —  what   is   this    I    see    and 

hear? 
I,  caught  up  with  my  monk's-things  by  mis- 
take. 
My  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes  all 

round, 
I,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company ! 
Where's  a  hole,  where's  a  corner  for  escape  ? 
Then  steps  a  sweet,  angelic  slip  of  a  thing     3  70 

^  a  convent  dedicated  to  St.  Ambrose  (340  ?  - 
397),  one  of  the  four  greatest  church  fathers 
^John  the  Baptist,  patron  saint  of  Florence 


Forward,   puts  out  a  soft  palm  —  "Not  so 

fast!" 
—  Addresses  the  celestial  presence,  "nay — • 
He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all. 
Though  he's  none  of  you  !     Could  Saint  John 

there  draw  — 
His  camel-hair  made  up  a  painting-brush  ? 
We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 
Iste  perjecit  opus  I"  ^     So,  all  smile  — 
I  shuffle  sideways  with  my  blushing  face 
Under  the  cover  of  a  hmidred  wings  3  79 

Thrown  like  a  spread  of  kirtles  when  you're 

gay 

And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors  being  shut. 
Till,  wholly  unexpected,  in  there  pops 
The  hothead  husband  !     Thus  I  scuttle  off 
To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  letting  go 
The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 
That  spoke  the  good  word  for  me  in  the  nick, 
Like    the    Prior's   niece  .  .  .  Saint   Lucy,    I 

would  say. 
And  so  all's  saved  for  me,  and  for  the  church 
A   pretty   picture   gained.     Go,   six   months 

hence  ! 
Your  hand,  sir,  and  good-by :  no  lights,  no 

lights !  390 

The  street's  hushed,  and  I  know  my  own  way 

back. 
Don't  fear  me  !     There's  the  grey  beginning. 

Zooks ! 

ONE  WORD   MORE 

TO  E.  B.  B. 

London,  September,  1855 

I 

There  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women 
Naming  me  the  fifty  poems  finished ! 
Take  them,  Love,  the  book  and  me  together; 
Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie  also. 

II 

Rafael  made  a  century  of  sonnets, 
Made  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume 
Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencfl 
Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas : 
These,  the  world  might  view  —  but  one,  the 

volume. 
Who  that  one,  you  ask  ?     Your  heart  instructs 

you. 

^"He  painted  the  picture." 


ONE    WORD    MORE 


565 


Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  lifetime  ?         11 
Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets, 
Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pLllovv 
Where  it  laj-  in  place  of  Rafael's  glory, 
Rafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving  — 
Cheek,  the  world  was  wont  to  hail  a  painter's, 
Rafael's  cheek,  her  love  had  turned  a  poet's  ? 

Ill 

You  and  I  would  rather  read  that  volume, 
(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it) 
Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  Rafael,       20 
Would  we  not-?  than  wonder  at  jSIadonnas  — 
Her,  San  Sisto  ^  names,  and  Her,  Foligno,- 
Her,  that  visits  Florence  in  a  vision,^ 
Her,  that's  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre  ''  — 
Seen  by  us  and  all  the  world  in  circle. 


Says  he  —  "Certain  people  of  importance" 
(Such  he  gave  his  daily  dreadful  line  to) 
''  Entered  and  would  seize,  forsooth,  the  poet." 
Says  the  poet  —  "'Then  I  stopped  my  paint- 
ing." 

VI 

You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel.  50 

Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would  we  not  ?  —  than  read  a  fresh  Inferno. 

\II 

You  and  I  will  never  see  that  picture. 
While  he  mused  on  love  and  Beatrice, 
W^hile  he  softened  o'er  his  outlined  angel. 
In  they  broke,  those  "people  of  importance  :" 
We  and  Bice  ^  bear  the  loss  forever. 


IV 

You  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 
Guido  Reni,^  like  his  own  eye's  apple 
Guarded  long  the  treasure-book  and  loved  it. 
Guido  Reni  dying,  all  Bologna 
Cried,  and  the  world  cried  too,  "Ours,  the 
treasure!"  30 

Suddenly,  as  rare  things  will,  it  vanished. 

V 

Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel : 
Whom  to  please?    You  whisper  "Beatrice."^ 
While  he  mused  and  traced  it  and  retraced  it, 
(Peradventure  with  a  pen  corroded 
Still  by  drops  of  that  hot  ink  he  dipped  for. 
When,  his  left-hand  i'  the  hair  o'  the  wicked,'' 
Back  he  held  the  brow  and  pricked  its  stigma, 
Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parchment. 
Loosed  him,  laughed  to  see  the  writing  rankle, 
Let   the  wretch   go  festering   through   Flor- 
ence) —        , 
Dante,  who  loved  well  because  he  hated, 
Hated  wickedness  that  hinders  loving, 
Dante  standing,  studying  his  angel,  — 
In  there  broke  the  foli.  of  his  Inferno. 

^  the  Sistine  Madonna,  now  in  Dresden  -  the 
Madonna  di  Foligno,  now  in  the  Vatican  at  Rome 
'  the  Madonna  del  Granduca,  representing  her  as 
appearing  to  a  votary  in  a  vision  *  In  the  Louvre 
at  Paris,  the  Madonna  called  La  Belle  Jardiniere 
is  seated  in  a  garden.  ^  a  Florentine  painter 
(1575-1642)  ®  Beatrice  Portinari,  Dante's  ideal 
love  ^  cf.  Inferno,  xxxii,  97 

AE 


VIII 

What  of  Rafael's  sonnets,  Dante's  picture  ? 
This :    no  artist  lives  and  loves,  that  longs 

not 
Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only,  60 

(Ah,  the  prize  !)  to  find  his  love  a  language 
Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufiicient  — 
Using  nature  that's  an  art  to  others. 
Not,    this   one   time,    art    that's   turned   his 

nature. 
Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loxdng, 
None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry,  — 
Does  he  paint  ?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem,  — 
Does  he  write  ?  he  fain  would  paint  a  picture, 
Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's. 
Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only,         70 
So  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist, 
Gain  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 

IX 

Wherefore?     Heaven's   gift    takes    earth's 
abatement ! 
He   who   smites   the   rock   and   spreads   the 

water,^ 
Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath  him. 
Even  he,  the  minute 'makes  immortal, 
Proves,  perchance,  but  mortal  in  the  minute, 
Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing. 
While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  remember. 
So  he  smote  before,  in  such  a  peril,  80 

When  they  stood  and  mocked  —  "Shall  smit- 
ing help  us?" 

^  diminutive  of  Beatrice  ^  Moses,  cf.  Num.  xx. 


566 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


When  they  drank  and  sneered  —  "A  stroke  is 
easy !" 

When  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  went  their 
journey, 

Throwing  him  for  thanks  —  "But  drought 
was  pleasant." 

Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual  triumph ; 

Thus  the  doing  savours  of  disrelish ; 

Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  somewhat ; 

O'er-importmied  brows  becloud  the  mandate, 

Carelessness  or  consciousness —  the  gesture. 

For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him,     go 

Sees  and  knows  again  those  phalanxed  faces, 

Hears,  yet  one  time  more,  the  'customed  prel- 
ude — 

"How  shouldst  thou  of  all  men,  smite,  and 
save  us  ?" 

Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel  — 

"Egypt's  fiesh-pots^  —  nay,  the  drought  was 
better." 

X 

Oh,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic  warrant ! 
Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead's  cloven  brilliance,- 
Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial  fiat. 
Never  dares  the  man  put  off  the  prophet. 


XI 

Did  he  love  one  face  from  out  the  thousands, 
(Were    she    Jethro's  •  daughter,^   white    and 
wifely,  loi 

Were  she  but  the  ^Ethiopian  bondslave,)  ^ 
He  would  envy  yon  dumb  patient  camel, 
Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 
Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert ; 
Ready  in  the  desert  to  deliver 
(Kneeling  down  to  let  his  breast  be  opened) 
Hoard  and  life  together  for  his  mistress. 


XII 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining. 
Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues, 
Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me; 
So  it  seems  :  I  stand  on  my  attainment.       112 
This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me ; 
Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you. 
Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing: 
All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  your  own, 
Love ! 

^  cf.  Exodus  xvi  :  3  ^  Exodus  xxxiv  :  29  ^Exodus 
ii :  2 1  *  Nufnbers  xii :  i 


XIII 

Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us  — 
Shade  so  finely  touched,  love's  sense  must 

seize  it. 
Take  these  lines,  look  lovingly  and  nearly, 
Lines  I  write  the  first  time  and  "the  last  time. 
He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair-brush, 
Curbs  the  liberal  hand,  subservient  proudly, 
Cramps  his  spirit,  crowds  its  all  in  little,     123 
Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art  familiar, 
Fills  his  lady's  missal-marge  ^  with  flowerets. 
He  who  blows  through  bronze,  may  breathe 

through  silver. 
Fitly  serenade  a  slumbrous  princess. 
He  who  writes,  may  write  for  once  as  I  do. 

XIV 

Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  women, 
Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy,       130 
Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service. 
Speak   from   every   mouth,  —  the   speech,  a 

poem. 
Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 
Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving : 
I  am  mine  and  yours  —  the  rest  be  ail  men's, 
Karshish,    Cleon,    Norbert,   and    the    fifty.^ 
Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  person. 
Not  as  Lippo,  Roland,  or  Andrea, 
Though  the  fruit  of  speech  be  just  this  sen- 
tence : 
Pray  you,  look  on  these  my  men  and  women, 
Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finished  ;       141 
Where  my  heart  lies,  let  my  brain  He  also  ! 
Poor  the  speech;    be  how  I  speak,  for  all 
things. 

XV 

Not  but  that  you  know  me  !     Lo,  the  moon's 

self  ! 
Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 
Still  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-transfigured. 
Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  Vith  colour, 
Drifted  over   Fiesole  by   twihght. 
Came   she,    oiir   new    crescent    of   a   hair's- 

breadth. 
Full  she  flared  it,  lam^ping  Samminiato,'      150 
Rounder  'twixt  the  c>'presses  and  rounder. 
Perfect  till  the  nightingales  applauded. 
Now,  a  piece  of  her  old  self,  impoverished, 

^  The  margins  of  missals  and  other  service 
books  were  often  filled  with  beautiful  pictures  of 
flowers,  birds,  etc.  2  Characters  in  Browning's 
Men  and  Women    ^  a  mountain  near  Florence 


ABT   VOGLER 


567 


Hard  to  greet,  she  traverses  the  house-roofs, 
Hurries  with  imhandsome  thrift  of  silver, 
Goes  dispiritedly,  glad  to  finish. 

XVI 

What,  there's  nothing  in  the  moon  noteworthy? 
Nay :   for  if  that  moon  could  love  a  mortal, 
Use,  to  charm  him  (so  to  fit  a  fancy). 
All  her  magic  ('tis  the  old  sweet  mythos  ^),    160 
She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal, 
Side  unseen  of  herdsman,  hmitsman,  steers- 
man — 
Blank  to  Zoroaster  on  his  terrace. 
Blind  to  Galileo  on  his  turret, 
Dumb  to  Homer,  dumb  to  Keats  —  him,  even  ! 
Think,  the  wonder  of  the  moonstruck  mor- 
tal— 
When  she  turns  round,  comes  again  in  heaven. 
Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better  ! 
Proves  she  like  some  portent  of  an  iceberg 
Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders,     170 
Hungry  with  huge  teeth  of  splintered  crystals  ? 
Proves  she  as  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire 
Seen  by  Moses  ^  when  he  climbed  the  moun- 
tain ? 
Moses,  Aaron,  Nadab  and  Abihu 
Climbed  and  saw  the  very  God,  the  Highest, 
Stand  upon  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire. 
Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 
Shone  the  stone,  the  sapphire  of  that  paved 

work. 
When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God  also  ! 

XVII 

What  were  seen?  None  knows,  none  ever 
shall  know.  180 

Only  this  is  sure  —  the  sight  were  other, 

Not  the  moon's  same  side,  born  late  in 
Florence, 

Dying  now  impoverished  here  in  Loudon. 

God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 

Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world 
with. 

One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her  ! 


XVIII 

This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you.  Love  ! 
This  to  you  —  yourself  my  moon  of  poets ! 

*  the  myth  of  End>inion,  beloved  of  the  moon 
goddess    ^  Exodus  xxiv :  10 


Ah,  but  that's  the  world's  side,  there's  the 

wonder. 
Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they 

know  you !  igo 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise 

you  — 
Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 
But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them, 
Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 
Comie  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 
Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of, 
Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 

XIX 

Oh,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno,         199 
Wrote  one  song  —  and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it. 
Drew  one  angel  —  borne,  see,  on  my  bosom^ ! 

—  R.  B. 

ABT  VOGLER 

AFTER  HE  HAS  BEEN  EXTEMPORISING 

UPON   THE   MUSICAL   INSTRUMENT 

OF  HIS  INVENTION 

Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  m.anifold 
music  I  build. 
Bidding  my  organ  obej',  calling  its  keys  to 
their  work. 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch, 
as  when  Solomon  willed 
Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demon 
that  lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly,  —  alien  of  end  and  of 
aim. 
Adverse,  each  from  the  other  heaven-high, 
hell-deep  removed,  — - 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the 
ineffable  Name, 
And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure 
the  princess  he  loved  !  8 

Would  it  might  tarrj'  Hke  his,  the  beautiful 
building  of  mine, 
This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed  and 
importimed  to  raise ! 

Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dis- 
part now  and  now  combine. 
Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten  their 
master  his  praise  ! 

And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind 
plvmge  down  to  hell. 


568 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


Burrow  awhile  and  build,  broad  on  the  roots 

of  things, 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based 

me  my  palace  well, 
Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the 

nether  springs.  i& 

And  another  would  mount  and  march,  like  the 
excellent  minion  he  was, 
Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd  but 
with  many  a  crest. 
Raising  my  rampired  walls  of  gold  as  transpar- 
ent as  glass. 
Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place  to 
the  rest : 
For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips 
with  fire. 
When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a  festal 
night  — 
Outlined  round  and  round  Rome's  dome  from 
space  to  spire) 
Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and  the 
pride  of  my  soul  was  in  sight.  24 

In  sight?     Not  half!  for  it  seemed,  it  was 
certain,  to  match  man's  birth. 
Nature    in    turn    conceived,    obeying    an 
impulse  as  I ; 
And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  down,  made 
effort  to  reach  the  earth. 
As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my  pas- 
sion, to  scale  the  sky  : 
Novel  splendours  burst  forth,  grew  familiar 
and  dwelt  with  mine. 
Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found  and  fixed 
its  wandering  star; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze :   and  they  did 
not  pale  nor  pine. 
For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there  was 
no  more  near  nor  far.  32 

Nay  more ;  for  there  wanted  not  who  walked 
in  the  glare  and  glow. 
Presences  plain  in  the  place ;  or,  fresh  from 
the  Protoplast,^ 
Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier 
wind  should  blow, 
Lured  now  to  begin  and  live,  in  a  house  to 
their  liking  at  last ; 
Or  else  the  wonderful  Dead  who  have  passed 
through  the  body  and  gone, 
But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an 
old  world  worth  their  new : 


What  never  had  been,  was  now ;  what  was,  as 
it  shaU  be  anon  ; 
And  what  is,  —  shall  I  say,  matched  both  ? 
for  I  was  made  perfect  too.  40 

All  through  ^  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds  to 
a  wish  of  my  soul, 
All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its  wish 
flowed  visibly  forth, 
All  through  music  and  me  !     For  think,  had  I 
painted  the  whole. 
Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor  the 
process  so  wonder- worth  : 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse  —  still, 
effect  proceeds  from  cause, 
Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear 
how  the  tale  is  told ; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience 
to  laws. 
Painter  and  poet  are  proud  in  the  artist-list 
enrolled :  —  48 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will 
that  can,     • 
Existent  behind  all  laws,  that  made  them 
and,  lo,  they  are  ! 
And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be 
allowed  to  man. 
That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a 
fourth  sound,  but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well :    each  tone  of  our  scale  in 
itself  is  naught : 
It  is  everywhere  in  the  world  —  loud,  soft, 
and  all  is  said  : 
Give  it  to  me  to  use  !     I  mix  it  with  two  in  my 
thought : 
And  there  !     Ye  have  heard  and  seen  :  con- 
sider and  bow  the  head  !  56 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music  I 
reared ; 
Gone  !  and  the  good  tears  start,  the  praises 
that  come  too  slow  ; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can  say 
that  he  feared. 
That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone 
thing  was  to  go. 
Never  to  be  again !     But  many  more  of  the 
kind 
As  good,  nay,  better  perchance  :  is  this  your 
comfort  to  me  ? 
To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling 
with  my  mind 


Creator 


^  by  means  of 


RABBI    BEN    EZRA 


569 


To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same 
God  :  ay,  what  was,  shall  be.  64 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  thee,  the  inef- 
fable Name  ? 
Builder  and   maker,  thou,  of   houses   not 
made  with  hands ! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who  art 
ever  the  same  ? 
Doubt  that  thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that 
thy  power  expands  ? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good !     What 
was,  shall  live  as  before  ; 
The  evil  is  null,  is  naught,  is  silence  imply- 
ing sound ; 
What  was  good  shall  be  good,  mth,  for  evil,  so 
much  good  more ; 
On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs  ;  in  the  heaven 
a  perfect  round.  72 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good 
shall  exist ; 
Not  its  semblance,  but  itself ;    no  beauty, 
nor  good,  nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives 
for  the  melodist 
When  eternity  afi&rms  the  conception  of  an 
hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for 
earth  too  hard, 
The  passion  that  left  the  groimd  to  lose 
itself  in  the  sky, 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the 
bard; 
Enough  that  he  heard  it  once  :  we  shall  hear 
it  by  and  by.  80 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's 
evidence 
For  the  fullness  of  the  days  ?  Have  we  with- 
ered or  agonized  ? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that 
singing  might  issue  thence  ? 
Why  rushed  the  discords  in,  but  that  har- 
mony should  be  prized  ? 
Sorrow  is  ha^d  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to 
clear, 
Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the 
weal  and  woe : 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers  in 
the  ear ; 
The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome :   'tis  we 
musicians  know.  88 


Well,  it  is  earth  with  me ;  silence  resumes  her 
reign : 
I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  ac- 
quiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys,     I  feel  for  the  comm.on 
chord  again, 
SHding  by  semitones  till  I  sink  to  the  minor, 
—  yes. 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on 
alien  ground, 
Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled  from 
into  the  deep ; 
WTiich.  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my 
resting-place  is  found. 
The  C  Major  of   this  life:    so,  now  I  will 
try  to  sleep.  96 

RABBI   BEN  EZRA 

Grow  old  along  with  me  ! 
The  best  is  yet  to  be. 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made : 
Our  times  are  in  his  hand 
Who  saith,  "A  whole  I  planned. 
Youth  shows  but  half ;  trust  God  :  see  all,  nor 
be  afraid!"  6 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed,  "Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall  ?" 
Not  that,  admiring  stars. 
It  yearned,  "Nor  Jove,  nor  ]\Iars ; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends, 
transcends  them  all !"  12 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 
Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 
Do  I  remonstrate  :   folly  wide  the  mark  ! 
Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 
Low  kinds  exist  without,  17 

Finished  and  finite  clods,   untroubled  by  a 
spark. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed. 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast : 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men  ; 

Irks  care  ^  the  crop-full  bird  ?  Frets  doubt  ^  the 
maw-crammed  beast  ?  24 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 

To  that  which  doth  provide 

^  Subject  of  the  verb. 


570 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive  ! 
A  spark  disturbs  our  clod  ; 
Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  his  tribes  that  take,  I  must 
believe.  30 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 
That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough. 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go  ! 
Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain  ! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain ; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;    dare,  never 
grudge  the  throe  !  36 

For  thence,  —  a  paradox 
Which  cpmforts  while  it  mocks,  — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail : 
What  I  aspired  to  be, 
And  was  not,  comforts  me : 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not 
sink  i'  the  scale.  42 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit, 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want 

play? 
To  man,  propose  this  test  — 
Thy  body  at  its  best. 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone 

way?  48 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use : 
I  own  the  Past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn : 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole ; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "How  good  to 
live  and  learn"  ?  54 

Not  once  beat  "Praise  be  thine  ! 
I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  love  perfect  too : 
Perfect  I  call  thy  plan  : 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man! 
Maker,    remake,    complete,  —  I    trust    what 
thou  shalt  do  "  ?  60 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh  ; 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  si  ill  yearns  for  rest : 
Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold 
Possessions  of  the  brute,  —  gain  most,  as  we 
did  best  I  66 


Let  us  not  always  say, 

"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the 

whole!" 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 
Let  us  cry,  "All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than 

flesh  helps  soid  ! "  72 

Therefore  I  summon  age 
To  grant  youth's  heritage. 
Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term : 
Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From  the  developed  brute ;   a  god,  though  in 
the  germ.  78 

And  I  shall  thereupon 
Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new: 
Fearless  and  unperplexed. 
When  I  wage  battle  next. 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armour  to  in- 
due.i  84 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 
My  gain  or  loss  thereby  ; 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold : 
And  I  shall  weigh  the  same. 
Give  life  its  praise  or  blame : 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute ;  I  shall  know,  being 
old.  90 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 
A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  grey : 
A  whisper  from  the  west 
Shoots  —  "  Add  this  to  the  rest, 
Take  it  and  try  its  worth :   here  dies  another 
day."  96 

So,  still  within  this  life. 
Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 
Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 
"This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main. 
That  acquiescence  vain : 
The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the 
Past."  p  102 

For  more  is  not  reserved 

To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 

To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day : 

Here,  work  enough  ^  to  watch 

^  put  on         ^  i.e.,  it  is  work  enough 


RABBI    BEN   EZRA 


571 


The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's 
true  play.  108 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 

Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found 

made: 
So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.     Thou  waitedst  age :  wait  death  nor 

be  afraid !  114 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine 

own. 
With  knowledge  absolute, 
Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee 

feel  alone.  120 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all. 
Severed  great  minds  from  small. 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past ! 
Was  I,  the  world  arraigned. 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 
Right  ?     Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us 
peace  at  last !  126 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 
Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 
Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive ; 
Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 
Match  me :   we  all  surmise. 
They  this  thing,  and  I  that :   whom  shall  my 
soul  believe?  132 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "work,"  must  sentence  pass, 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the 

price ; 
O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in 

a  trice:  138 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 
So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 
All  instincts  immature. 
All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the 
man's  amount :  144 


Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  es- 
caped ; 

All  I  could  never  be. 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the 
pitcher  shaped.^  150 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 

That  metaphor  !   and  feel 

Why  lime  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our 

clay,  — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change ;  the  Past  gone, 

seize  to-day  ! "  156 

Fool !     All  that  is,  at  all. 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand 

sure: 
What  entered  into  thee. 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be : 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops :   Potter  and 

clay  endure.  162 

He  fixed  thee  'mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain 
arrest : 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent. 

Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  im- 
pressed. 168 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves. 
Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 
Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 
What  though,  about  thy  rim, 
Skull-things  in  order  grim  1 73 

Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner 
stress  ? 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up  ! 

To  uses  of  a  cup. 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's 

peal. 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 
The  Master's  lips  aglow  ! 
Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  needst 

thou  with  earth's  wheel  ?  180 

^  cf .  Jeremiah  xviii  :  2-6 ;    Isaiah  xlv  :  9 ;   Ro- 
mans ix  :  21. 


572 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


But  I  need,  now  as  then, 
Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men ; 
And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 
Did  I  — -to  the  wheel  of  life. 
With  shapes  and  colours  rife, 
Bound  dizzily  —  mistake  my  end,  to  slake  thy 
thirst:  i86 

So,  take  and  use  thy  work : 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk. 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past 

the  aim !  • 

My  times  be  in  thy  hand  ! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete 

the  same  !  192 

APPARITIONS 

Such  a  starved  bank  of  moss 

Till,  that  May-morn, 
Blue  ran  the  flash  across : 

Violets  were  born  ! 

Sky  —  what  a  scowl  of  cloud 

Till,  near  and  far, 
Ray  on  ray  split  the  shroud : 

Splendid,  a  star ! 

World  —  how  it  walled  about 

Life  with  disgrace  10 

Till  God's  own  smile  came  out : 
That  was  thy  face  ! 

WANTING  IS  — WHAT? 

Wanting  is  —  what  ? 

Summer  redundant, 

Blueness  abundant, 

—  Where  is  the  blot  ? 
Beamy  the  world,  yet  a  blank  all  the  same, 
—  Framework  which  waits  for  a  picture  to 

frame : 
What  of  the  leafage,  what  of  the  flower? 
Roses    embowering    with    naught    they    em- 
bower ! 
Come  then,  complete  incompletion,  O  comer. 
Pant  through  the  blueness,  perfect  the  sum- 
mer !  10 

Breathe  but  one  breath 

Rose-beauty  above. 

And  all  that  was  death 

Grows  life,  grows  love, 

Grows  love ! 


NE^^ER  THE  TIME  AND  THE  PLACE 

Never  the  time  and  the  place 

And  the  loved  one  all  together ! 
This  path  —  how  soft  to  pace  ! 

This  May  —  what  magic  weather  ! 
Where  is  the  loved  one's  face? 
In  a  dream  that  loved  one's  face  meets  mine, 

But  the  house  is  narrow,  the  place  is  bleak, 
Where,  outside,  rain  and  wind  combine 

With  a  furtive  ear,  if  I  strive  to  speak, 

With  a  hostile  eye  at  my  flushing  cheek,  10 

With  a  malice  that  marks  each  word,  each  sign  ! 

O  enemy  sly  and  serpentine, 

Uncoil  thee  from  the  waking  man  ! 
Do  I  hold  the  Past 
Thus  firm  and  fast, 
Yet  doubt  if  the  Future  hold  I  can? 
This  path  so  soft  to  pace  shall  lead 
Through  the  magic  of  May  to  herself  indeed  ! 
Or  narrow  if  needs  the  house  must  be, 
Outside  are  the  storms  and  strangers :  we  — 
Oh,  close,  safe,  warm  sleep  I  and  she,     21 
—  I  and  she  ! 


THE   EPILOGUE   TO  ASOLANDO 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free. 
Will  they  pass  to  where  —  by  death,  fools 

think,  imprisoned  — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you 

loved  so, 

—  Pity  me  ?  5 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken ! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  un- 
manly ? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel 

—  Being  —  who  ?  10 

One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched 
breast  forward,  _ 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break,  ■ 

Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,    ■ 

wrong  would  triumph. 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake.  15 


No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work- 
time 
Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer  ! 


i 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 


573 


Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either 

should  be, 
"  Strive  and  thrive  ! "  cry  "  Speed,  —  fight  on, 

fare  ever 

There  as  here  ! "  20 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACK- 
ERAY  (1811-1863) 

THE  ENGLISH  HUMOURISTS 
STERNE 

Roger  Sterne,  Sterne's  father,  was  the  second 
son  of  a  numerous  race,  descendants  of 
Richard  Sterne,  Archbishop  of  York,  in  the 
reign  of  Charles  II;  and  children  of  Simon 
Sterne  and  Mary  Jaques,  his  wife,  heiress  of 
Elvington,  near  York.  Roger  was  an  ensign 
in  Colonel  Hans  Hamilton's  regiment,  and 
engaged  in  Flanders  in  Queen  x\nne's  wars. 
He  married  the  daughter  of  a  noted  sutler, — 
"N.  B.,  he  was  in  debt  to  him,"  his  son  writes, 
pursuing  the  paternal  biography  —  and 
marched  through  the  world  with  his  com- 
panion ;  she  following  the  regiment  and  bring- 
ing many  children  to  poor  Roger  Sterne.  The 
Captain  was  an  irascible  but  kind  and  simple 
little  man,  Sterne  says,  and  he  informs  us  that 
his  sire  was  run  through  the  body  at  Gibraltar, 
by  a  brother  officer,  in  a  duel  which  arose  out 
of  a  dispute  about  a  goose.  Roger  never  en- 
tirely recovered  from  the  efi'ects  of  this  ren- 
contre, but  died  presently  at  Jamaica,  whither 
he  had  followed  the  drum. 

Laurence,  his  second  child,  was  born  at 
Clonmel,  in  Ireland,  in  1713,  and  travelled 
for  the  first  ten  years  of  his  life,  on  his  father's 
march,  from  barrack  to  transport,  from  Ire- 
land to  England. 

One  relative  of  his  mother's  took  her  and 
her  family  under  shelter  for  ten  months  at 
Mullingar ;  another  collateral  descendant  of 
the  Archbishop's  housed  them  for  a  year  at  his 
castle  near  Carrickfergus.  Larry  Sterne  was 
put  to  school  at  Halifax  in  England,  finally 
was  adopted  by  his  kinsman  of  Elvington,  and 
parted  company  with  his  father,  the  Captain, 
who  marched  on  his  path  of  Uf  e  till  he  met  the 
fatal  goose  which  closed  his  career.  The  most 
picturesque  and  delightful  parts  of  Laurence 
Sterne's  writings  we  owe  to  his  recollections  of 
the  military  life.  Trim's  montero  cap,  and  ' 
Le  Fevre's  sword,  and  dear  Uncle  Toby's  ro- 


quelaure^  are  doubtless  reminiscences  of  the 
boy,  who  had  lived  with  the  followers  of  Wil- 
liam and  Marlborough,  and  had  beat  time  with 
his  little  feet  to  the  fifes  of  Ramillies^  in  Dublin 
barrack-yard,  or  played  with  the  torn  flags 
and  halberds  of  Malplaquet^  on  .the  parade- 
ground  at  Clonmel. 

Laurence  remained  at  Halifax  school  till 
he  was  eighteen  years  old.  His  wit  and  clever- 
ness appear  to  have  acquired  the  respect  of 
his  master  here  ;  for  when  the  usher  *  whipped 
Laurence  for  writing  his  name  on  the  newly 
whitewashed  schoolroom  ceiling,  the  peda- 
gogue in  chief  rebuked  the  understrapper,  and 
said  that  the  name  should  never  be  effaced, 
for  Sterne  was  a  boy  of  genius,  and  would 
come  to  preferment. 

His  cousin,  the  Squire  of  Elvington,  sent 
Sterne  to  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  where  he 
remained  some  years,  and,  taking  orders,^  got, 
through  his  uncle's  interest,  the  living*  of  Sut- 
ton and  aprebendal  stall"  at  York.  Through 
his  wife's  connections  he  got  the  living  of  StiU- 
ington.  He  married  her  in  1741,  having 
ardently  courted  the  young  lady  for  some 
years  previously.  It  was  not  until  the  young 
lady  fancied  herself  dying,  that  she  made 
Sterne  acquainted  with  the  extent  of  her  liking 
for  him.  One  evening  when  he  was  sitting 
with  her,  with  an  almost  broken  heart  to  see 
her  so  ill  (the  Reverend  Mr.  Sterne's  heart 
was  a  good  deal  broken  in  the  course  of  his 
life),  she  said  —  "My  dear  Laurey,  I  never 
can  be  yours,  for  I  verily  believe  I  have  not 
long  to  live  ;  but  I  have  left  you  every  shilling 
of  my  fortune;"  a  generosity  which  over- 
powered Sterne.  She  recovered :  and  so  they 
were  married,  and  grew  heartily  tired  of  each 
other  before  many  years  were  over.  "Nescio 
quid  est  materia  cum  me,"  Sterne  writes  to 
one  of  his  friends  (in  dog-Latin,  and  very  sad 
dog-Latin  too) ;  "sed  sum  fatigatus  et  aegro- 
tus  de  mea  uxore  plus  quam  unquam  : "  which 
means,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  'T  don't  know  what 
is  the  matter  with  me ;  but  I  am  more  tired 
and  sick  of  my  wife  than  ever." 

This  to  be  sure  was  five-and-twenty  years 
after  Laurey  had  been  overcome  by  her  gen- 
erosity, and  she  by  Laurey 's  love.  Then  he 
wrote  to  her  of  the  delights  of  marriage,  say- 

^  See  Tristram  Shandy.  -  a  battle  in  1706 
^  a  battle  in  1 709  ^  assistant  teacher  ^  becoming 
a  clergyman  ®  income  as  rector  ^  income  for 
occasional  services  at  the  cathedral 


574 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY 


ing,  "We  will  be  as  merry  and  as  innocent  as 
our  first  parents  in  Paradise,  before  the  arch- 
fiend entered  that  indescribable  scene.  The 
kindest  affections  will  have  room  to  expand  in 
our  retirement :  let  the  human  tempest  and 
hurricane  rage  at  a  distance,  the  desolation  is 
beyond  the  horizon  of  peace.  My  L.  has  seen 
a  polyanthus  blow  in  December  ?  —  Some 
friendly  wall  has  sheltered  it  from  the  biting 
wind.  No  planetary  influence  shall  reach  us 
but  that  which  presides  and  cherishes  the 
sweetest  flowers.  The  gloomy  family  of  care 
and  distrust  shall  be  banished  from  our  dwell- 
ing, guarded  by  thy  kind  and  tutelar  deity. 
We  will  sing  our  choral  songs  of  gratitude 
and  rejoice  to  the  end  of  our  pilgrimage. 
Adieu,  my  L.  Return  to  one  who  languishes 
for  thy  society !  —  As  I  take  up  my  pen,  my 
poor  pulse  quickens,  my  pale  face  glows,  and 
tears  are  trickling  down  on  my  paper  as  I 
trace  the  word  L." 

And  it  is  about  this  woman,  with  whom  he 
finds  no  fault  but  that  she  bores  him,  that  our 
philanthropist  writes,  "Sum  fatigatus  et 
aegrotus" — Sum  mortalUcr  in  amore^  with 
somebody  else  !  That  fine  flower  of  love,  that 
polyanthus  over  which  Sterne  snivelled  so 
many  tears,  could  not  last  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ! 

Or  rather  it  could  not  be  expected  that  a 
gentleman  with  such  a  fountain  at  command 
should  keep  it  to  a  noser  ^  one  homely  old  lady, 
when  a  score  of  younger  and  prettier  people 
might  be  refreshed  from  the  same  gushing 
source.  It  was  in  December  1767,  that  the 
Reverend  Laurence  Sterne,  the  famous  Shan- 
dean,-^  the  charming  Yorick,^  the  delight  of  the 
fashionable  world,  the  delicious  divine  for 
whose  sermons  the  whole  polite  world  was  sub- 
scribing, the  occupier  of  Rabelais 's  easy-chair, 
only  fresh  stuffed  and  more  elegant  than  when 
in  the  possession  of  the  cynical  old  curate  of 
Meudon,^  —  the  more  than  rival  of  the  Dean 
of  Saint  Patrick's,^  wrote  the  above-quoted 
respectable  letter  to  his  friend  in  London : 
and  it  was  in  April  of  the  same  year  that  he 
was  pouring  out  his  fond  heart  to  Mrs.  Eliza- 
beth Draper,  wife  of  "  Daniel  Draper,  Esquire, 
Councillor  of  Bombay,  and,  in  1775,  chief  of 

'  I  am  mortally  in  love  ^  sprinkle  ^  creator 
of  Tristram  Shandy  *  a  name  assumed  by 
Sterne  in  Tristram  Shandy  from  Hamlet,  V,  i,  iqS 
'  Francois  Rabelais,  a  famous  French  satirist 
(i495?-i553)     8  Swift 


the  factory  of  Surat  —  a  gentleman  very  much 
respected  in  that  quarter  of  the  globe." 

"I  got  thy  letter  last  night,  Eliza,"  Sterne 
writes,  "on  my  return  from  Lord  Bathurst's, 
where  I  dined"  —  (the  letter  has  this  merit 
in  it,  that  it  contains  a  pleasant  reminiscence 
of  better  men  than  Sterne,  and  introduces  us 
to  a  portrait  of  a  kind  old  gentleman)  —  "I 
got  thy  letter  last  night,  Eliza,  on  my  return 
from  Lord  Bathurst's ;  and  where  I  was  heard 
—  as  I  talked  of  thee  an  hour  without  inter- 
mission —  with  so  much  pleasure  and  atten- 
tion, that  the  good  old  Lord  toasted  your 
health  three  different  times ;  and  now  he  is  in 
his  85th  year,  says  he  hopes  to  live  long  enough 
to  be  introduced  as  a  friend  to  my  fair  Indian 
disciple,  and  to  see  her  eclipse  all  other  Nabob- 
esses  as  much  in  wealth  as  she  does  already 
in  exterior  and,  what  is  far  better"  (for  Sterne" 
is  nothing  without  his  morality),  "in  interior 
merit.  This  nobleman  is  an  old  friend  of 
mine.  You  know  he  was  always  the  protector 
of  men  of  wit  and  genius,  and  has  had  those 
of  the  last  century,  Addison,  Steele,  Pope, 
Swift,  Prior,  &c.,  always  at  his  table.  The 
manner  in  which  his  notice  began  of  me  was 
as  singular  as  it  was  polite.  He  came  up  to 
me  one  day  as  I  was  at  the  Princess  of  Wales's 
Court,  and  said,  ''I  want  to  know  you,  Mr. 
Sterne,  but  it  is  fit  you  also  should  know  who 
it  is  that  wishes  this  pleasure.  You  have 
heard  of  an  old  Lord  Bathurst,  of  whom  your 
Popes  and  Swifts  have  sung  and  spoken  so 
much  ?  I  have  lived  my  life  with  geniuses  of 
that  cast ;  but  have  survived  them  ;  and,  de- 
spairing ever  to  find  their  equals,  it  is  some 
years  since  I  have  shut  up  my  books  and  closed 
my  accounts ;  but  you  have  kindled  a  desire 
in  me  of  opening  them  once  more  before  I  die  : 
which  I  nov/  do :  so  go  home  and  dine  with  ■ 
me.'  This  nobleman,  I  say,  is  a  prodigy,  for 
he  has  all  the  wit  and  promptness  of  a  man  of 
thirty;  a  disposition  to  be  pleased,  and  a 
power  to  please  others,  beyond  whatever  I 
knew ;  added  to  which  a  man  of  learning, 
courtesy,  and  feeling. 

"He  heard  me  talk  of  thee,  Eliza,  with  un- 
common satisfaction  —  for  there  was  only  a 
third  person,  and  of  sensibility,  with  us :  and 
a  most  sentimental  ^  afternoon,  till  nine  o'clock 
have  we  passed  !  But  thou,  Eliza,  wert  the 
star  that  conducted  and  enlivened  the  dis- 
course!    And  when  I  talked  not  of  thee,  still 

^  i.e.,  indulging  in  fine  sentiments 


THE    ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 


575 


didst  thou  fill  my  mind,  and  warm  every 
thought  I  uttered,  for  I  am  not  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  I  greatly  miss  thee.  Best  of  all 
good  girls  !  the  sufferings  I  have  sustained  all 
night  in  consequence  of  thine,  Eliza,  are  be- 
yond the  power  of  words.  .  .  .  And  so  thou 
hast  fixed  thy  Bramin's  portrait  over  thy 
writing-desk,  and  wilt  consult  it  in  all  doubts 
and  difficulties? — Grateful  and  good  girl  I 
Yorick  smiles  contentedly  over  aU  thou  dost : 
his  picture  does  not  do  justice  to  his  own  com- 
placency. I  am  glad  your  shipmates  are 
friendly  beings"  (Ehza  was  at  Deal,  going 
back  to  the  Councillor  at  Bombay,  and  in- 
deed it  was  high  time  she  should  be  off). 
"You  could  least  dispense  with  what  is  con- 
trary to  your  own  nature,  which  is  soft  and 
gentle,  Ehza;  it  would  civilise  savages  — 
though  pity  were  it  thou  shouldst  be  tainted 
with  the  office.  Write  to  me,  my  child,  thy 
delicious  letters.  Let  them  speak  the  easy 
carelessness  of  a  heart  that  opens  itself  any- 
how, everyhow.  Such,  Ehza,  I  write  to  thee! " 
(The  artless  rogue,  of  course  he  did!)  "And 
so  I  should  ever  love  thee,  most  artlessly,  most 
affectionately,  if  Providence  permitted  thy  resi- 
dence in  the  same  section  of  the  globe:  for 
I  am  all  that  honour  and  affection  can  make 
me  'Thy  Bramin.'  " 

The  Bramin  continues  addressing  Mrs. 
Draper  until  the  departure  of  the  Earl  of 
Chatham  Indiaman  from  Deal,  on  the  3rd  of 
April  1767.  He  is  amiably  anxious  about  the 
fresh  paint  for  Eliza's  cabin ;  he  is  imcom- 
monly  solicitous  about  her  companions  on 
board :  — 

"I  fear  the  best  of  your  shipmates  are  only 
genteel  by  comparison  with  the  contrasted 
crew  with  which  thou  beholdest  them.  So 
was  —  you  know  who  —  from  the  same  fal- 
lacy which  was  put  upon  your  judgment  when 
—  but  I  will  not  mortify  you!" 

"You  know  who"  was,  of  course,  Daniel 
Draper,  Esquire,  of  Bombay  —  a  gentleman 
very  much  respected  in  that  quarter  of  the 
globe,  and  about  whose  probable  health  oiur 
worthy  Bramin  writes  with  delightful  candour : 

"I  honour  you,  Eliza,  for  keeping  secret 
some  things  which,  if  explained,  had  been  a 
panegyric  on  yourself.  There  is  a  dignity  in 
venerable  affliction  which  will  not  allow  it  to 
appeal  to  the  world  for  pity  or  redress.  Well 
have  you  supported  that  character,  my  ami- 
able, my  philosophic  friend!  And,  indeed,  I 
begin  to  think  you  have  as  many  virtues  as  my 


Uncle  Toby's  widow.  Talking  of  wadows  — 
pray,  Eliza,  if  ever  you  arc  such,  do  not  think 
of  giving  yourself  to  some  wealthy  Nabob, 
because  I  design  to  marr>'  you  myself.  My 
wife  cannot  five  long,  and  I  know  not  the 
woman  I  should  hke  so  well  for  her  substitute 
as  yourself.  'Tis  true  I  am  ninety-five  in  con- 
stitution, and  you  but  twenty-five  ;  but  what 
I  want  in  youth,  I  will  make  up  in  wit  and 
good-humour.  Not  Swift  so  loved  his  Stella, 
Scarron  his  JMaintenon,  or  Waller  his  Saccha- 
rissa.  Tell  me,  in  answer  to  this,  that  )'ou  ap- 
prove and  honour  the  proposal." 

Approve  and  honour  the  proposal !  The 
coward  was  writing  gay  letters  to  his  friends 
this  while,  with  sneering  allusions  to  this  poor 
foohsh  Bromine}  Her  ship  was  not  out  of  the 
Downs  and  the  charming  Sterne  was  at  the 
"Mount  Coffee-house,"  with  a  sheet  of  gilt- 
edged  paper  before  him,  oft'ering  that  precious 

treasure    his    heart   to   Lady   P ,   asking 

whether  it  gave  her  pleasure  to  see  him  un- 
happy ?  whether  it  added  to  her  triumph  that 
her  eyes  and  lips  had  turned  a  man  into  a  fool  ? 
—  quoting  the  Lord's  Prayer,  with  a  horrible 
baseness  of  blasphemy,  as  a  proof  that  he  had 
desired  not  to  be  led  into  temptation,  and 
swearing  himself  the  most  tender  and  sincere 
fool  in  the  world.  It  was  from  his  home  at 
Coxwold,  that  he  w-rote  the  Latin  Letter, 
which,  I  suppose,  he  was  ashamed  to  put  into 
Enghsh.  I  find  in  my  copy  of  the  Letters  that 
there  is  a  note  of,  I  can't  call  it  admiration, 
at  Letter  112,  which  seems  to  announce  that 
there  was  a  No.  3  to  whom  the  wretched  worn- 
out  old  scamp  was  paying  his  addresses ;  and 
the  year  after,  having  come  back  to  his  lodg- 
ings in  Bond  Street,  with  his  "Sentimental 
Journey"  to  lamich  upon  the  town,  eager  as 
ever  for  praise  and  pleasure  —  as  vain,  as 
wicked,  as  witty,  as  false  as  he  had  ever  been, 
death  at  length  seized  the  feeble  wretch,  and 
on  the  iSthof  JNIarch  1768,  that  "bale  of  cadav- 
erous goods,"  as  he  calls  his  body,  was  con- 
signed to  Pluto.  In  his  last  letter  there  is 
one  sign  of  grace  —  the  real  affection  with 
which  he  entreats  a  friend  to  be  a  guardian  to 
his  daughter  Lydia.  AU  his  letters  to  her  are 
artless,  kind,  affectionate,  and  not  sentimen- 
tal;  as  a  hundred  pages  in  his  \\Titings  are 
beautiful,  and  full,  not  of  surprising  humour 
merely,  but  of  genuine  love  and  kindness.  A 
perilous  trade,  indeed,  is  that  of  a  man  who 

^  feminine  of  Brahmin  (invented  by  Sterne) 


576 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 


has  to  bring  his  tears  and  laughter,  his  recol- 
lections, his  personal  griefs  and  joys,  his 
private  thoughts  and  feelings  to  market,  to 
write  them  on  paper,  and  sell  them  for  money. 
Does  he  exaggerate  his  grief,  so  as  to  get  his 
reader's  pity  for  a  false  sensibility?  feign  in- 
dignation, so  as  to  establish  a  character  for 
virtue?  elaborate  repartees,  so  that  he  may 
pass  for  a  wit  ?  steal  from  other  authors,  and 
put  down  the  theft  to  the  credit  side  of  his 
own  reputation  for  ingenuity  and  learning? 
feign  originality?  affect  benevolence  or  mis- 
anthropy? appeal  to  the  gallery  gods  with 
claptraps  and  vulgar  baits  to  catch  applause  ? 
How  much  of  the  pain  and  emphasis  is 
necessary  for  the  fair  business  of  the  stage, 
and  how  much  of  the  rant  and  rouge  is  put  on 
for  the  vanity  of  the  actor?  His  audience 
trusts  him :  can  he  trust  himself  ?  How  much 
was  deliberate  calculation  and  imposture  — ■ 
how  much  was  false  sensibility  —  and  how 
much  true  feeling?  Where  did  the  lie  begin, 
and  did  he  know  where?  and  where  did  the 
truth  end  in  the  art  and  scheme  of  this  man 
of  genius,  this  actor,  this  quack?  Some  time 
since,  I  was  in  the  company  of  a  French  actor 
who  began  after  dinner,  and  at  his  own  re- 
quest, to  sing  French  songs  of  the  sort  called 
des  chansons  grivoises,^  and  v;hich  he  performed 
admirably,  and  to  the  dissatisfaction  of  most 
persons  present.  Having  tinished  these,  he 
commenced  a  sentimental  ballad  —  it  was  so 
charmingly  sung  that  it  touched  all  persons 
present,  and  especially  the  singer  himself, 
whose  voice  trembled,  whose  eyes  filled  with 
emotion,  and  who  was  snivelling  and  weeping 
quite  genuine  tears  by  the  time  his  own  ditty 
was  over.  I  suppose  Sterne  had  this  artistical 
sensibility ;  he  used  to  blubber  perpetually  in 
his  study,  and  finding  his  tears  infectious, 
and  that  they  brought  him  a  great  popu- 
larity, he  exercised  the  lucrative  gift  of  weep- 
ing :  he  utilised  it,  and  cried  on  every  occasion. 
I  own  that  I  don't  value  or  respect  much  the 
cheap  dribble  of  those  fountains.  He  fatigues 
me  with  his  perpetual  disquiet  and  his  imeasy 
appeals  to  my  risible  or  sentimental  faculties. 
He  is  always  looking  in  my  face,  watching  his 
effect,  uncertain  whether  I  think  him  an  im- 
postor or  not ;  posture-making,  coaxing,  and 
imploring  me.  "See  what  sensibility  I  have 
—  own  now  that  I'm  very  clever  —  do  cry 
now,  you  can't  resist  this."     The  humour  of 

^  indecent  songs 


Swift  and  Rabelais,  whom  he  pretended  to 
succeed,  poured  from,  them  as  naturally  as 
song  does  from  a  bird ;  they  lose  no  manly 
dignity  with  it,  but  laugh  their  hearty  great 
laugh  out  of  their  broad  chests  as  nature  bade 
them.  But  this  man  —  who  can  make  yo'i 
laugh,  who  can  make  you  cry  too  —  never  lets 
his  reader  alone,  or  will  permit  his  audience 
repose :  when  you  are  quiet,  he  fancies  he 
must  rouse  you,  and  turns  over  head  and  heels, 
or  sidles  up  and  whispers  a  nasty  story.  The 
man  is  a  great  jester,  not  a  great  hum^ourist. 
He  goes  to  work  systematically  and  of  cold 
blood ;  paints  his  face,  puts  on  his  ruff  and 
motley  clothes,  and  lays  down  his  carpet  and 
tumbles  on  it. 

For  instance,  take  the  "Sentimental  Jour- 
ney," and  see  in  the  writer  the  deliberate  pro- 
pensity to  make  points  and  seek  applause. 
He  gets  to  "Dessein's  Hotel,"  he  wantsacar- 
riage  to  travel  to  Paris,  he  goes  to  the  inn- 
yard,  and  begins  what  the  actors  call  "busi- 
ness" at  once.  There  is  that  little  carriage 
(the  desobligeante^) . 

"Four  months  had  elapsed  since  it  had 
finished  its  career  of  Europe  in  the  corner  of 
Monsieur  Dessein's  coach-yard,  and  having 
sallied  out  thence  but  a  vamped-up  business 
at  first,  though  it  had  been  twice  taken  to 
pieces  on  Mont  Cenis,  it  had  not  profited 
much  by  its  adventures,  but  by  none  so  little 
as  the  standing  so  many  months  unpitied  in 
the  corner  of  jMonsieur  Dessein's  coach-yard. 
Much,  indeed,  was  not  to  be  said  for  it  —  but 
something  might  —  and  when  a  few  words  will 
rescue  misery  out  of  her  distress,  I  hate  the 
man  who  can  be  a  churl  of  them." 

Le  tour  est  fait !  ^  Paillasse  ^  has  tumbled  ! . 
Paillasse  has  jumped  over  the  desobligcante, 
cleared  it,  hood  and  all,  and  bows  to  the  noble 
company.  Does  anybody  beheve  that  this  is 
a  real  Sentiment?  that  this  luxury  of  gener- 
osity, this  gallant  rescue  of  Misery  —  out  of  an 
old  cab,  is  genuine  feeling?  It  is  as  genuine 
as  the  virtuous  oratory  of  Joseph  Surface  '^  when 
he  begins,  "The  man  who,"  etc.,  etc.,  and 
wishes  to  pass  off  for  a  saint  with  his  credu- 
lous, good-humoured  dupes. 

Our  friend  purchases  the  carriage :  after 
turning  that  notorious  old  monk  to  good  ac- 

^  the  disobliging  (because  it  seated  only  one 
person)  -"The  trick  has  been  done."  ^  the 
clown  *  the  hypocrite  in  Sheridan's  School  for 
Scandal 


THE    ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 


577 


count,  and  effecting  (like  a  soft  and  good- 
natured  Paillasse  as  he  was,  and  very  free  with 
his  money  when  he  had  it)  an  exchange  of 
snuff-boxes  with  the  old  Franciscan,  jogs  out 
of  Calais ;  sets  down  in  immense  figures  on  the 
credit  side  of  his  account  the  sous  he  gives 
away  to  the  jMontreuil  beggars ;  and,  at  Nam- 
pont,  gets  out  of  the  chaise  and  whimpers  over 
that  famous  dead  donkey,  for  which  any  sen- 
tunentahst  may  cry  who  will.  It  is  agreeably 
and  skilfuUy  done  —  that  dead  jackass  :  like 
Monsieur  de  Soubise's^  cook  on  the  campaign, 
Sterne  dresses  it,  and  serves  it  up  quite  tender 
and  with  a  ven,-  piquant  sauce.  But  tears  and 
fine  feelings,  and  a  white  pocket-handkerchief, 
and  funeral  sermon,  and  horses  and  feathers, 
and  a  procession  of  mutes,-  and  a  hearse  with 
a  dead  donkey  inside  !  Psha,  mountebank  ! 
I'll  not  give  thee  one  penny  more  for  that 
trick,  donkey  and  all ! 

This  donkey  had  appeared  once  before  vvith 
signal  effect.  In  1765,  three  years  before  the 
publication  of  the  "Sentimental  Journey," 
the  seventh  and  eighth  volumes  of  "Tristram 
Shandy"  were  given  to  the  world,  and  the 
famous  Lyons  donkey  makes  his  entry  in  those 
volumes  (pp.  315,  316) :  — 

"  'Twas  by  a  poor  ass,  with  a  couple  of  large 
panniers  at  his  back,  who  had  just  turned  in 
to  collect  eleemosynary  turnip-tops  and  cab- 
bage-leaves, and  stood  dubious,  with  his  two 
forefeet  at  the  inside  of  the  threshold,  and  with 
his  two  hinder  feet  towards  the  street,  as  not 
knowing  very  well  whether  he  was  to  go  in  or 
no. 

"Now  'tis  an  animal  (be  in  what  hurry  I 
may)  I  cannot  bear  to  strike :  there  is  a 
patient  endurance  of  suffering  wrote  so  un- 
affectedly in  his  looks  and  carriage  which 
pleads  so  mightily  for  him,  that  it  always  dis- 
arms me,  and  to  that  degree  that  I  do  not  like 
to  speak  unkindly  to  him :  on  the  contrary, 
meet  him  where  I  will,  whether  in  town  or 
country,  in  cart  or  under  panniers,  whether  in 
liberty  or  bondage,  I  have  ever  something'civil 
to  say  to  him  on  my  part ;  and,  as  one  word 
begets  another  (if  he  has  as  little  to  do  as  I), 
I  generally  fall  into  conversation  with  him ; 
and  surely  never  is  my  imagination  so  busy  as 
in  framing  responses  from  the  etchings  of  his 

^  The  Prince  de  Soubise,  defeated  in  the  decisive 
battle  of  Rossbach,  regarded  a  good  cook  as 
more  essential  to  a  general  than  any  other  ofiQcial. 
^  hired  mourners 


countenance ;  and  where  those  carry  me  not 
deep  enough,  in  flying  from  my  own  heart 
into  his,  and  seeing  what  is  natural  for  an  ass 
to  think  —  as  well  as  a  man,  upon  the  occa- 
sion. In  truth,  it  is  the  only  creature  of  all 
the  classes  of  beings  below  me  with  whom  I 
can  do  this.  .  .  .  With  an  ass  I  can  commune 
forever. 

"'Come,  Honesty,'  said  I,  seeing  it  was  im- 
practicable to  pass  betwixt  him  and  the  gate, 
'  art  thou  for  coming  in  or  going  out  ? ' 

"The  ass  twisted  his  head  round  to  look  up 
the  street. 

"  'Well ! '  replied  I,  'we'll  wait  a  minute  for 
thy  driver.' 

"He  turned  his  head  thoughtfully  about, 
and  looked  wistfully  the  opposite  way. 

'"I  understand  thee  perfectly,'  answered  I : 
'  if  thou  takest  a  wrong  step  in  this  affair,  he 
wiU  cudgel  thee  to  death.  Well !  a  minute  is 
but  a  minute  ;  and  if  it  saves  a  fellow-creature 
a  drubbing,  it  shall  not  be  set  down  as  ill  spent.' 

"He  was  eating  the  stem  of  an  artichoke 
as  this  discourse  went  on,  and,  in  the  little 
peevish  contentions  between  hunger  and  un- 
savouriness,  had  dropped  it  out  of  his  mouth 
half-a-dozen  times,  and  had  picked  it  up  again. 
'God  help  thee.  Jack!'  said  I,  'thou  hast  a 
bitter  breakfast  on't  — •  and  many  a  bitter 
day's  labour,  and  many  a  bitter  blow,  I  fear, 
for  its  wages !  'Tis  all,  all  bitterness  to  thee 
—  whatever  life  is  to  others  !  And  now  thy 
mouth,  if  one  knew  the  truth  of  it,  is  as  bitter, 
I  dare  say,  as  soot'  (for  he  had  cast  aside  the 
stem) ,  '  and  thou  hast  not  a  friend  perhaps  in 
all  this  world  that  will  give  thee  a  macaroon.' 
In  saying  this,  I  pulled  out  a  paper  of  'em, 
which  I  had  just  bought,  and  gave  him  one; 
and  at  this  moment  that  I  am  telling  it,  my 
heart  smites  me  that  there  was  more  of 
pleasantry  in  the  conceit  of  seeing  how  an  ass 
would  eat  a  macaroon  than  of  benevolence  in 
giving  him  one,  which  presided  in  the  act. 

"When  the  ass  had  eaten  his  macaroon,  I 
pressed  him  to  come  in.  The  poor  beast  was 
heavy  loaded  —  his  legs  seemed  to  tremble 
under  him  —  he  hung  rather  backwards,  and, 
as  I  pulled  at  his  halter,  it  broke  in  my  hand. 
He  looked  up  pensive  in  my  face :  '  Don't 
thrash  me  with  it ;  but  if  you  will  you  may.' 
Tf  I  do,' said  I, 'I'U  be  d— .'_" 

A  critic  who  refuses  to  see  in  this  charming 
description  wit,  humour,  pathos,  a  kind  nature 
speaking,  and  a  real  sentiment,  must  be  hard 
indeed  to  move  and  to  please.     A  page  or  two 


;78 


ARTHUR    HUGH    CLOUGH 


farther  we  come  to  a  description  not  less  beau- 
tiful —  a  landscape  and  figures,  deliciously 
painted  by  one  who  had  the  keenest  enjoy- 
ment and  the  most  tremulous  sensibility :  — 

"'Twas  in  the  road  between  Nismes  and 
Lunel/  where  is  the  best  Muscatto  wine  '^  in  aU 
France:  the  sun  was  set,  they  had  done  their 
work:  the  nymphs  had  tied  up  their  hair 
afresh,  and  the  swains  were  preparing  for  a 
carousal.  My  mule  made  a  dead  point. ^ 
"Tis  the  pipe  and  tambourine,'  said  I  —  'I 
never  will  argue  a  point  with  one  of  your 
family  as  long  as  I  live;'  so  leaping  off  his 
back,  and  kicking  off  one  boot  into  this  ditch 
and  t'other  into  that,  'I'll  take  a  dance,'  said 
I,  'so  stay  you  here.' 

"A  sunburnt  daughter  of  labour  rose  up 
from  the  group  to  meet  me  as  I  advanced 
towards  them ;  her  hair,  which  was  of  a  dark 
chestnut  approaching  to  a  black,  was  tied  up 
in  a  knot,  all  but  a  single  tress. 

" '  We  want  a  cavalier,'  said  she,  holding  out 
both  her  hands,  as  if  to  offer  them.  'And  a 
cavalier  you  shall  have,'  said  I,  taking  hold 
of  both  of  them.  'We  could  not  have  done 
without  you,'  said  she,  letting  go  one  hand, 
with  self-taught  politeness,  and  leading  me  up 
with  the  other. 

"A  lame  youth,  whom  Apollo  had  recom- 
pensed with  a  pipe,  and  to  which  he  had  added 
a  tambourine  of  his  own  accord,  ran  sweetly 
over  the  prelude,  as  he  sat  upon  the  bank. 
'Tie  me  up  this  tress  instantly,'  said  Nannette, 
putting  a  piece  of  string  into  my  hand.  It 
taught  me  to  forget  I  was  a  stranger.  The 
whole  knot  fell  down  —  we  had  been  seven 
years  acquainted.  The  youth  struck  the  note 
upon  the  tambourine,  his  pipe  followed,  and 
off  we  bounded. 

"The  sister  of  the  youth  —  who  had  stolen 
her  voice  from  heaven  —  sang  alternately  with 
her  brother.  'Twas  a  Gascoigne  roundelay : 
'  Viva  la  joia,  fidon  la  Irisiessa.'  '^  The  nymphs 
joined  in  unison,  and  their  swains  an  octave 
below  them. 

"  Viva  la  joia  was  in  Nannette's  lips,  viva 
la  joia  in  her  eyes.  A  transient  spark  of  amity 
shot  across  the  space  betwixt  us.  She  looked 
amiable.  Why  could  I  not  live  and  end  my 
days  thus?  'Just  Disposer  of  our  joys  and 
sorrows  ! '    cried  I,  '  why  could  not  a  man  sit 

^  in  Provence,  where  such  scenes  are  charac- 
teristic ^  muscatel  wine  ^  stopped  like  a  pointer 
dog     *  "Long  live  joy,  down  with  sadness." 


down  in  the  lap  of  content  here,  and  dance, 
and  sing,  and  say  his  prayers,  and  go  to  heaven 
v^ath  this  nut-brown  maid  ? '  Capriciously  did 
she  bend  her  head  on  one  side,  and  dance  up 
insidious.  '  Then  'tis  time  to  dance  off,'  quoth 
L" 

And  with  this  pretty  dance  and  chorus,  the 
volume  artfully  concludes.  Even  here  one 
can't  give  the  whole  description.  There  is  not 
a  page  in  Sterne's  writing  but  has  something 
that  were  better  away,  a  latent  corruption  — 
a  hint,  as  of  an  impure  presence. 

Some  of  that  dreary  double  entendre  ^  may  be 
attributed  to  freer  times  and  manners  than 
ours,  but  not  all.  The  foul  satyr's  eyes  leer 
out  of  the  leaves  constantly :  the  last  words 
the  famous  author  wrote  were  bad  and  wicked 
— •  the  last  lines  the  poor  stricken  wretch 
penned  were  for  pity  and  pardon.  I  think  of 
these  past  writers  and  of  one  who  lives 
amongst  us  now,  and  am  grateful  for  the  in- 
nocent laughter  and  the  sweet  and  unsvdHed 
page  which  the  author  of  "  David  Copperfield  " 
gives  to  my  children. 


ARTHUR   HUGH    CLOUGH 

(1819-1861) 

QUA   CURSUM  VENTUS2 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried ;     4 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprimg  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied. 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side:  8 

E'en  so  —  but  why  the  talc  reveal 

Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  vmchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel, 

Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged?       12 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled. 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed,  15 

Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared ! 

'"double   meaning,"   suggesting   an   indecent 
idea  ^  Whithersoever  the  wind  directs  the  course. 


EASTER    DAY 


579 


To  veer,  how  vain !    On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks  !     In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through    winds   and    tides    one   compass 
guides  — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true.      20 

But  O  bUthe  breeze ;  and  O  great  seas. 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again. 

Together  lead  them  home  at  last.  24 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought. 

One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare,  — 
O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas  ! 

At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there  I  28 


\MTH  WHO^I  IS  NO  \'ARIABLENESS, 
NEITHER  SHADOW  OF  TURNING  ^ 

It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know 

That,  though  I  perish,  Truth  is  so ; 

That,  howsoe'er  I  stray  and  range^ 

Whate'er  I  do.  Thou  dost  not  change. 

I  steadier  step  when  I  recall 

That,  if  I  slip,  Thou  dost  not  fall. 


EASTER  DAY 
I 

Naples,  1849 

Through  the  great  sinful  streets  of  Naples  as 
I  past, 
With  fiercer  heat  than  flamed  above  my 
head 
My  heart  was  hot  within  me ;   till  at  last 
INIy  brain  v^-as  lightened  when  my  tongue 
had  said  — ■ 
Christ  is  not  risen  !  5 

Christ  is  not  risen,  no  — 
He  hes  and  moulders  low ; 
Christ  is  not  risen  ! 

What  though  the  stone  were  rolled  away,  and 
though 

The  grave  found  empty  there  ?  —  10 

If  not  there,  then  elsewhere  ; 
If  not  where  Joseph  laid  Him  first,  why  then 

WTiere  other  men 


Translaid  Him  after,  in  some  humbler  clay. 

Long  ere  to-day  1 5 

Corruption  that  sad  perfect  work  hath  done, 
Which  here  she  scarcely,  lightly  had  begun : 

The  foul  engendered  worm 
Feeds  on  the  flesh  of  the  life-giving  form 
Of  our  most  Holy  and  Anointed  One.  20 

He  is  not  risen,  no  — 

He  lies  and  moulders  low ; 
Christ  is  not  risen. 

What  if  the  women,  ere  the  dawn  was  grey. 
Saw  one  or  more  great  angels,  as  they  say  25 
(Angels,  or  Him  himself)  ?     Yet  neither  there, 

nor  then. 
Nor  afterwards,  nor  elsewhere,  nor  at  all. 
Hath  He  appeared  to  Peter  or  the  Ten  ;  ^ 
Nor,  save  in  thunderous  terror,  to  blind  Said ; 
Save  in  an  after  Gospel  and  late  Creed,       30 
He  is  not  risen,  indeed,  — 
Christ  is  not  risen  ! 

Or,  what  if  e'en,  as  runs  a  tale,  the  Ten 
Saw,    heard,    and    touched,    again    and   yet 

again? 
What  if  at  Emmaus'  inn,  and  by  Capernaum's 
Lake, 
Came  One,  the  bread  that  brake  —     36 
Came  One  that  spake  as  never  mortal  spake, 
And  with  them  ate,  and  drank,  and  stood,  and 
walked  about? 
Ah,  "some"  did  well  to  "doubt"! - 
Ah  !  the  true  Christ,  while  these  things  came 
to  pass,  40 

Nor  heard,  nor  spake,  nor  walked,  nor  lived, 
alas ! 
He  was  not  risen,  no  — 
He  lay  and  mouldered  low, 
Christ  was  not  risen  ! 


As  circulates  in  som.e  great  city  crowd        45 
A  rumour  changeful,  vague,  importunate,  and 

loud. 
From  no  determined  centre,  or  of  fact 
Or  authorship  exact, 
Which  no  man  can  deny 

Nor  verify ;  50 

So  spread  the  wondrous  fame ; 
He  all  the  same 

Lay  senseless,  mouldering,  low : 
He  was  not  risen,  no  — 

Christ  was  not  risen.  55 


^  James  i :  17 


^  apostles 


-  of.  Matt,  xxviii :  17 


58o 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 


Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 

As  of  the  unjust,  also  of  the  just  — 

Yea,  of  that  Just  One,  too  ! 
This  is  the  one  sad  Gospel  that  is  true 
Christ  is  not  risen  ! 


60 


Is  He  not  risen,  and  shall  we  not  rise? 

Oh,  we  unwise ! 
What  did  we  dream,  what  wake  we  to  dis- 
cover ? 
Ye  hills,  fall  on  us,  and  ye  mountains,  cover  ! 
In  darkness  and  great  gloom  65 

Come  ere  we  thought  it  is  our  day  of  doom ; 
From  the  cursed  world,  which  is  one  tomb, 
Christ  is  not  risen  ! 

Eat,  drink,  and  play,  and  think  that  this  is 

bliss : 
There  is  no  heaven  but  this ;  70 

There  is  no  hell. 
Save  earth,  which  serves  the  purpose  doubly 
well. 
Seeing  it  visits  stUl 
With  equalest  apportionment  of  ill 
Both  good  and  bad  alike,  and  brings  to  one 
same  dust  75 

The  unjust  and  the  just 
With  Christ,  who  is  not  risen. 

Eat,  drink,  and  die,  for  we  are  souls  bereaved  : 
Of  all  the  creatures  under  heaven's  wide 

cope 
We  are  most  hopeless,  who  had  once  most 
hope, 
And  most  beliefless,  that  had  most  believed. 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ;  82 

As  of  the  unjust,  also  of  the  just  — 

Yea,  of  that  Just  One  too  ! 
It  is  the  one  sad  Gospel  that  is  true  — 
Christ  is  not  risen  !  86 

W^eep  not  beside  the  tomb. 
Ye  women,  unto  whom 
He  was  great  solace  while  ye  tended  Him ; 
Ye  who  with  napkin  o'er  the  head         90 
And  folds  of  linen  round  each  wounded  limb 
Laid  out  the  Sacred  Dead  ; 
And  thou  that  bar'st  Him  in  thy  wondering 

womb ; 
Yea,  Daughters  of  Jerusalem,  depart, 
Bind  up  as  best  ye  may  your  own  sad  bleed- 
ing heart :  95 
Go  to  your  homes,  your  living  children  tend, 
Your  earthly  spouses  love  ; 
Set  your  affections  not  on  things  above, 


Which  moth  and  rust  corrupt,  which  quickliest 

come  to  end : 
Or  pray,  if  pray  ye  must,  and  pray,  if  pray  ye 
can,  100 

For  death  ;  since  dead  is  He  whom  ye  deemed 
more  than  man. 
Who  is  not  risen  :   no  — 
But  lies  and  moulders  low  — 
Who  is  not  risen. 

Ye  men  of  Galilee  !  105 

Why  stand  ye  looking  up  to  heaven,  where 

Him  ye  ne'er  may  see. 
Neither  ascending  hence,  nor  returning  hither 
again  ? 
Ye  ignorant  and  idle  fishermen  ! 
Hence  to  your  huts,  and  boats,  and  inland 
native  shore, 
And  catch  not  men,  but  fish;  no 

Whate'er  things  ye  might  wish. 
Him  neither  here  nor  there  ye  e'er  shall  meet 
with  more. 
Ye  poor  deluded  youths,  go  home, 
Mend  the  old  nets  ye  left  to  roam, 
Tie  the  split  oar,  patch  the  torn  sail :  115 
It  was  indeed  an  "idle  tale"  — 
He  was  not  risen  ! 

And,  oh,  good  men  of  ages  yet  to  be, 
Who  shall  believe  because  ye  did  not  see  — 
Oh,  be  ye  warned,  be  wise  !  120 

No  more  with  pleading  eyes. 
And  sobs  of  strong  desire, 
Unto  the  empty  vacant  void  aspire, 
Seeking  another  and  impossible  birth 
That  is  not  of  your  own,  and  only  mother 
earth.  125 

But  if  there  is  no  other  life  for  you, 
Sit  down  and  be  content,  since  this  must  even 
do: 
He  is  not  risen  ! 

One  look,  and  then  depart,- 
Ye  humble  and  ye  holy  men  of  heart ;  130 
And  ye  !  ye  ministers  and  stewards  of  a  Word 
Which    ye    would    preach,    because    another 
heard  — 
Ye  worshippers  of  that  ye  do  not  know, 
Take  these  things  hence  and  go :  — 
He  is  not  risen  !  13S 

Here,  on  our  Easter  Day 
We  rise,  we  come,  and  lo !    we  find  Him  not. 
Gardener  nor  other,  on  the  sacred  spot : 
Where  they  have  laid  Him  there  is  none  to  say  ; 


SAY   NOT   THE    STRUGGLE   NOUGHT   AVAILETH 


581 


No  sound,  nor  in,  nor  out  —  no  word         140 
Of  where  to  seek  the  dead  or  meet  the  living 

Lord. 
There  is  no  glistering  of  an  angel's  wings, 
There  is  no  voice  of  heavenly  clear  behest : 
Let  us  go  hence,  and  think  upon  these  things 

In  silence,  which  is  best.  145 

Is  He  not  risen  ?     No  — 

But  lies  and  moulders  low? 
Christ  is  not  risen? 


For  all  that  breathe  beneath  the  heaven's  high 

cope, 
Joy  with  grief  mixes,  with  despondence  hope. 
Hope  conquers  cowardice,  joy  grief : 
Or  at  least,  faith  unbelief. 

Though  dead,  not  dead  ; 

Not  gone,  though  fled  ; 

Not  lost,  though  vanished. 

In  the  great  gospel  and  true  creed, 

He  is  yet  risen  indeed  ;  40 

Christ  is  yet  risen. 


EASTER  DAY 


II 


So  in  the  sinful  streets,  abstracted  and  alone, 
I  with  my  secret  self  held  communing  of  mine 
own. 
So  in  the  southern  city  spake  the  tongue 
Oi  one  that  somewhat  overwildly  sung, 
But  in  a  later  hour  I  sat  and  heard 
Another  voice  that  spake  —  another  graver 

word. 
Weep  not,  it  bade,  whatever  hath  been  said, 
Though  He  be  dead,  He  is  not  dead. 
In  the  true  creed 

He  is  yet  risen  indeed ;  10 

Christ  is  yet  risen. 

Weep  not  beside  His  tomb, 

Ye  women  unto  v/hom 

He  was  great  comfort  and  yet  greater  grief ; 

Nor  ye,  ye  faithful  few  that  wont  with  Him 

to  roam. 
Seek  sadly  what  for  Him  ye  left,  go  hopeless  to 

your  home ; 
Nor  ye  despair,  ye  sharers  yet  to  be  of  their 
belief ; 
Though  He  be  dead,  He  is  not  dead. 
Nor  gone,  though  fled. 
Not  lost,  though  vanished  ;  20 

Though  He  return  not,  though 
He  lies  and  moulders  low ; 
In  the  true  creed 
He  is  yet  risen  indeed  ; 
Christ  is  yet  risen. 

Sit  if  ye  will,  sit  down  upon  the  ground. 
Yet  not  to  weep  and  wail,  but  calmly  look 
around. 

Whate'er  befell, 

Earth  is  not  hell ; 
Now,  too,  as  when  it  first  began,  30 

Life  is  yet  life,  and  man  is  man. 

AE 


"PERCHE    PENSA?     PENSANDO 
S'lNVECCHIA"! 

To  spend  uncounted  years  of  pain, 

Again,  again,  and  yet  again. 

In  working  out  in  heart  and  brain 

The  problem  of  our  being  here ; 
To  gather  facts  from  far  and  near, 
Upon  the  mind  to  hold  them  clear, 
And,  knowing  more  may  yet  appear, 
Unto  one's  latest  breath  to  fear. 
The  premature  result  to  draw  — 
Is  this  the  object,  end,  and  law. 

And  purpose  of  our  being  here? 


SAY   NOT   THE    STRUGGLE   NOUGHT 
AVAILETH 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth. 
The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth. 

And  as  things  have  been  they  remain.        4 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars ; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed. 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field.  8 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking. 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making,. 
Comes  sflent,  flooding  in,  the  main.  12 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only. 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light. 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slow'ly, 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright.     16 

^  "  Why  think  ?     By  thinking  one  grows  old  " 


S82 


JOHN   RUSKIN 


JOHN  RUSKIN   (1819-1900) 

THE   STONES  OF  VENICE 

VOL.  II.    CHAP.  IV. 

St.  Mark's 

§  X.  And  now  I  wish  that  the  reader,  be- 
fore I  bring  him  into  St.  Mark's  Place,  would 
imagine  himself  for  a  little  time  in  a  quiet 
English  cathedral  town,  and  walk,  with  me  to 
the  west  front  of  its  cathedral.  Let  us  go 
together  up  the  more  retired  street,  at  the  end 
of  which  we  can  see  the  pinnacles  of  one  of 
the  towers,  and  then  through  the  low  gray 
gateway,  with  its  battlemented  top  and  small 
latticed  window  in  the  centre,  into  the  inner 
private-looking  road  or  close,  where  nothing 
goes  in  but  the  carts  of  the  tradesmen  who 
supply  the  bishop  and  the  chapter,  and  where 
there  are  little  shaven  grass-plots,  fenced  in 
by  neat  rails,  before  old-fashioned  groups  of 
somewhat  diminutive  and  excessively  trim 
houses,  with  little  oriel  and  bay  windows 
jutting  out  here  and  there,  and  deep  wooden 
cornices  and  eaves  painted  cream  colour  and 
white,  and  small  porches  to  their  doors  in  the 
shape  of  cockle-shells,  or  little,  crooked,  thick, 
indescribable  wooden  gables  warped  a  little 
on  one  side ;  and  so  forward  till  we  come  to 
larger  houses,  also  old-fashioned,  but  of  red 
brick,  and  with  gardens  behind  them,  and 
fruit  walls,  which  show  here  and  there,  among 
the  nectarines,  the  vestiges  of  an  old  cloister 
arch  or  shaft,  and  looking  in  front  on  the 
cathedral  square  itself,  laid  out  in  rigid  divi- 
sions of  smooth  grass  and  gravel  walk,  yet  not 
uncheerf ul,  especially  on  the  sunny  side  where 
the  canons'  children  are  walking  with  their 
nurserymaids.  And  so,  taking  care  not  to 
tread  on  the  grass,  we  will  go  along  the 
straight  walk  to  the  west  front,  and  there 
stand  for  a  time,  looking  up  at  its  deep- 
pointed  porches  and  the  dark  places  between 
their  pillars  where  there  were  statues  once, 
and  where  the  fragments,  here  and  there,  of  a 
stately  figure  are  still  left,  which  has  in  it 
the  likeness  of  a  king,  perhaps  indeed  a  king 
on  earth,  perhaps  a  saintly  king  long  ago  in 
heaven;  and  so,  higher  and  higher  up  to  the 
great  mouldering  wall  of  rugged  sculpture 
and  confused  arcades,  shattered,  and  gray, 
and  grisly  with  heads  of  dragons  and  mocking 
fiends,  worn  by  the  rain  and  swirling  winds 


into  yet  unseemlier  shape,  and  coloured  on 
their  stony  scales  by  the  deep  russet-orange 
lichen,  melancholy  gold ;  and  so,  higher  still, 
to  the  bleak  towers,  so  far  above  that  the" 
eye  loses  itself  among  the  bosses  of  their 
traceries,  though  they  are  rude  and  strong, 
and  only  sees,  like  a  drift  of  eddying  black 
points,  now  closing,  now  scattering,  and  now 
settling  suddenly  into  invisible  places  among 
the  bosses  and  flowers,  the  crowd  of  rest- 
less birds  that  fill  the  whole  square  with  that 
strange  clangour  of  theirs,  so  harsh  and  yet 
so  soothing,  like  the  cries  of  birds  on  a  soli- 
tary coast  between  the  cliffs  and  sea. 

§  XI.  Think  for  a  little  while  of  that  scene, 
and  the  meaning  of  all  its  smaU  formalisms, 
mixed  with  its  serene  sublimity.  Estimate  its 
secluded,  continuous,  drowsy  felicities,  and 
its  evidence  of  the  sense  and  steady  perform- 
ance of  such  kind  of  duties  as  can  be  regu- 
lated by  the  cathedral  clock;  and  weigh  the 
influence  of  those  dark  towers  on  all  who  have 
passed  through  the  lonely  square  at  their  feet 
for  'centuries,  and  on  all  who  have  seen  them 
rising  far  away  over  the  wooded  plain,  or 
catching  on  their  square  masses  the  last  rays 
of  the  sunset,  when  the  city  at  their  feet  was 
indicated  only  by  the  mist  at  the  bend  of  the 
river.  And  then  let  us  quickly  recollect  that 
we  are  in  Venice,  and  land  at  the  extremity  of 
the  Calle  Lunga  San  Moise,  which  may  be 
considered  as  there  answering  to  the  secluded 
street  that  led  us  to  our  English  cathedral 
gateway. 

§  XII.  We  find  ourselves  in  a  paved  alley, 
some  seven  feet  wide  where  it  is  widest,  full 
of  people,  and  resonant  with  cries  of  itinerant 
salesmen  —  a  shriek  in  their  beginning,  and 
dying  away  into  a  kind  of  brazen  ringing,  all 
the  worse  for  its  confinement  between  the  high 
houses  of  the  passage  along  which  we  have 
to  make  our  way.  Over-head  an  inextricable 
confusion  of  rugged  shutters,  and  iron  balco- 
nies and  chimney  flues  pushed  out  on  brackets 
to  save  room,  and  arched  windows  with  pro- 
jecting sills  of  Istrian  stone,  and  gleams  of 
green  leaves  here  and  there  where  a  fig-tree 
branch  escapes  over  a  lower  wall  from  some 
inner  cortile,^  leading  the  eye  up  to  the  narrow 
stream  of  blue  sky  high  over  all.  On  each 
side,  a  row  of  shops,  as  densely  set  as  may 
be,  occupying,  in  fact,  intervals  between  the 
square  stone  shafts,  about  eight  feet  high, 

^  courtyard 


THE    STONES   OF    VENICE 


583 


which  carry  the  first  floors :  intervals  of  which 
one  is  narrow  and  serves  as  a  door  ;  the  other 
is,  in  the  more  respectable  shops,  wainscotted 
to  the  height  of  the  counter  and  glazed  above, 
but  in  those  of  the  poorer  tradesmen  left  open 
to  the  ground,  and  the  wares  laid  on  benches 
and  tables  in  the  open  air,  the  light  in  all 
cases  entering  at  the  front  only,  and  fading 
away  in  a  few  feet  from  the  threshold  into  a 
gloom  which  the  eye  from  without  cannot 
penetrate,  but  which  is  generally  broken  by  a 
ray  or  two  from  a  feeble  lamp  at  the  back 
of  the  shop,  suspended  before  a  print  of  the 
Virgin.  The  less  pious  shopkeeper  sometimes 
leaves  his  lamp  unlighted,  and  is  contented 
with  a  penny  print ;  the  more  religious  one  has 
his  print  coloured  and  set  in  a  little  shrine  with 
a  gilded  or  figured  fringe,  with  perhaps  a 
faded  flower  or  two  on  each  side,  and  his 
lamp  burning  brilliantly.  Here  at  the  fruit- 
erer's, where  the  dark-green  water-melons  are 
heaped  upon  the  counter  like  cannon  balls, 
the  Madonna  has  a  tabernacle  of  fresh  laurel 
leaves ;  but  the  pewterer  next  door  has  let 
his  lamp  out,  and  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen 
in  his  shop  but  the  dull  gleam  of  the  studded 
patterns  on  the  copper  pans,  hanging  from 
his  roof  in  the  darkness.  Next  comes  a 
"Vendita  Frittole  e  Liquori,"^  where  the 
Virgin,  enthroned  in  a  very  humble  manner 
beside  a  tallow  candle  on  a  back  shelf,  pre- 
sides over  certain  ambrosial  morsels  of  a 
nature  too  ambiguous  to  be  defined  or  enu- 
merated. But  a  few  steps  farther  on,  at  the 
regular  wine-shop  of  the  calle,^  where  we  are 
offered  "  Vino  Nostrani  a  .Soldi  28.32,"^  the 
Madonna  is  in  great  glory,  enthroned  above 
ten  or  a  dozen  large  red  casks  of  three-year- 
old  vintage,  and  flanked  by  goodly  ranks  of 
bottles  of  Maraschino,  and  two  crimson  lamps; 
and  for  the  evening,  when  the  gondoHers  will 
come  to  drink  otit,  under  her  auspices,  the 
money  they  have  gained  during  the  day,  she 
will  have  a  whole  chandelier. 

§  XIII.  A  yard  or  two  farther,  we  pass  the 
hostelry  of  the  Black  Eagle,  and,  glancing  as 
we  pass  through  the  square  door  of  marble, 
deeply  moulded,  in  the  outer  wall,  we  see  the 
shadows  of  its  pergola  of  vines  resting  on  an 
ancient  well,  with  a  pointed  shield  carved  on 
its  side  ;  and  so  presently  emerge  on  the  bridge 
and  Campo    San  JMoise,  whence  to    the  en- 


trance into  St.  Mark's  Place,  called  the  Bocca 
di  Piazza  (mouth  of  the  square),  the  Vene- 
tian character  is  nearly  destroyed,  first  by  the 
frightful  fagade  of  San  Moise,  which  we  will 
pause  at  another  time  to  examine,  and  then 
by  the  modernising  of  the  shops  as  they  near 
the  piazza,  and  the  mingling  with  the  lower 
Venetian  populace  of  lounging  groups  of  Eng- 
lish and  Austrians.^  We  will  push  fast  through 
them  into  the  shadow  of  the  pillars  at  the  end 
of  the  "Bocca  di  Piazza,"  and  then  we  forget 
them  all ;  for  between  those  pillars  there  opens 
a  great  light,  and,  in  the  midst  of  it,  as  we 
advance  slowly,  the  vast  tower  of  St.  Mark 
seems  to  lift  itself  visibly  forth  from  the  level 
field  of  chequered  stones ;  and,  on  each  side, 
the  coimtless  arches  prolong  themselves  into 
ranged  symmetry,  as  if  the  rugged  and  irregu- 
lar houses  that  pressed  together  above  us  in 
the  dark  alley  had  been  struck  back  into 
sudden  obedience  and  lovely  order,  and  all 
their  rude  casements  and  broken  walls  had 
been  transformed  mto  arches  charged  with 
goodly  sculpture,  and  fluted  shafts  of  delicate 
stone. 

§  XIV.  And  well  may  they  fall  back,  for 
beyond  those  troops  of  ordered  arches  there 
rises  a  vision  out  of  the  earth,  and  all  the  great 
square  seems  to  have  opened  from  it  in  a 
kind  of  awe,  that  we  may  see  it  far  away —  a 
multitude  of  pillars  and  white  domes,  clustered 
into  a  long  low  pjnramid  of  coloured  light ;  a 
treasure-heap,  it  seems,  partly  of  gold,  and 
partly  of  opal  and  mother-of-pearl,  hollowed 
beneath  into  five  great  vaulted  porches,  ceiled 
with  fair  mosaic,  and  beset  with  sculpture  of 
alabaster,  clear  as  amber  and  delicate  as 
ivory  —  sculpture  fantastic  and  involved,  of 
palm  leaves  atid  lilies,  and  grapes  and  pome- 
granates, and  birds  clinging  and  fluttering 
among  the  branches,  all  twined  together  into 
an  endless  network  of  buds  and  plumes ;  and, 
in  the  midst  of  it,  the  solemn  forms  of  angels, 
sceptred,  and  robed  to  the  feet,  and  leaning  to 
each  other  across  the  gates,  their  figures  in- 
distinct among  the  gleaming  of  the  golden 
ground  through  the  leaves  beside  them,  inter- 
rupted and  dim,  like  the  morning  light  as  it 
faded  back  among  the  branches  of  Eden, 
when  first  its  gates  were  angel-guarded  long 
ago.  And  round  the  walls  of  the  porches 
there   are   set    pfllars   of   variegated   stones, 


^  shop  for  cakes  and  drinks 
of  the  district  at  28.32  pence 


street 


^  At    the    time   Ruskin   was    writing    Venice 
belonged  to  Austria. 


584 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


jasper  and  porphyry,  and  deep-green  serpen- 
tine spotted  with  flakes  of  snow,  and  marbles, 
that  half  refuse  and  half  yield  to  the  sunshine, 
Cleopatra-like,  "  their  bluest  veins  to  kiss  "  ^  — 
the  shadow,  as  it  steals  back  from  them,  re- 
vealing line  after  line  of  azure  undulation,  as 
a  receding  tide  leaves  the  waved  sand ;  their 
capitals  rich  with  interwoven  tracery,  rooted 
knots  of  herbage,  and  drifting  leaves  of  acan- 
thus and  vine,  and  mystical  signs,  all  begin- 
ning and  ending  in  the  Cross ;  and  above 
them,  in  the  broad  archivolts,  a  continuous 
chain  of  language  and  of  life  —  angels,  and 
the  signs  of  heaven,  and  the  labours  of  men, 
each  in  its  appointed  season  upon  the  earth ; 
and  above  these,  another  range  of  glittering 
pinnacles,  mixed  with  white  arches  edged  with 
scarlet  flowers  —  a  confusion  of  delight, 
amidst  which  the  breasts  of  the  Greek  horses 
are  seen  blazing  in  their  breadth  of  golden 
strength,  and  the  St.  Mark's  Lion,  lifted  on  a 
blue  field  covered  with  stars,  until  at  last,  as 
if  in  ecstasy,  the  crests  of  the  arches  break 
into  a  marble  foam,  and  toss  themselves  far 
into  the  blue  sky  in  flashes  and  wreaths  of 
sculptured  spray,  as  if  the  breakers  on  the 
Lido  -  shore  had  been  frost-bound  before  they 
fell,  and  the  sea-nymphs  had  inlaid  them  with 
coral  and  amethyst. 

Between  that  grim  cathedral  of  England 
and  this,  what  an  interval !  There  is  a  type 
of  it  in  the  very  birds  that  haunt  them ;  for, 
instead  of  the  restless  crowd,  hoarse-voiced 
and  sable-winged,  drifting  on  the  bleak  upper 
air,  the  St.  Mark's  porches  are  full  of  doves, 
that  nestle  among  the  marble  foliage,  and 
mingle  the  soft  iridescence  of  their  living 
plumes,  changing  at  every  motion,  with  the 
tints,  hardly  less  lovely,  that  have  stood  un- 
changed for  seven  hundred  years. 

§  XV.  And  what  effect  has  this  splendour 
on  those  who  pass  beneath  it?  You  may 
walk  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  to  and  fro,  before 
the  gateway  of  St.  Mark's,  and  you  will  not 
see  an  eye  lifted  to  it,  nor  a  countenance 
brightened  by  it.  Priest  and  layman,  soldier 
and  civilian,  rich  and  poor,  pass  by  it  alike 
regardlessly.  Up  to  the  very  recesses  of  the 
porches,  the  meanest  tradesmen  of  the  city 
push  their  counters ;  nay,  the  foundations  of 
its  pillars  are  themselves  the  seats  —  not  "of 

^  of.  Ant.  and  Cleo.,  II,  v,  29  ^  a  stretch  of 
sandy  islets  separating  the  Lagoon  of  Venice 
from  the  Gulf  of  Venice 


them  that  sell  doves  "^  for  sacrifice,  but  of  the 
vendors  of  toys  and  caricatures.  Round  the 
whole  square  in  front  of  the  church  there  is 
almost  a  continuous  line  of  cafes,  where  the 
idle  Venetians  of  the  middle  classes  lounge, 
and  read  empty  journals ;  in  its  centre  the 
Austrian  bands  play  during  the  time  of  ves- 
pers, their  martial  music  jarring  with  the 
organ  notes  —  the  march  drowning  the 
miserere,  and  the  sifllen  crowd  thickening 
round  them  —  a  crowd,  which,  if  it  had  its 
vv'ill,  would  stiletto  every  soldier  that  pipes  to 
it.  And  in  the  recesses  of  the  porches,  all 
day  long,  knots  of  men  of  the  lowest  classes, 
unemployed  and  listless,  lie  basking  in  the 
sun  like  lizards ;  and  unregarded  children  — ^ 
every  heavy  glance  of  their  young  eyes  full 
of  desperation  and  stony  depravity,  and  their 
throats  hoarse  with  cursing  —  gamble,  and 
fight,  and  snarl,  and  sleep,  hour  after  hour, 
clashing  their  bruised  centesimi^  upon  the 
marble  ledges  of  the  church  porch.  And  the 
images  of  Christ  and  His  angels  look  down 
upon  it  continually. 


From   THE    CROWN   OF   WILD    OLIVE 

PREFACE 

Twenty  years  ago,  there  was  no  lovelier 
piece  of  lowland  scenery  in  South  England, 
nor  any  more  pathetic  in  the  world,  by  its 
expression  of  sweet  human  character  and  life, 
than  that  immediately  bordering  on  the 
sources  of  the  Wandle,^  and  including  the  lower 
moors  of  Addington,  and  the  villages  of  Bed- 
dington  and  Carshalton,  with  all  their  pools 
and  streams.  No  clearer  or  diviner  waters 
ever  sang  with  constant  lips  of  the  hand  which 
"  giveth  rain  from  heaven  "  ;  ^  no  pastures  ever 
lightened  in  spring  time  with  more  passionate 
blossoming ;  no  sweeter  homes  ever  hallowed 
the  heart  of  the  passer-by  with  their  pride  of 
peaceful  gladness  —  fain-hidden  —  yet  full- 
confessed.  The  place  remains,  or,  until  a  few 
months  ago,  remained,  nearly  unchanged  in 
its  larger  features ;  but,  with  deliberate  mind 
I  say,  that  I  have  never  seen  anything  so 
ghastly  in  its  inner  tragic  meaning,  —  not  in 

^  cf.  Matt,  xxi  -.12,  Mark  xi  :  15  ^  coins  worth 
about  one-fifth  of  a  cent  ^  a  river  that  rises 
in  Surrey  a  few  miles  south  of  London  *  cf . 
Job  V : 10 


THE    CROWN   OF    WILD    OLIVE 


58s 


Pisan  Maremma/  —  not  by  Campagna-  tomb, 

—  not  by  the  sand-isles  of  the  Torcellan  shore,* 

—  as  the  slow  stealing  of  aspects  of  reckless, 
indolent,  animal  neglect,  over  the  delicate 
sweetness  of  that  English  scene :  nor  is  any 
blasphemy  or  impiety  —  any  frantic  saying 
or  godless  thought  —  more  appalling  to  me, 
using  the  best  power  of  judgment  I  have  to 
discern  its  sense  and  scope,  than  the  insolent 
defihngs  of  those  springs  by  the  human  herds 
that  drink  of  them.  Just  where  the  welling 
of  stainless  water,  trembling  and  pure,  like  a 
body  of  light,  enters  the  pool  of  Carshalton, 
cutting  itself  a  radiant  channel  down  to  the 
gravel,  through  warp  of  feathery  weeds,  all 
waving,  which  it  traverses  with  its  deep 
threads  of  clearness,  like  the  chalcedony  in 
moss-agate,  starred  here  and  there  with  white 
grenouillette  ;*  just  in  the  very  rush  and  mur- 
mur of  the  first  spreading  currents,  the  human 
wretches  of  the  place  cast  their  street  and 
house  foulness ;  heaps  of  dust  and  slime,  and 
broken  shreds  of  old  metal,  and  rags  of  putrid 
clothes  ;  they  having  neither  energy  to  cart  it 
away,  nor  decency  enough  to  dig  it  into  the 
ground,  thus  shed  into  the  stream,  to  diffuse 
what  venom  of  it  will  float  and  melt,  far  away, 
in  all  places  where  God  meant  those  waters 
to  bring  joy  and  health.  And,  in  a  little  pool, 
behind  some  houses  farther  in  the  village, 
where  another  spring  rises,  the  shattered 
stones  of  the  well,  and  of  the  httle  fretted 
channel  which  was  long  ago  built  and  traced 
for  it  by  gentler  hands,  lie  scattered,  each 
from  each,  imder  a  ragged  bank  of  mortar, 
and  scoria;*  and  bricklayers'  refuse,  on  one 
side,  which  the  clean  water  nevertheless 
chastises  to  purity ;  but  it  cannot  conquer 
the  dead  earth  beyond ;  and  there,  circled 
and  coiled  under  festering  scum,  the  stagnant 
edge  of  the  pool  effaces  itself  into  a  slope  of 
black  slime,  the  accumulation  of  indolent 
years.  Half-a-dozen  men,  with  one  day's 
work,  could  cleanse  those  pools,  and  trim  the 
flowers  about  their  banks,  and  make  every 
breath  of  summer  air  above  them  rich  with 
cool  balm ;  and  every  glittering  wave  medi- 
cinal, as  if  it  ran,  troubled  of  angels,  from 
the  porch  of  Bethesda.^  But  that  day's 
work  is  never  given,  nor  will  be ;  nor  will 
any   joy   be   possible   to   heart  of   man,  for 

^  a  desolate  marsh  near  Pisa  ^  a  plain  near 
Rome  *  near  Venice  *  water  crowfoot  *  slag 
®  cf .  John  V  :  2-4 


evermore,  about  those  wells  of  English 
waters. 

When  I  last  left  them,  I  walked  up  slowly 
through  the  back  streets  of  Croydon,^  from  the 
old  church  to  the  hospital ;  and,  just  on  the 
left,  before  coming  up  to  the  crossing  of  the 
High  Street,  there  was  a  new  public-house 
built.  And  the  front  of  it  was  built  in  so  wise 
manner,  that  a  recess  of  two  feet  was  left  be- 
low its  front  windows,  between  them  and  the 
street-pavement  —  a  recess  too  narrow  for  any 
possible  use  (for  even  if  it  had  been  occupied 
by  a  seat,  as  in  old  time  it  might  have  been, 
everybody  walking  along  the  street  would  have 
fallen  over  the  legs  of  the  reposing  wayfarers) . 
But,  by  way  of  making  this  two  feet  depth  of 
freehold  land  more  expressive  of  the  dignity 
of  an  establishment  for  the  sale  of  spirituous 
liquors,  it  was  fenced  from  the  pavement  by  an 
imposing  iron  railing,  having  four  or  live  spear- 
heads to  the  yard  of  it,  and  six  feet  high  ;  con- 
taining as  much  iron  and  iron-work,  indeed,  as 
could  well  be  put  into  the  space  ;  and  by  this 
stately  arrangement,  the  little  piece  of  dead 
ground  within,  between  wall  and  street,  be- 
came a  protective  receptacle  of  refuse ;  cigar 
ends,  and  oyster  shells,  and  the  like,  such  as 
an  open-handed  English  street-populace, 
habitually  scatters  from  its  presence,  and  was 
thus  left,  unsweepable  by  any  ordinary 
methods.  Now  the  iron  bars  vrhich,  uselessly 
(or  in  great  degree  worse  than  uselessly),  en- 
closed this  bit  of  ground,  and  made  it  pesti- 
lent, represented  a  quantity  of  work  which 
would  have  cleansed  the  Carshalton  pools 
three  times  over  ;  —  of  work  partly  cramped 
and  deadly,  in  the  mine ;  partly  fierce  and 
exhaustive,  at  the  furnace,  partly  foolish  and 
sedentary,  of  ill-taught  students  making  bad 
designs :  work  from  the  beginning  to  the  last 
fruits  of  it,  and  in  all  the  branches  of  it,  veno- 
mous, deathful,  and  miserable.  Now,  how 
did  it  come  to  pass  that  this  work  was  done 
instead  of  the  other ;  that  the  strength  and 
life  of  the  English  operative  were  spent  in 
defiling  ground,  instead  of  redeeming  it ;  and 
in  producing  an  entirely  (in  that  place)  value- 
less piece  of  metal,  which  can  neither  be  eaten 
nor  breathed,  instead  of  medicinal  fresh  air, 
and  pure  water? 

There  is  but  one  reason  for  it,  and  at  present 
a  conclusive  one,  —  that  the  capitalist  can 
charge  percentage  on  the  work  in  the  one  case, 

^  a  suburb  of  London 


586 


JOHN   RUSKIN 


and  cannot  in  the  other.  If,  having  certain 
funds  for  supporting  labour  at  my  disposal,  I 
pay  men  merely  to  keep  my  ground  in  order, 
my  money  is,  in  that  function,  spent  once  for 
all ;  but  if  I  pay  them  to  dig  iron  out  of  my 
ground,  and  work  it,  and  sell  it,  I  can  charge 
rent  for  the  ground,  and  percentage  both  on 
the  manufacture  and  the  sale,  and  make  my 
capital  profitable  in  these  three  by-ways. 
The  greater  part  of  the  profitable  investment 
of  capital,  in  the  present  day,  is  in  operations 
of  this  kind,  in  which  the  public  is  persuaded 
to  buy  something  of  no  use  to  it,  on  produc- 
tion, or  sale,  of  which,  the  capitalist  may 
charge  percentages ;  the  said  public  remaining 
all  the  while  under  the  persuasion  that  the 
percentages,  thus  obtained  are  real  national 
gains,  whereas,  they  are  merely  filchings 
out  of  partially  light  pockets,  to  swell  heavy 
ones. 

Thus,  the  Croydon  publican  buys  the  iron 
railing,  to  make  himself  more  conspicuous  to 
drunkards.  The  public-housekeeper  on  the 
other  side  of  the  way  presently  buys  another 
railing,  to  out-rail  him  with.  Both  are,  as  to 
their  relative  attractiveness  to  customers  of 
taste,  just  where  they  were  before ;  but  they 
have  lost  the  price  of  the  railings  ;  which  they 
must  either  themselves  finally  lose,  or  make 
their  aforesaid  customers  of  taste  paj^,  by  rais- 
ing the  price  of  their  beer,  or  adulterating  it. 
Either  the  publicans,  or  their  customers,  are 
thus  poorer  by  precisely  vvrhat  the  capitalist 
has  gained ;  and  the  value  of  the  work  itself, 
meantime,  has  been  lost,  to  the  nation ;  the 
iron  bars  in  that  form  and  place  being  wholly 
useless.  It  is  this  mode  of  taxation  of  the  poor 
by  the  rich  which  is  referred  to  in  the  text,  in 
comparing  the  modern  acquisitive  power  of 
capital  with  that  of  the  lance  and  sword  ;  the 
only  difference  being  that  the  levy  of  black- 
mail in  old  times  was  by  force,  and  is  now  by 
cozening.  The  old  rider  and  reiver  ^  frankly 
quartered  himself  on  the  publican  for  the 
night ;  the  modern  one  merely  makes  his  lance 
into  an  iron  spike,  and  persuades  his  host  to 
buy  it.  One  comes  as  an  open  robber,  the 
other  as  a  cheating  peddler  ;  but  the  result,  to 
the  injured  person's  pocket,  is  absolutely  the 
same.  Of  course  many  useful  industries 
mingle  with,  and  disguise  the  useless  ones ; 
and  in  the  habits  of  energy  aroused  by  the 
struggle,  there  is  a  certain  direct  good.     It  is 

^  robber 


far  better  to  spend  four  thousand  pounds  in 
making  a  good  gun,  and  then  to  blow  it  to 
pieces,  than  to  pass  life  in  idleness.  Only  do 
not  let  it  be  called  "poUtical  economy." 
There  is  also  a  confCised  notion  in  the  minds 
of  many  persons,  that  the  gathering  of  the 
property  of  the  poor  into  the  hands  of  the  rich 
does  no  ultimate  harm  ;  since,  in  whosesoever 
hands  it  may  be,  it  must  be  spent  at  last,  and 
thus,  they  think,  return  to  the  poor  again. 
This  fallacy  has  been  again  and  again  exposed ; 
but  grant  the  plea  true,  and  the  same  apology 
may,  of  course,  be  made  for  blackmail,  or  any 
other  form  of  robbery.  It  might  be  (though 
practically  it  never  is)  as  advantageous  for  the 
nation  that  the  robber  should  have  the  spend- 
ing of  the  money  he  extorts,  as  that  the  per- 
son robbed  should  have  spent  it.  But  this  is 
no  excuse  for  the  theft.  If  I  were  to  put  a 
turnpike  on  the  road  where  it  passes  my  own 
gate,  and  endeavour  to  exact  a  shilling  from 
every  passenger,  the  public  would  soon  do 
away  with  my  gate,  without  listening  to  any 
plea  on  my  part  that  "it  was  as  advantageous 
to  them,  in  the  end,  that  I  should  spend  their 
shillings,  as  that  they  themselves  should." 
But  if,  instead  of  outfacing  them  with  a  turn- 
pike, I  can  only  persuade  them  to  come  in  and 
buy  stones,  or  old  iron,  or  any  other  useless 
thing,  out  of  my  ground,  I  may  rob  them  to 
the  same  extent,  and  be,  moreover,  thanked 
as  a  public  benefactor,  and  promoter  of  com- 
mercial prosperity.  And  this  main  question 
for  the  poor  of  England  —  for  the  poor  of  all 
countries  —  is  wholly  omitted  in  every  com- 
mon treatise  on  the  subject  of  wealth.  Even 
by  the  labourers  themselves,  the  operation  of 
capital  is  regarded  only  in  its  effect  on  their 
immediate  interests ;  never  in  the  far  more 
terrific  power  of  its  appointment  of  the  kind 
and  the  object  of  labour.  It  matters  little, 
ultimately,  how  much  a  labourer  is  paid  for 
making  anything;  but  it  matters  fearfully 
what  the  thing  is,  which  he  is  compelled  to 
make.  If  his  labour  is  so  ordered  as  to  pro- 
duce food,  and  fresh  air,  and  fresh  water,  no 
matter  that  his  wages  are  low ;  —  the  food  and 
fresh  air  and  water  will  be  at  last  there ;  and 
he  will  at  last  get  them.  But  if  he  is  paid  to 
destroy  food  and  fresh  air,  or  to  produce  iron 
bars  instead  of  them,  —  the  food  and  air  will 
finally  not  be  there,  and  he  will  not  get  them, 
to  his  great  and  final  inconvenience.  So  that, 
conclusively,  in  political  as  in  household 
economy  the  great  question  is,  not  so  much 


THE    CROWN   OF    WILD    OLIVE 


587 


what  money  you  have  in  your  pocket,  as  what 
you  will  buy  with  it,  and  do  with  it. 

I  have  been  long  accustomed,  as  all  men 
engaged  in  work  of  investigation  must  be,  to 
hear  my  statements  laughed  at  for  years, 
before  they  are  examined  or  believed;  and  I 
am  generally  content  to  wait  the  public's  time. 
But  it  has  not  been  without  displeased  sur- 
prise that  I  have  found  myself  totally  imable, 
as  yet,  by  any  repetition,  or  illustration,  to 
force  this  plain  thought  into  my  readers'  heads 
—  that  the  wealth  of  nations,  as  of  men,  con- 
sists in  substance,  not  in  ciphers ;  and  that  the 
real  good  of  all  work,  and  of  all  commerce, 
depends  on  the  final  worth  of  the  thing  you 
make,  or  get  by  it.  This  is  a  practical  enough 
statement,  one  would  think :  but  the  English 
public  has  been  so  possessed  by  its  modern 
school  of  economists  with  the  notion  that  Busi- 
ness is  always  good,  whether  it  be  busy  in  mis- 
chief or  in  benefit ;  and  that  buying  and  selling 
are  always  salutary,  whatever  the  intrinsic 
worth  of  what  you  buy  or  sell,  —  that  it  seems 
impossible  to  gain  so  much  as  a  patient  hear- 
ing for  any  inquiry  respecting  the  substantial 
result  of  oiu*  eager  modem  labours.  I  have 
never  felt  more  checked  by  the  sense  of  this 
impossibility  than  in  arranging  the  heads  of 
the  following  three  lectures,  which,  though 
delivered  at  considerable  intervals  of  time,  and 
in  different  places,  were  not  prepared  without 
reference  to  each  other.  Their  connection 
would,  however,  have  been  made  far  more  dis- 
tinct, if  I  had  not  been  prevented,  by  what  I 
feel  to  be  another  great  diihcidty  in  addressing 
English  audiences,  from  enforcing,  with  any 
decision,  the  common,  and  to  me,  the  most  im- 
portant, part  of  their  subjects.  I  chiefly  de- 
sired (as  I  have  just  said)  to  question  my 
hearers  —  operatives,  merchants,  and  soldiers, 
as  to  the  ultimate  meaning  of  the  business  they 
had  in  hand ;  and  to  know  from  them  what 
they  expected  or  intended  their  manufacture 
to  come  to,  their  selling  to  come  to,  and  their 
killing  to  come  to.  That  appeared  the  first 
point  needing  determination  before  I  could 
speak  to  them  with  any  real  utility  or  effect. 
"  You  craftsmen  —  salesmen  —  swordsmen, — 
do  but  tell  me  clearly  \Yhat  you  want ;  then, 
if  I  can  say  anything  to  help  you,  I  wUl ;  and 
if  not,  I  will  account  to  you  as  I  best  may  for 
my  inability."  But  in  order  to  put  this  ques- 
tion into  any  terms,  one  had  first  of  all  to  face 
the  difficulty  just  spoken  of  —  to  me  for  the 
present  insuperable,  —  the  difficulty  of  know- 


ing whether  to  address  one's  audience  as  believ- 
ing, or  not  believing,  in  any  other  world  than 
this.  For  if  you  address  any  average  modern 
Enghsh  company  as  beheving  in  an  Eternal 
life,  and  endeavour  to  draw  any  conclusions, 
from  this  assumed  belief,  as  to  their  present 
business,  they  will  forthwith  tell  you  that 
what  you  say  is  very  beautiful,  but  it  is  not 
practical.  If,  on  the  contrary,  you  frankly 
address  them  as  unbelievers  in  Eternal  life, 
and  try  to  draw  any  consequences  from  that 
unbelief,  —  they  immediately  hold  you  for  an 
accursed  person,  and  shake  off  the  dust  from 
their  feet  at  you.  And  the  more  I  thought 
over  what  I  had  got  to  say,  the  less  I  found  I 
could  say  it,  without  some  reference  to  this 
intangible  or  intractable  part  of  the  subject. 
It  made  all  the  difference,  in  asserting  any  prin- 
ciple of  war,  whether  one  assumed  that  a  dis- 
charge of  artillery  would  merely  knead  down. 
a  certain  quantity  of  red  clay  into  a  level  line, 
as  in  a  brick  field ;  or  whether,  out  of  every 
separately  Christian-named  portion  of  the 
ruinous  heap,  there  went  out,  into  the  smoke 
and  dead-fallen  air  of  battle,  some  astonished 
condition  of  soul,  unwillingly  released.  It 
made  all  the  difference,  in  speaking  of  the  pos- 
sible range  of  commerce,  whether  one  assumed 
that  all  bargains  related  only  to  visible 
property  —  or  vv^hether  property,  for  the  pres- 
ent invisible,  but  nevertheless  real,  was  else- 
where purchasable  on  other  terms.  It  made 
all  the  difference,  in  addressing  a  body  of  men 
subject  to  considerable  hardship,  and  having 
to  find  some  way  out  of  it  —  whether  one 
could  confidently  say  to  them,  "My  friends,' 
—  you  have  only  to  die,  and  all  will  be  right ; " 
or  whether  one  had  any  secret  misgiving  that 
such  advice  was  more  blessed  to  him  that  gave, 
than  to  him  that  took  it.  And  therefore  the 
deliberate  reader  will  find,  throughout  these 
lectures,  a  hesitation  in  driving  points  home, 
and  a  pausing  short  of  conclusions  which  he 
will  feel  I  would  fain  have  come  to ;  hesita- 
tion which  arises  wholly  from  this  uncertainty 
of  my  hearers'  temper.  For  I  do  not  now 
speak,  nor  have  I  ever  spoken,  since  the  time 
of  first  forward  youth,  in  any  proselyting  tem- 
per, as  desiring  to  persuade  any  one  of  what, 
in  such  matters,  I  thought  myself ;  but,  whom- 
soever I  venture  to  address,  I  take  for  the  time 
his  creed  as  I  find  it ;  and  endeavour  to  push 
it  into  such  vital  fruit  as  it  seems  capable  of. 
Thus,  it  is  a  creed  with  a  great  part  of  the 
existing  English  people,  that  they  are  in  pos- 


588 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


session  of  a  book  which  tells  them,  straight 
from  the  lips  of  God,  all  they  ought  to  do,  and 
need  to  know.  I  have  read  that  book,  with 
as  much  care  as  most  of  them,  for  some  forty 
years ;  and  am  thankful  that,  on  those  who 
trust  it,  I  can  press  its  pleadings.  My  en- 
deavour has  been  uniformly  to  make  them 
trust  it  more  deeply  than  they  do;  trust  it, 
not  in  their  own  favourite  verses  only,  but  in 
the  sum  of  all ;  trust  it  not  as  a  fetich  or  talis- 
man, which  they  are  to  be  saved  by  daily 

.  repetitions  of ;  but  as  a  Captain's  order,  to  be 
heard  and  obeyed  at  their  peril.  I  was  always 
encouraged  by  supposing  my  hearers  to  hold 
such  belief.  To  these,  if  to  any,  I  once  had 
hope  of  addressing,  with  acceptance,  words 
which  insisted  on  the  guilt  of  pride,  and  the 
futility  of  avarice ;  from  these,  if  from  any,  I 
once  expected  ratification  of  a  political 
economy,  which  asserted  that  the  life  was 
more  than  the  meat,  and  the  body  than  rai- 
ment;^ and  these,  it  once  seemed  to  me,  I 
might  ask,  without  accusation  of  fanaticism, 
not  merely  in  doctrine  of  the  lips,  but  in  the 
bestowal  of  their  heart's  treasure,  to  separate 
themselves  from  the  crowd  of  whom  it  is 
written,  "After  all  these  things  do  the  Gentiles 
seek."^ 

It  cannot,  however,  be  assumed,  with  any 
semblance  of  reason,  that  a  general  audience 
is  now  wholly,  or  even  in  majority,  composed 
of  these  religious  persons.  A  large  portion 
must  always  consist  of  men  who  admit  no 
such  creed ;  or  who,  at  least,  are  inaccessible 
to  appeals  founded  on  it.     And  as,  with  the 

•so-called  Christian,  I  desired  to  plead  for 
honest  declaration  and  fulfilment  of  his  belief 
in  life,  —  with  the  so-called  infidel,  I  desired 
to  plead  for  an  honest  declaration  and  fulfil- 
ment of  his  belief  in  death.  The  dilemma  is 
inevitable.  ]\Ien  must  either  hereafter  live, 
or  hereafter  die ;  fate  may  be  bravely  met, 
and  conduct  wisely  ordered,  on  either  expecta- 
tion ;  but  never  in  hesitation  between  un- 
grasped  hope,  and  unconfronted  fear.  We 
usually  believe  in  immortality,  so  far  as  to 
avoid  preparation  for  death  ;  and  in  mortality, 
so  far  as  to  avoid  preparation  for  anything 
after  death.  Whereas,  a  wise  man  will  at 
least  hold  himself  prepared  for  one  or  other 
of  two  events,  of  which  one  or  other  is  in- 
evitable ;  and  will  have  all  things  in  order,  for 
his  sleep,  or  in  readiness,  for  his  awakening. 


Nor  have  we  any  right  to  call  it  an  ignoble 
judgment,  if  he  determine  to  put  them  in 
order,  as  for  sleep.  A  brave  belief  in  life  is 
indeed  an  enviable  state  of  mind,  but,  as  far 
as  I  can  discern,  an  unusual  one.  I  know  few 
Christians  so  convinced  of  the  splendour  of  the 
rooms  in  their  Father's  house,  as  to  be  happier 
when  their  friends  are  called  to  those  mansions, 
than  they  would  have  been  if  the  Queen  had 
sent  for  them  to  live  at  court :  nor  has  the 
Church's  most  ardent  "desire  to  depart,  and 
be  with  Christ,"  ^  ever  cured  it  of  the  singular 
habit  of  putting  on  mourning  for  every  person 
summoned  to  such  departure.  On  the  con- 
trary, a  brave  belief  in  death  has  -been  as- 
suredly held  by  many  not  ignoble  persons,  and 
it  is  a  sign  of  the  last  depravity  in  the  Church 
itself,  when  it  assumes  that  such  a  belief  is 
inconsistent  with  either' purity  of  character, 
or  energy  of  hand.  The  shortness  of  life  is 
not,  to  any  rational  person,  a  conclusive 
reason  for  wasting  the  space  of  it  which  may 
be  granted  him ;  nor  does  the  anticipation  of 
death  to-morrow  suggest,  to  any  one  but  a 
drunkard,  the  expediency  of  drunkenness  to- 
day. To  teach  that  there  is  no  device  in  the 
grave,^  may  indeed  make  the  deviceless  person 
more  contented  in  his  dulness;  but  it  will 
make  the  deviser  only  more  earnest  in  devis- 
ing :  nor  is  human  conduct'  likely,  in  every 
case,  to  be  purer,  under  the  conviction  that 
all  its  evil  may  in  a  moment  be  pardoned,  and 
all  its  wrong-doing  in  a  moment  redeemed ; 
and  that  the  sigh  of  repentance,  which  purges 
the  guUt  of  the  past,  will  waft  the  soul  into  a 
felicity  which  forgets  its  pain,  —  than  it  may 
be  under  the  sterner,  and  to  many  not  unwise 
minds  more  probable,  apprehension,  that 
"what  a  man  soweth  that  shall  he  also  reap,"^ 
—  or  others  reap,  —  when  he,  the  living  seed 
of  pestilence,  walketh  no  more  in  darkness,  but 
lies  down  therein. 

But  to  men  whose  feebleness  of  sight,  or 
bitterness  of  soul,  or  the  offence  given  by  the 
conduct  of  those  who  claim  higher  hope,  may 
have  rendered  this  painful  creed  the  only  pos- 
sible one,  there  is  an  appeal  to  be  made,  more 
secure  in  its  ground  than  any  which  can  be 
addressed  to  happier  persons.  I  would  fain, 
if  I  might  offencelessly,  have  spoken  to  them 
as  if  none  others  heard ;  and  have  said  thus  : 
Hear  me,  you  dying  men,  who  will  soon  be 
deaf  forever.     For  these  others,  at  your  right 


Mali,  vi  :  25 


Malt,  vi  :  32 


^  Philipp.  i  :  23      ^  Eccl.  vs.  :  10     ^  Calat.  vi  :  7 


THE    CROWN   OF    WILD    OLIVE 


589 


hand  and  your  left,  who  look  forward  to  a 
state  of  infinite  existence,  in  which  all  their 
errors  will  be  overruled,  and  all  their  faults 
forgiven ;  for  these,  who,  stained  and 
blackened  in  the  battle-smoke  of  mortality, 
have  but  to  dip  themselves  for  an  instant  in 
the  font  of  death,  and  to  rise  renewed  of  plu- 
m.age,  as  a  dove  that  is  covered  with  silver, 
and  her  feathers  like  gold  ;  ^  for  these,  indeed, 
it  may  be  permissible  to  waste  their  numbered 
moments,  through  faith  in  a  future  of  innu- 
merable hours ;  to  these,  in  their  weakness,  it 
may  be  conceded  that  they  should  tamper  with 
sin  which  can  only  bring  forth  fruit  of  right- 
eousness, and  profit  by  the  iniquity  which,  one 
day,  will  be  remembered  no  more.  In  them, 
it  may  be  no  sign  of  hardness  of  heart  to  neg- 
lect the  poor,  over  whom  they  know  their 
^Master  is  watching ;  and  to  leave  those  to 
perish  temporarily,  who  cannot  perish  eter- 
nally. But,  for  you,  there  is  no  such  hope, 
and  therefore  no  such  excuse.  This  fate, 
which  you  ordain  for  the  wretched,  you  beUeve 
to  be  all  their  inheritance ;  you  may  crush 
them,  before  the  moth,-  and  they  will  never 
rise  to  rebuke  you ;  —  their  breath,  which  fails 
for  lack  of  food,  once  expiring,  wiU  never  be 
recalled  to  whisper  against  you  a  word  of 
accusing ;  —  they  and  you,  as  you  think,  shall 
Ke  down  together  in  the  dust,  and  the  worms 
cover  you ;  ^  —  and  for  them  there  shall  be  no 
consolation,  and  on  you  no  vengeance,  —  only 
the  question  murmured  above  your  grave : 
"Who  shaU  repay  him  what  he  hath  done?" 
Is  it  therefore  easier  for  you  in  your  heart  to 
inflict  the  sorrow  for  which  there  is  no 
remedy?  WiU  you  take,  wantonly,  this 
little  all  of  his  life  from  your  poor  brother, 
and  make  his  brief  hours  long  to  him  with 
pain?  Will  you  be  readier  to  the  injustice 
which  can  never  be  redressed ;  and  niggardly 
of  mercy  which  you  can  bestow  but  once,  and 
which,  refusing,  you  refuse  forever?  I  think 
better  of  you,  even  of  the  most  selfish,  than 
that  you  would  do  this,  well  understood.  -\nd 
for  yourselves,  it  seems  to  me,  the  question 
becomes  not  less  grave,  in  these  curt  limits. 
If  your  life  were  but  a  fever  fit,  —  the  madness 
of  a  night,  whose  follies  were  all  to  be  forgotten 
in  the  dawn,  it  might  matter  little  how  you 
fretted  ^way  the  sickly  hours,  —  what  toys 
you  snatched  at,  or  let  fall,  —  what  visions 
you  followed  wistfully  with  the  deceived  eyes 


of  sleepless  phrenzy.  Is  the  earth  only  an 
hospital?  Play,  if  you  care  to  play,  on  the 
floor  of  the  hospital  den.  Knit  its  straw  into 
what  crowns  please  you ;  gather  the  dust  of 
it  for  treasure,  and  die  rich  in  that,  clutching 
at  the  black  motes  in  the  air  with  your  dying 
hands;  —  and  yet,  it  may  be  well  with  you. 
But  if  this  life  be  no  dream,  and  the  world  no 
hospital;  if  all  the  peace  and  power  and  joy 
you  can  ever  win,  must  be  won  now ;  and  all 
fruit  of  victory  gathered  here,  or  never ;  — 
will  you  still,  throughout  the  puny  totality  of 
your  life,  weary  yourselves  in  the  fire  for 
vanity?^  If  there  is  no  rest  which  remaineth 
for  you,  is  there  none  you  might  presently 
take  ?  was  this  grass  of  the  earth  made  green 
for  your  shroud  only,  not  for  your  bed?  and 
can  you  never  lie  down  upon  it,  but  only 
tinder  it?  The  heathen,  to  whose  creed  you 
have  returned,  thought  not  so.  They  knew 
that  life  brought  its  contest,  but  they  expected 
from  it  also  the  crown  of  all  contest :  No  proud 
one !  no  jewelled  circlet  flaming  through 
Heaven  above  the  height  of  the  unmerited 
throne ;  only  some  few  leaves  of  wild  olive, 
cool  to  the  tired  brow,  through  a  few  years  of 
peace.  It  should  have  been  of  gold,  they 
thought ;  but  Jupiter  v/as  poor  ;  this  was  the 
best  the  god  could  give  them.  Seeking  a 
greater  than  this,  they  had  known  it  a 
mockery.  Not  in  war,  not  in  wealth,  not  in 
tyranny,  was  there  any  happiness  to  be  found 
for  them  —  only  in  kindly  peace,  fruitful  and 
free.  The  wreath  was  to  be  of  ivild  olive, 
mark  you :  —  the  tree  that  grows  carelessly ; 
tufting  the  rocks  with  no  vivid  bloom,  no  ver- 
dure of  branch ;  only  with  soft  snow  of 
blossom,  and  scarcely  fulfilled  fruit,  mixed 
with  gray  leaf  and  thornset  stem ;  no  fasten- 
ing of  diadem  for  you  but  with  such  sharp 
embroidery  !  But  this,  such  as  it  is,  you  may 
win  while  yet  you  live ;  type  of  gray  honour 
and  sweet  rest.  Free-heart edness,  and  gra- 
ciousness,  and  undisturbed  trust,  and  requited 
love,  and  the  sight  of  the  peace  of  others,  and 
the  ministry  to  their  pain ;  —  these,  and  the 
blue  sky  above  you,  and  the  sweet  waters  and 
flowers  of  the  earth  beneath;  and  mysteries 
and  presences,  innumerable,  of  living  things, 
—  these  may  yet  be  here  your  riches ;  imtor- 
menting  and  divine ;  serviceable  for  the  life 
that  now  is ;  nor,  it  may  be,  without  promise 
of  that  whicTi  is  to  come.^ 


^  Ps.  bcviii  :  13     ^  cf.  Job  iv  119     ^  cf.  Job  xxi  :  26 


^  Hab.  ii :  13     ^  i  Tim.  iv  :  8 


590 


FREDERICK   LOCKER-LAMPSON 


FREDERICK  LOCKER-LAMPSON 

(1821-1895) 

TO  MY   GRANDMOTHER 

Suggested  by  a  picture  by  Mr.  Romney 

This  Relative  of  mine, 
Was  she  seventy-and-nine 

When  she  died  ? 
By  the  canvas  may  be  seen 
How  she  look'd  at  seventeen, 

As  a  bride. 

Beneath  a  summer  tree 
Her  maiden  reverie 

Has  a  charm ; 
Her  ringlets  are  in  taste  ;  10 

What  an  arm  !  and  what  a  waist 

For  an  arm ! 

With  her  bridal-wreath,  bouquet, 
Lace  farthingale,'^  and  gay 

Falbala,"^  — 
If  Romney's  touch  be  true, 
What  a  lucky  dog  were  you. 

Grandpapa ! 

Her  lips  are  sweet  as  love ; 

They  are  parting  !     Do  they  move? 

Are  they  dumb?  21 

Her  eyes  are  blue,  and  beam 
Beseechingly,  and  seem 

To  say,  "Come !" 

What  funny  fancy  slips 

From  atween  these  cherry  lips? 

Whisper  me. 
Fair  Sorceress  in  paint. 
What  canon  ^  says  I  mayn't 

Marry  thee?  30 

That  good-for-nothing  Time 
Has  a  confidence  sublime  ! 

When  I  first 
Saw  this  Lady,  in  my  youth, 
Her  winters  had,  forsooth, 

Done  their  worst. 

Her  locks,  as  white  as  snow. 
Once  shamed  the  swarthy  crow ; 
By-and-by 

^  a   contrivance   like   a   hoopskirt    ^  furbelow, 
flounce     ^  ecclesiastical  law 


That  fowl's  avenging  sprite  40 

Set  his  cruel  foot  for  spite 
Near  her  eye. 

Her  roiuided  form  was  lean, 
And  her  silk  was  bombazine ; 

Well  I  wot 
With  her  needles  would  she  sit. 
And  for  hours  would  she  knit,  — 

Would  she  not  ? 

Ah  perishable  clay  1 

Her  charms  had  dropt  away  50 

One  by  one ; 
But  if  she  heaved  a  sigh 
With  a  burthen,  it  was,  "  Thy 

Will  be  done." 

In  travail,  as  in  tears, 

With  the  fardel  ^  of  her  years 

Overprest, 
In  mercy  she  was  borne 
Where  the  weary  and  the  worn 

Are  at  rest.  -   60 

Oh,  if  you  now  are  there. 
And  sweet  as  once  you  were, 

Grandmamma, 
This  nether  world  agrees 
You'll  all  the  better  please 

Grandpapa. 


THE  UNREALISED   IDEAL 

My  only  Love  is  always  near,  — 

In  country  or  in  town, 
I  see  her  twinkling  feet,  I  hear 

The  whisper  of  her  gown. 

She  foots  it  ever  fair  and  young,  5 

Her  locks  are  tied  in  haste. 
And  one  is  o'er  her  shoulder  flung. 

And  hangs  below  her  waist. 

She  ran  before  me  in  the  meads ; 

And  down  this  world- worn  track        10 
She  leads  me  on ;   but  while  she  leads, 

She  never  gazes  back. 

And  yet  her  voice  is  in  my  dreams, 
To  witch  me  more  and  more ;  . 

That  wooing  voice  !     Ah  me,  it  seems  15 
Less  near  me  than  of  yore. 

^  burden 


DOBELL    AND    ARNOLD 


591 


Lightly  I  sped  when  hope  was  high, 
And  youth  beguiled  the  chase ; 

I  follow  —  follow  still ;   but  I 
Shall  never  see  her  Face. 


SIDNEY  DOBELL   (1824-1874) 
AMERICA 


Men  say,  Columbia,  we  shall  hear  thy  guns. 
But  in  what  tongue  shall  be  thy  battle-cry? 
Not  that  our  sires  did  love  in  years  gone  by, 
When  all  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  were  little  sons 
In  merrie  homes  of  Englaunde?     Back,  and 

see 
Thy  satchel'd  ancestor  !     Behold,  he  runs 
To  mine,  and,  clasp'd,  they  tread  the  equal  lea 
To  the  same  village-school,  where  side  by  side 
They  spell ''  our  Father."     Hard  by,  the  twin- 
pride 
Of  that  grey  haU  whose  ancient  oriel  gleams 
Thro'  yon  baronial  pines,  with  looks  of  light 
Our  sister-mothers  sit  beneath  one  tree.        1 2 
Meanwhile  our  Shakespeare  wanders  past  and 

dreams 
His  Helena  and  Hermia.     Shall  we  fight? 


II 


Nor  force  nor  fraud  shall  sunder  us  !     O  ye 
Who  north  or  south,  on  east  or  western  land, 
Native  to  noble  sounds,  say  truth  for  truth. 
Freedom  for  freedom,  love  for  love,  and  God 
For  God ;  O  ye  who  in  eternal  youth 
Speak  with  a  living  and  creative  flood 
This  universal  EngHsh,  and  do  stand 
Its  breathing  book ;  live  worthy  of  that  grand 
Heroic  utterance  — •  parted,  yet  a  whole,        9 
Far,  yet  unsevered,  —  children  brave  and  free 
Of  the  great  jMother-tongue,  and  ye  shall  be 
Lords   of   an  Empire  wide  as  Shakespeare's 

soul, 
Sublime  as  Milton's  immemorial  theme, 
And  rich  as  Chaucer's  speech,  and  fair  as 

Spenser's  dream. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD   (1822-1888) 

From    CLT.TURE    AND    ANARCHY 
SWEETNESS  AND   LIGHT 

The  disparagers  of  culture  make  its  motive 
curiosity ;  sometimes,  indeed,  they  make  its 
motive  mere  exclusiveness  and  vanity.  The 
culture  which  is  supposed  to  plume  itself  on  a 
smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin  is  a  culture 
which  is  begotten  by  nothing  so  intellectual 
as  curiosity ;  it  is  valued  either  out  of  sheer 
vanity  and  ignorance  or  else  as  an  engine  of 
social  and  class  distinction,  separating  its 
holder,  like  a  badge  or  title,  from  other  people 
who  have  not  got  it.  No  serious  man  woidd 
call  this  culture,  or  attach  any  value  to  it,  as 
cultiure,  at  all.  To  find  the  real  ground  for 
the  very  different  estimate  which  serious  people 
will  set  upon  culture,  we  must  find  some 
motive  for  culture  in  the  terms  of  which  may 
lie  a  real  ambiguity ;  and  such  a  motive  the 
word  curiosity  gives  us. 

I  have  before  now  pointed  out  that  we  Eng- 
lish do  not,  like  the  foreigners,  use  this  word 
in  a  good  sense  as  well  as  in  a  bad  sense. 
With  us  the  word  is  always  used  in  a  somewhat 
disapproving  sense.  A  liberal  and  intelligent 
eagerness  about  the  things  of  the  mind  may  be 
meant  by  a  foreigner  when  he  speaks  of  curi- 
osity, but  with  us  the  word  always  conveys 
a  certain  notion  of  frivolous  and  unedifjdng 
acti\'ity.  In  the  Quarterly  Review,  some  little 
time  ago,  was  an  estimate  of  the  celebrated 
French  critic,  M.  Samte-Beuve,  and  a  very 
inadequate  estimate  it  m  my  judgment  Avas. 
And  its  inadequacy  consisted  chiefly  in  this: 
that  in  our  English  way  it  left  out  of  sight 
the  double  sense  really  involved  in  the  word 
curiosity,  thinking  enough  was  said  to  stamp 
j\I.  Sainte-Beuve  with  blame  if  it  was  said  that 
he  was  impelled  in  his  operations  as  a  critic 
by  curiosity,  and  omitting  either  to  perceive 
that  M.  Sainte-Beuve  himself,  and  many  other 
people  with  him,  would  consider  that  this  was 
praiseworthy  and  not  blameworthy,  or  to  point 
out  why  it  ought  really  to  be  accounted  worthy 
of  blame  and  not  of  praise.  For  as  there  is  a 
curiosity  about  intellectual  matters  which  is 
futile,  and  merely  a  disease,  so  there  is  cer- 
tainly a  curiosity,  —  a  desire  after  the  things 
of  the  mind  simply  for  their  own  sakes  and  for 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  them  as  they  are,  — 
which  is,  in  an  intelligent  being,  natural  and 


59^ 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


laudable.  Nay,  and  the  very  desire  to  see 
things  as  they  are  implies  a  balance  and  regu- 
lation of  mind  which  is  not  often  attained  with- 
out fruitful  effort,  and  which  is  the  very  oppo- 
site of  the  blind  and  diseased  impulse  of  mind 
which  is  what  we  mean  to  blame  when  we 
blame  curiosity.  Montesquieu ^  says :  "The 
first  motive  which  ought  to  impel  us  to  study 
is  the  desire  to  augment  the  excellence  of  our 
nature,  and  to  render  an  intelligent  being  yet 
more  intelligent."  This  is  the  true  ground  to 
assign  for  the  genuine  scientific  passion,  how- 
ever manifested,  and  for  culture,  viewed 
simply  as  a  fruit  of  this  passion ;  and  it  is  a 
worthy  ground,  even  though  we  let  the  term 
curiosity  stand  to  describe  it. 

But  there  is  of  culture  another  view,  in 
which  not  solely  the  scientific  passion,  the 
sheer  desire  to  see  things  as  they  are,  natural 
and  proper  in  an  intelligent  being,  appears  as 
the  ground  of  it.  There  is  a  view  in  which  all 
the  love  of  our  neighbour,  the  impulses  toward 
action,  help,  and  beneficence,  the  desire  for 
removing  human  error,  clearing  human  con- 
fusion, and  diminishing  human  misery,  the 
noble  aspiration  to  leave  the  world  better  and 
happier  than  we  found  it,  —  motives  emi- 
nently such  as  are  called  social,  —  come  in  as 
part  of  the  grounds  of  culture,  and  the  main 
and  preeminent  part.  Culture  is  then 
properly  described  not  as  having  its  origin  in 
curiosity,  but  as  having  its  origin  in  the  love 
of  perfection ;  it  is  a  study  of  perfection.  It 
moves  by  the  force,  not  merely  or  primarily  of 
the  scientific  passion  for  pure  knowledge,  but 
also  of  the  moral  and  social  passion  for  doing 
good.  As,  in  the  first  view  of  it,  we  took  for 
its  worthy  motto  Montesquieu's  words:  "To 
render  an  intelligent  being  yet  more  intelli- 
gent !"  so,  in  the  second  view  of  it,  there  is 
no  better  motto  which  it  can  have  than  these 
words  of  Bishop  Wilson  :'-^  "To  make  reason 
and  the  will  of  God  prevail !" 

Only,  whereas  the  passion  for  doing  good  is 
apt  to  be  overhasty  in  determining  what 
reason  and  the  will  of  God  say,  because  its  turn 
is  for  acting  rather  than  thinking  and  it  wants 
to  be  beginning  to  act ;  and  whereas  it  is  apt 
to  take  its  own  conceptions,  which  proceed 
from  its  own  state  of  development  and  share 
in  all  the  imperfections  and  immaturities  of 

'  a  French  philosopher  (1689-1755),  author  of 
the  famous  L'esprit  des  lois  ^  Thomas  Wilson 
(1663-1755),  Bishop  of  Sodor  and  Man 


this,  for  a  basis  of  action ;  what  distinguishes 
culture  is,  that  it  is  possessed  by  the  scientific 
passion  as  well  as  by  the  passion  of  doing 
good ;  that  it  demands  worthy  notions  of 
reason  and  the  will  of  God,  and  does  not 
readily  suffer  its  own  crude  conceptions  to 
substitute  themselves  for  them.  And  know- 
ing that  no  action  or  institution  can  be  salu- 
tary and  stable  which  is  not  based  on  reason 
and  the  will  of  God,  it  is  not  so  bent  on  acting 
and  instituting,  even  v/ith  the  great  aim  of 
diminishing  human  error  and  misery  ever 
before  its  thoughts,  but  that  it  can  remember 
that  acting  and  instituting  are  of  little  use, 
unless  we  know  how  and  what  we  ought  to 
act  and  to  institute. 

This  culture  is  more  interesting  and  more 
far-reaching  than  that  other,  which  is  founded 
solely  on  the  scientific  passion  for  knowing. 
But  it  needs  times  of  faith  and  ardour,  times 
when  the  intellectual  horizon  is  opening  and 
widening  all  round  us,  to  flourish  in.  And  is 
not  the  close  and  bounded  intellectual  horizon 
within  which  we  have  long  lived  and  moved 
now  lifting  up,  and  are  not  new  lights  finding 
free  passage  to  shine  in  upon  us  ?  For  a  long 
time  there  was  no  passage  for  them  to  make 
their  way  in  upon  us,  and  then  it  was  of  no  use 
to  think  of  adapting  the  world's  action  to  them. 
Where  was  the  hope  of  making  reason  and  the 
will  of  God  prevail  among  people  who  had  a 
routine  which  they  had  christened  reason  and 
the  vvill  of  God,  in  which  they  were  inextri- 
cably bound,  and  beyond  which  they  had  no 
power  of  looking?  But  now  the  iron  force  of 
adhesion  to  the  old  routine,  —  social,  political, 
religious  —  has  wonderfully  yielded ;  the  iron 
force  of  exclusion  of  all  which  is  new  has 
wonderfully  yielded.  The  danger  now  is,  not 
that  people  should  obstinately  refuse  to  allow 
anything  but  their  old  routine  to  pass  for 
reason  and  the  will  of  God,  but  either  that 
they  should  allow  some  novelty  or  other  to 
pass  for  these  too  easily,  or  else  that  they 
should  underrate  the  importance  of  them 
altogether,  and  think  it  enough  to  follow 
action  for  its  own  sake,  without  troubling 
themselves  to  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God 
prevail  therein.  Now,  then,  is  the  moment 
for  culture  to  be  of  service,  culture  which 
believes  in  making  reason  and  the  will  of 
God  prevail,  believes  in  perfection,  is  the 
study  and  pursuit  of  perfection,  and  is  no 
longer  debarred,  by  a  rigid  invincible  ex- 
clusion   of   whatever  is   new,   from   getting 


CULTURE    AND    ANARCHY 


593 


acceptance  for  its  ideas,  simply  because  they 
are  new. 

The  moment  this  view  of  culture  is  seized, 
the  moment  it  is  regarded  not  solely  as  the 
endeavour  to  see  things  as  they  are,  to  draw 
tow^ards  a  knowledge  of  the  universal  order 
which  seems  to  be  intended  and  aimed  at  in 
the  world,  and  which  it  is  a  man's  happiness 
to  go  along  with  or  his  misery  to  go  counter  to, 
—  to  learn,  in  short,  the  will  of  God,  —  the 
moment,  I  say,  culture  is  considered  not 
merely  as  the  endeavour  to  see  and  learn  this, 
but  as  the  endeavour,  also,  to  make  it  prevail, 
the  moral,  social,  and  beneficent  character  of 
culture  becomes  manifest.  The  mere  endeav- 
our to  see  and  learn  the  truth  for  our  own 
personal  satisfaction  is  indeed  a  commence- 
ment for  making  it  prevail,  a  preparing  the 
way  for  this,  which  always  serves  this,  and  is 
wrongly,  therefore,  stamped  with  blame  abso- 
lutely in  itself  and  not  only  in  its  caricature 
and  degeneration.  But  perhaps  it  has  got 
stamped  with  blame,  and  disparaged  with  the 
dubious  title  of  curiosity,  because  in  compari- 
son with  this  wider  endeavour  of  such  great 
and  plain  utility  it  looks  selfish,  petty,  and 
unprofitable. 

And  religion,  the  greatest  and  most  im- 
portant of  the  efforts  by  which  the  human  race 
has  manifested  its  impulse  to  perfect  itself,  — 
religion,  that  voice  of  the  deepest  human  ex- 
perience, —  does  not  only  enjoin  and  sanction 
the  aim  which  is  the  great  aim  of  culture,  the 
aim  of  setting  ourselves  to  ascertain  what  per- 
fection is  and  to  make  it  prevail ;  but  also,  in 
determining  generally  in  what  human  perfec- 
tion consists,  religion  comes  to  a  conclusion 
identical  with  that  which  culture,  —  culture 
seeking  the  determination  of  this  question 
through  all  the  voices  of  human  experience 
which  have  been  heard  upon  it,  of  art,  science, 
poetry,  philosophy,  history,  as  well  as  of  re- 
ligion, in  order  to  give  a  greater  fulness  and 
certainty  to  its  solution,  —  likewise  reaches. 
Religion  says :  The  kingdom  of  God  is  within 
\you;  and  culture,  in  like  manner,  places  hu- 
man perfection  in  an  internal  condition,  in  the 
growth  and  predominance  of  our  humanity 
proper,  as  distinguished  from  our  animality. 
It  places  it  in  the  ever-increasing  efficacy  and 
in  the  general  harmonious  expansion  of  those 
gifts  of  thought  and  feeling,  which  make  the 
peculiar  dignity,  wealth,  and  happiness  of 
human  nature.  As  I  have  said  on  a  former 
occasion:    "It  is  in  making  endless  additions 


to  itself,  in  the  endless  expansion  of  its  powers, 
in  endless  growth  in  wisdom  and  beauty,  that 
the  spirit  of  the  human  race  finds  its  ideal. 
To  reach  this  ideal,  culture  is  an  indispensable 
aid,  and  that  is  the  true  value  of  culture." 
Not  a  having  and  a  resting,  but  a  growing 
and  a  becoming,  is  the  character  of  perfection 
as  culture  conceives  it ;  and  here,  too,  it  coin- 
cides with  religion. 

And  because  men  are  all  members  of  one 
great  whole,  and  the  sympathy  which  is  in 
human  nature  will  not  allow  one  member  to 
be  indift"erent  to  the  rest  or  to  have  a  perfect 
welfare  independent  of  the  rest,  the  expansion- 
of  our  humanity,  to  suit  the  idea  of  perfection 
which  culture  forms,  must  be  a  general  expan- 
sion. Perfection,  as  culture  conceives  it,  is 
not  possible  while  the  individual  remains  iso- 
lated. The  individual  is  required,  under  pain 
of  being  stunted  and  enfeebled  in  his  own 
development  if  he  disobeys,  to  carry  others 
along  with  him  in  his  march  towards  perfec- 
tion, to  be  continually  doing  all  he  can  to  en- 
large and  increase  the  volume  of  the  human 
stream  sweeping  thitherward.  And  here,  once 
more,  culture  lays  on  us  the  same  obligation  as 
religion,  w'hich  says,  as  Bishop  Wilson  has 
admirably  put  it,  that  "to  promote  the  king- 
dom of  God  is  to  increase  and  hasten  one's 
own  happiness." 

But,  finally,  perfection,  —  as  culture  from 
a  thorough  disinterested  study  of  human 
nature  and  human  experience  learns  to  con- 
ceive it,  —  is  a  harmonious  expansion  of  all 
the  powders  w'hich  make  the  beauty  and  worth 
of  human  nature,  and  is  not  consistent  with 
the  over-development  of  any  one  power  at  the 
expense  of  the  rest.  Here  culture  goes  beyond 
religion,  as  religion  is  generally  conceived 
by  us. 

If  culture,  then,  is  a  study  of  perfection,  and 
of  harmonious  perfection,  general  perfection, 
and  perfection  which  consists  in  becoming 
something  rather  than  in  having  something,  in 
an  inward  condition  of  the  mind  and  spirit, 
not  in  an  outward  set  of  circumstances,  —  it  is 
clear  that  culture,  instead  of  being  the  frivo- 
lous and  useless  thing  which  ^Mr.  Bright,^  and 
Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,- and  many  other  Liber- 
als are  apt  to  call  it,  has  a  very  important 
function    to   fulfil    for   mankind.     And    this 

1  John  Bright  (1811-89),  English  Liberal 
statesman  and  orator  -  (b.  1831),  essayist  and 
leader  of  the  Positivist  philosophy  in  England 


594 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD 


function  is  particularly  important  in  our 
modern  world,  of  which  the  whole  civilisation 
is,  to  a  much  greater  degree  than  the  civilisa- 
tion of  Greece  and  Rome,  mechanical  and 
external,  and  tends  constantly  to  become 
more  so.  But  above  all  in  our  own  country 
has  culture  a  weighty  part  to  perform,  because 
here  that  mechanical  character,  which  civili- 
sation tends  .to  take  everyivhere,  is  shown 
in  the  most  eminent  degree.  Indeed  nearly 
all  the  characters  of  perfection,  as  culture 
teaches  us  to  lix  them,  meet  in  this  country 
with  some  powerful  tendency  which  thwarts 
them  and  sets  them  at  defiance.  The  idea 
of  perfection  as  an  inward  condition  of  the 
mind  and  spirit  is  at  variance  with  the  mechan- 
ical and  material  civilisation  in  esteem  with  us, 
and  nowhere,  as  I  have  said,  so  much  in  esteem 
as  with  us.  The  idea  of  perfection  as  a  general 
expansion  of  the  human  family  is  at  variance 
with  our  strong  individualism,  our  hatred  of  all 
limits  to  the  unrestrained  swing  of  the  indi- 
vidual's personality,  our  maxim  of  "  every  man 
for  himself."  Above  all,  the  idea  of  perfection 
as  a  harmonious  expansion  of  human  nature 
is  at  variance  with  our  want  of  flexibility,  with 
our  inaptitude  for  seeing  more  than  one  side 
of  a  thing,  with  our  intense  energetic  absorp- 
tion in  the  particvdar  pursuit  we  happen  to  be 
following.  So  culture  has  a  rough  task  to 
achieve  in  this  country.  Its  preachers  have, 
and  are  likely  long  to  have,  a  hard  time  of  it, 
and  they  will  much  oftener  be  regarded,  for  a 
great  while  to  come,  as  elegant  or  spurious 
Jeremiahs  than  as  friends  and  benefactors. 
That,  however,  will  not  prevent  their  doing 
in  the  end  good  service  if  they  persevere. 
And,  meanwhile,  the  mode  of  action  they  have 
to  pursue,  and  the  sort  of  habits  they  must 
fight  against,  ought  to  be  made  quite  clear 
for  every  one  to  see,  who  may  be  willing  to 
look  at  the  matter  attentively  and  dispassion- 
ately. 

Faith  in  machinery  is,  I  said,  our  besetting 
danger ;  often  in  machinery  most  absurdly  dis- 
proportioned  to  the  end  which  this  machin- 
ery, if  it  is  to  do  any  good  at  all,  is  to  serve ; 
but  always  in  machinery,  as  if  it  had  a  value 
in  and  for  itself.  What  is  freedom  but  ma- 
chinery? what  is  population  but  machinery? 
what  is  coal  but  machinery  ?  what  are  rail- 
roads but  machinery  ?  what  is  wealth  but 
machinery?  what  are,  even,  religious  organi- 
sations but  machinery?  Now  almost  every 
voice  in  England  is  accustomed  to  speak  of 


these  things  as  if  they  were  precious  ends  in 
themselves,  and  therefore  had  some  of  the 
characters  of  perfection  indisputably  joined 
to  them.  I  have  before  now  noticed  Mr. 
Roebuck's  stock  argument  for  proving  the 
greatness  and  happiness  of  England  as  she 
is,  and  for  quite  stopping  the  mouths  of  all 
gainsayers.  Mr.  Roebuck  is  never  weary  of 
reiterating  this  argument  of  his,  so  I  do  not 
know  why  I  should  be  weary  of  noticing  it. 
"May  not  every  man  in  England  say  what 
he  likes?"  —  Mr.  Roebuck  perpetually  asks; 
and  that,  he  thinks,  is  quite  sufficient,  and 
when  every  man  may  say  what  he  likes,  our 
aspirations  ought  to  be  satisfied.  But  the 
aspirations  of  culture,  which  is  the  study  of 
perfection,  are  not  satisfied,  unless  what  men 
say,  when  they  may  say  what  they  like,  is 
worth  saying,  —  has  good  in  it,  and  more  good 
than  bad.  In  the  same  way  the  Times^ 
replying  to  some  foreign  strictures  on  the 
dress,  looks,  and  behaviour  of  the  English 
abroad,  urges  that  the  English  ideal  is  that 
every  one  should  be  free  to  do  and  to  look  just 
as  he  likes.  But  culture  indefatigably  tries, 
not  to  make  what  each  raw  person  may  like 
the  rule  by  which  he  fashions  himself ;  but  to 
draw  ever  nearer  to  a  sense  of  what  is  indeed 
beautiful,  graceful,  and  becoming,  and  to  get 
the  raw  person  to  like  that. 

And  in  the  same  way  with  respect  to  rail- 
roads and  coal.  Every  one  must  have  ob- 
served the  strange  language  current  during 
the  late  discussions  as  to  the  possible  failure 
of  our  supplies  of  coal.  Our  coal,  thousands 
of  people  were  saying,  is  the  real  basis  of  our  » 
national  greatness ;  if  our  coal  runs  short, 
there  is  an  end  of  the  greatness  of  England. 
But  what  is  greatness?  —  culture  makes  us 
ask.  Greatness  is  a  spiritual  condition 
worthy  to  excite  love,  interest,  and  admira- 
tion ;  and  the  outward  proof  of  possessing 
greatness  is  that  we  excite  love,  interest,  and 
admiration.  If  England  were  swallowed  up 
by  the  sea  to-morrow,  which  of  the  two,  a 
hundred  years  hence,  would  most  excite  the 
love,  interest,  and  admiration  of  mankind,  — 
would  most,  therefore,  show  the  evidences  of 
having  possessed  greatness,  —  the  England 
of  the  last  twenty  years,  or  the  England  of 
Elizabeth,  of  a  time  of  splendid  spiritual 
effort,  but  when  our  coal,  and  our  industrial 
operations  depending  on  coal,  were  very 
little  developed  ?  Well,  then,  what  an  un- 
sound habit  of  mind  it  must  be  which  makes 


CULTURE    AND    ANARCHY 


595 


us  talk  of  things  like  coal  or  iron  as  con- 
stituting the  greatness  of  England,  and  how 
salutary  a  friend  is  culture,  bent  on  seeing 
things  as  they  are,  and  thus  dissipating  delu- 
sions of  this  kind  and  fixing  standards  of 
perfection  that  are  real ! 

Wealth,  again,  that  end  to  which  our  pro- 
digious works  for  material  advantage  are  di- 
rected, —  the  commonest  of  commonplaces 
tells  us  how  men  are  always  apt  to  regard 
wealth  as  a  precious  end  in  itself;  and  cer- 
tainly they  have  never  been  so  apt  thus  to 
regard  it  as  they  are  in  England  at  the  present 
time.  Never  did  people  believe  anything 
more  firmly  than  nine  Englishmen  out  of  ten 
at  the  present  day  believe  that  our  greatness 
and  welfare  are  proved  by  our  being  so  very 
rich.  Now,  the  use  of  culture  is  that  it 
helps  us,  by  means  of  its  spiritual  standard  of 
perfection,  to  regard  wealth  as  but  machinery, 
and  not  only  to  say  as  a  matter  of  words  that 
we  regard  wealth  as  but  machinery,  but  really 
to  perceive  and  feel  that  it  is  so.  If  it  were 
not  for  this  purging  effect  wrought  upon  our 
minds  by  culture,  the  whole  world,  the  futvu-e 
as  well  as  the  present,  would  inevitably  belong 
to  the  Philistines.^  The  people  who  believe 
most  that  our  greatness  and  welfare  are 
proved  by  our  being  very  rich,  and  who  most 
give  their  lives  and  thoughts  to- becoming  rich, 
are  just  the  very  people  whom  we  call  Philis- 
tines. Culture  says :  "  Consider  these  people, 
then,  their  way  of  life,  their  habits,  their 
manners,  the  very  tones  of  their  voice ;  look 
at  them-  attentively ;  observe  the  literature 
they  read,  the  things  which  give  them  pleas- 
ure, the  words  which  come  forth  out  of  their 
mouths,  the  thoughts  which  make  the  furni- 
ture of  their  minds :  would  any  amount  of 
wealth  be  worth  having  with  the  condition 
that  one  was  to  become  just  like  these  people 
by  having  it?"  And  thus  culture  begets  a 
dissatisfaction  which  is  of  the  highest  possible 
value  in  stemming  the  common  tide  of  men's 
thoughts  in  a  wealthy  and  industrial  commu- 
nity, and  which  saves  the  future,  as  one  may 
hope,  from  being  vulgarised,  even  if  it  cannot 
save  the  present. 

Population,  again,  and  bodily  health  and 
vigour,  are  things  which  are  nowhere  treated 
in  such  an  unintelligent,  misleading,  exagger- 
ated way  as  in  England.     Both  are  really  ma- 

^  those  who  have  no  interest  beyond  "the  main 
chance,"  enemies  of  ideas  and  art 


chinery ;  yet  how  many  people  all  around  us 
do  we  see  rest  in  them  and  fail  to  look  beyond 
them !  Why,  one  has  heard  people,  fresh 
from  reading  certain  articles  of  the  Times  on 
the  Registrar-General's  returns  of  marriages 
and  births  in  this  country,  who  would  talk  of 
our  large  English  families  in  quite  a  solemn 
strain,  as  if  they  had  something  in  itself 
beautiful,  elevating,  and  meritorious  in  them  ; 
as  if  the  British  Philistine  would  have  only  to 
present  himself  before  the  Great  Judge  with 
his  twelve  children,  in  order  to  be  received 
among  the  sheep  as  a  matter  of  right ! 

But  bodily  health  and  vigour,  it  may  be 
said,  are  not  to  be  classed  ^^'ith  wealth  and 
population  as  mere  machinery;  they  have 
a  more  real  and  essential  value.  True ;  but 
only  as  they  are  more  intimately  connected 
wdth  a  perfect  spiritual  condition  than  wealth 
or  population  are.  The  moment  we  disjoin 
them  from  the  idea  of  a  perfect  spiritual  con- 
dition, and  pursue  them,  as  we  do  pursue  them, 
for  their  own  sake  and  as  ends  in  themselves, 
our  worship  of  them  becomes  as  mere  worship 
of  machinery,  as  our  worship  of  wealth  or  pop- 
ulation, and  as  unintelligent  and  vulgarising 
a  worship  as  that  is.  Every  one  with  any- 
thing like  an  adequate  idea  of  human  perfec- 
tion has  distinctly  marked  this  subordination 
to  higher  and  spiritual  ends  of  the  cultivation 
of  bodily  vigour  and  activit}'.  "Bodily 
exercise  profiteth  little ;  but  godhness  is 
profitable  unto  all  things,"  says  the  author 
of  the  Epistle  to  Timothy.  And  the  utili- 
tarian Franklin  says  just  as  explicitly :  — • 
"Eat  and  drink  such  an  exact  quantity  as 
suits  the  constitution  of  thy  body,  in  refer- 
ence to  tlie  services  of  the  mind."  But  the 
point  of  view  of  culture,  keeping  the  mark  of 
human  perfection  simply  and  broadly  in 
view,  and  not  assigning  to  this  perfection,  as 
religion  or  utilitarianism  assigns  to  it,  a  special 
and  limited  character,  this  point  of  view,  I  say, 
of  culture  is  best  given  by  these  Words  of 
Epictetus  :  ^  —  "  It  is  a  sign  of  dcfyvta"  says  he, 
—  that  is,  of  a  nature  not  finely  tempered,  — 
"to  give  yourselves  up  to  things  which  relate 
to  the  body ;  to  make,  for  instance,  a  great 
fuss  about  exercise,  a  great  fuss  about  eating, 
a  great  fuss  about  drinking,  a  great  fuss  about 
walking,  a  great  fuss  about  riding.  All  these 
things  ought  to  be  done  m^erely  by  the  way : 

^  a  Roman  Stoic  philosopher,  author  of  many 
famous  ma.xims  of  conduct 


596 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


the  formation  of  the  spirit  and  character  must 
be  our  real  concern."  This  is  admirable; 
and,  indeed,  the  Greek  word  ev<f>vl:a,  a  finely 
tempered  nature,  gives  exactly  the  notion  of 
perfection  as  culture  brings  us  to  conceive  it ; 
a  harmonious  perfection,  a  perfection  in  which 
the  characters  of  beauty  and  intelhgence  are 
both  present,  wliich  unites  "the  two  noblest  of 
tilings,"  —  as  Swift,  who  of  one  of  the  two, 
at  any  rate,  had  himself  all  too  little,  most 
happily  calls  them  in  his  Battle  of  the  Books,  — 
"  the  two  noblest  of  things,  sweetness  and  light.'" 
The  €v<f)vr]<;  is  the  man  who  tends  towards 
sweetness  and  Hght ;  the  a<^vTJ?,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  our  Philistine.  The  immense  spirit- 
ual significance  of  the  Greeks  is  due  to  their 
having  been  inspired  with  this  central  and 
happy  idea  of  the  essential  character  of  human 
perfection;  and  Mr.  Bright's  misconception 
of  culture,  as  a  smattering  of  Greek  and 
Latin,  comes  itself,  after  all,  from  this  wonder- 
ful significance  of  the  Greeks  having  affected 
the  very  machinery  of  our  education,  and  is 
in  itself  a  kind  of  homage  to  it. 

In  thus  making  sweetness  and  light  to  be 
characters  of  perfection,  cidture  is  of  like 
spirit  with  poetry,  follows  one  law  with  poetry. 
Far  more  than  on  our  freedom,  our  population, 
and  our  industrialism,  many  amongst  us  rely 
upon  our  religious  organisations  to  save  us. 
I  have  called  religion  a  yet  more  important 
manifestation  of  human  nature  than  poetry, 
because  it  has  worked  on  a  broader  scale  for 
perfection,  and  with  greater  masses  of  men. 
But  the  idea  of  beauty  and  of  a  human  nature 
perfect  on  all  its  sides,  which  is  the  dominant 
idea  of  poetry,  is  a  true  and  invaluable  idea, 
though  it  has  not  yet  had  the  success  that  the 
idea  of  conquering  the  obvious  faults  of  our 
animahty,  and  of  a  human  nature  perfect  on 
the  moral  side,  —  which  is  the  dominant  idea 
of  religion,  —  has  been  enabled  to  have  ;  and 
it  is  destined,  adding  to  itself  the  rehgious  idea 
of  a  devout  energy,  to  transform  and  govern 
the  other. 

The  best  art  and  poetry  of  the  Greeks,  in 
which  religion  and  poetry  are  one,  in  which  the 
idea  of  beauty  and  of  a  human  nature  perfect 
on  all  sides  adds  to  itself  a  religious  and  devout 
energy,  and  works  in  the  strength  of  that,  is  on 
this  account  of  such  surpassing  interest  and 
instructiveness  for  us,  though  it  was,  —  as, 
having  regard  to  the  Greeks  themselves,  we 
must  own,  —  a  premature  attempt,  an  at- 
tempt which  for  success  needed  the  moral 


and  religious  fibre  in  humanity  to  be  more 
braced  and  developed  than  it  had  yet  been. 
But  Greece  did  not  err  in  having  the  idea  of 
beauty,  harmony,  and  complete  human  per- 
fection, so  present  and  paramount.  It  is 
impossible  to  have  this  idea  too  present  and 
paramount ;  only,  the  moral  fibre  must  be 
braced  too.  And  we,  because  we  have  braced 
the  moral  fibre,  are  not  on  that  account  in 
the  right  way,  if  at  the  same  time  the  idea 
of  beauty,  harmony,  and  complete  human 
perfection,  is  wanting  or  misapprehended 
amongst  us ;  and  evidently  it  is  wanting  or 
misapprehended  at  present.  And  when  we 
rely  as  we  do  on  our  religious  organisations, 
which  in  themselves  do  not  and  cannot  give 
us  this  idea,  and  think  we  have  done  enough  if 
we  make  them  spread  and  prevail,  then,  I  say, 
we  fall  into  our  common  fault  of  overvaluing 
machinery. 


The  impulse  of  the  EngUsh  race  towards 
moral  development  and  self-conquest  has  no- 
where so  powerfully  manifested  itself  as  in 
Puritanism.  Nowhere  has  Puritanism  found 
so  adequate  an  expression  as  in  the  religious 
organisation  of  the  Independents.^  The  mod- 
ern Independents  have  a  newspaper,  the  Non- 
conformist, written  with  great  sincerity  and 
ability.  The  motto,  the  standard,  the  pro- 
fession of  faith  which  this-  organ  of  theirs 
carries  aloft,  is:  "The  Dissidence  of  Dissent 
and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  reli- 
gion."^ There  is  sweetness  and  light,  and  an 
ideal  of  complete  harmonious  human  perfec- 
tion !  One  need  not  go  to  culture  and  poetry 
to  find  language  to  judge  it.  Religion,  with 
its  instinct  for  perfection,  supplies  language  to 
judge  it,  language,  too,  which  is  in  our  mouths 
every  day.  "Finally,  be  of  one  mind,  united 
in  feeling,"  says  St.  Peter.  There  is  an  ideal 
which  judges  the  Puritan  ideal:  "The  Dissi- 
dence of  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  the 
Protestant  religion!"  And  religious  organi- 
sations hke  this  are  what  people  believe  in, 
rest  in,  would  give  their  lives  for  !  Such,  I  say, 
is  the  wonderful  virtue  of  even  the  beginnings 
of  perfection,  of  having  conquered  even  the 
plain  faults  of  our  animahty,  that  the  religious 
organisation  which  has  helped  us  to  do  it  can 
seem  to  us  something  precious,  salutary,  and 

^  i.e.,  Congregationalists  -Quoted  from  Burke's 
speech  on  Conciliation. 


CULTURE    AND    ANARCHY 


597 


to  be  propagated,  even  when  it  wears  such  a 
brand  of  imperfection  on  its  forehead  as  this. 
And  men  have  got  such  a  habit  of  giving  to  the 
language  of  religion  a  special  application,  of 
making  it  a  mere  jargon,  that  for  the  condem- 
nation which  religion  itself  passes  on  the  short- 
comings of  their  religious  organisations  they 
have  no  ear ;  they  are  sure  to  cheat  themselves 
and  to  explain  this  condemnation  away. 
They  can  only  be  reached  by  the  criticism 
v/hich  culture,  like  poetr>^  speaking  a  language 
not  to  be  sophisticated,  and  resolutely  testing 
these  organisations  by  the  ideal  of  a  human  per- 
fection complete  on  aU  sides,  applies  to  them. 
But  men  of  culture  and  poetry,  it  will  be 
said,  are  again  and  again  failing,  and  failing 
conspicuously,  in  the  necessary  first  stage  to  a 
harmonious  perfection,  in  the  subduing  of  the 
great  obvious  faults  of  our  animahty,  which  it 
is  the  glory  of  these  religious  organisations  to 
have  helped  us  to  subdue.  True,  they  do 
often  so  fail.  They  have  often  been  without 
the  virtues  as  well  as  the  faults  of  the  Puritan  ; 
it  has  been  one  of  their  dangers  that  they 
so  felt  the  Puritan's  faults  that  they  too  much 
neglected  the  practice  of  his  virtues.  I  will 
not,  however,  exculpate  them  at  the  Puritan's 
expense.  They  have  often  failed  in  morality, 
and  morality  is  indispensable.  And  they  have 
been  punished  for  their  failure,  as  the  Puritan 
has  been  rewarded  for  his  performance.  They 
have  been  punished  wherein  they  erred ;  but 
their  ideal  of  beauty,  of  sweetness  and  light, 
and  a  human  nature  complete  on  all  its  sides, 
remains  the  true  ideal  of  perfection  stiU ;  just 
as  the  Puritan's  ideal  of  perfection  remains 
narrow  and  inadequate,  although  for  what  he 
did  well  he  has  been  richly  rewarded.  Not- 
withstanding the  mighty  results  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers'  voyage,  they  and  their  standard  of 
perfection  are  rightly  judged  when  we  figure 
to  ourselves  Shakspeare  or  MrgU,  —  souls  in 
whom  sweetness  and  hght,  and  aU  that  in  hu- 
man nature  is  most  humane,  were  eminent,  — 
accompanying  them  on  their  voyage,  and 
think  what  intolerable  company  Shakspeare 
and  Virgil  woidd  have  found  them !  In  the 
same  way  let  us  judge  the  religious  organisa- 
tions which  we  see  all  around  us.  Do  not 
let  us  deny  the  good  and  the  happiness  which 
they  have  accomplished  ;  but  do  not  let  us  fail 
to  see  clearly  that  their  idea  of  human  perfec- 
tion is  narrow  and  inadequate,  and  that  the 
Dissidence  of  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism 
of  the   Protestant   religion  will  never  bring 


humanity  to  its  true  goal.  As  I  said  with 
regard  to  wealth :  Let  us  look  at  the  life  of 
those  who  live  in  and  for  it,  —  so  I  say  with 
regard  to  the  religious  organisations.  Look 
at  the  life  imaged  in  such  a  newspaper  as  the 
Nonconformist,  —  a  life  of  jealousy  of  the 
Establishment,  disputes,  tea-meetings,  open- 
ings of  chapels,  sermons ;  and  then  think  of  it 
as  an  ideal  of  a  human  life  completing  itself 
on  all  sides,  and. aspiring  with  all  its  organs 
after  sweetness,  light,  and  perfection  ! 

Another  newspaper,  representing,  like  the 
Nonconformist,  one  of  the  religious  organisa- 
tions of  this  country,  was  a  short  time  ago 
giving  an  account  of  the  crowd  at  Epsom  on 
the  Derby  ^  day,  and  of  all  the  vice  and  hideous- 
ness  which  was  to  be  seen  in  that  crowd  ;  and 
then  the  writer  turned  suddenly  round  upon 
Professor  Huxley ,2  and  asked  him  how  he  pro- 
posed to  cure  all  this  vice  and  hideousness 
without  rehgion.  I  confess  I  felt  disposed  to 
ask  the  asker  this  question :  and  how  do  you 
propose  to  cure  it  with  such  a  religion  as 
yours  ?  How  is  the  ideal  of  a  life  so  unlovely, 
so  unattractive,  so  incomplete,  so  narrow,  so 
far  removed  from  a  true  and  satisfying  ideal  of 
human  perfection,  as  is  the  life  of  your  reli- 
gious organisation  as  you  yourself  reflect  it,  to 
conquer  and  transform  all  this  vice  and  hide- 
ousness? Indeed,  the  strongest  plea  for  the 
study  of  perfection  as  pursued  by  culture,  the 
clearest  proof  of  the  actual  inadequacy  of  the 
idea  of  perfection  held  by  the  religious  organ- 
isations, —  expressing,  as  I  have  said,  the 
most  wide-spread  effort  which  the  human 
race  has  yet  made  after  perfection,  —  is  to  be 
found  in  the  state  of  our  life  and  society  with 
these  in  possession  of  it,  and  having  been  in 
possession  of  it  I  know  not  how  many  hundred 
years.  We  are  all  of  us  included  in  some 
religious  organisation  or  other;  we  all  call 
ourselves,  in  the  sublime  and  aspiring  lan- 
guage of  religion  which  I  have  before  noticed, 
children  of  God.  Children  of  God ;  —  it  is  an 
immense  pretension !  —  and  how  are  we  to 
justify  it?  By  the  works  which  we  do,  and 
the  words  which  we  speak.  And  the  work 
which  we  collective  children  of  God  do,  our 
grand  centre  of  life,  our  city  which  we  have 
builded  for  us  to  dwell  in,  is  London  1 
London,  with  its  imutterable  external  hideous- 
ness, and  with  its  internal  canker  of  publice 

^  an  annual  race  for  three-year-olds  ^  a  biolo- 
gist and  agnostic  (1825-95) 


59S 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


egcstas,  privatim  opulentia,^  —  to  use  the  words 
which  Sallust  puts  into  Cato's  mouth  about 
Rome,  —  unequalled  in  the  world !  The 
word,  again,  which  we  children  of  God  speak, 
the  voice  which  most  hits  our  collective 
thought,  the  newspaper  with  the  largest 
circulation  in  England,  nay,  with  the  largest 
circulation  in  the  whole  world,  is  the  Daily 
Telegraph  1  I  say  that  when  our  religious 
organisations,  —  which  I  admit  to  express  the 
most  considerable  efTort  after  perfection  that 
our  race  has  yet  made,  —  land  us  in  no  better 
result  than  this,  it  is  high  time  to  examine 
carefully  their  idea  of  perfection,  and  to  see 
whether  it  does  not  leave  out  of  account 
sides  and  forces  of  human  nature  which  we 
might  turn  to  great  use ;  whether  it  would 
not  be  more  operative  if  it  were  more  complete. 
And  I  say  that  the  English  reliance  on  our 
religious  organisations  and  on  their  ideas  of 
human  perfection  just  as  they  stand,  is  like 
our  reliance  on  freedom,  on  muscular  Chris- 
tianity, on  population,  on  coal,  on  wealth,  — 
mere  belief  in  machinery,  and  unfruitful ; 
and  that  it  is  wholesomely  counteracted  by 
culture,  bent  on  seeing  things  as  they  are,  and 
on  drawing  the  human  race  onwards  to  a 
more  complete,  a  harmonious  perfection. 

Culture,  however,  shows  its  single-minded 
love  of  perfection,  its  desire  simply  to  make 
reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail,  its  freedom 
from  fanaticism,  by  its  attitude  towards  all 
this  machinery,  even  while  it  insists  that  it  is 
machinery.  Fanatics,  seeing  the  mischief  men 
do  themselves  by  their  blind  belief  in  some 
machinery  or  other,  —  whether  it  is  wealth 
and  industrialism,  or  whether  it  is  the  culti- 
vation of  bodily  strength  and  activity,  or 
whether  it  is  a  religious  organisation,  —  op- 
pose with  might  and  main  the  tendency  to  this 
or  that  pohtical  and  religious  organisation,  or 
to  games  and  athletic  exercises,  or  to  wealth 
and  industrialism,  and  try  violently  to  stop  it. 
But  the  flexibility  which  sweetness  and  light 
give,  and  which  is  one  of  the  rewards  of  cul- 
ture pursued  in  good  faith,  enables  a  man  to 
see  that  a  tendency  may  be  necessary,  and 
even,  as  a  preparation  for  something  in  the 
future,  salutary,  and  yet  that  the  generations 
or  individuals  who  obey  this  tendency  are 
sacrificed  to  it,  that  they  fall  short  of  the  hope 
of  perfection  by  following  it ;    and  that  its 

^  "public  want  and  private  .wealth,"  quoted 
from  Sallust's  Caliline,  lii 


mischiefs  are  to  be  criticised,  lest  it  should 
take  too  firm  a  hold  and  last  after  it  has  served 
its  purpose. 

Mr.  Gladstone  well  pointed  out,  in  a  speech 
at  Paris,  —  and  others  have  pointed  out  the 
same  thing,  —  how  necessary  is  the  present 
great  movement  towards  wealth  and  indus- 
trialism, in  order  to  lay  broad  foundations  of 
material  well-being  for  the  society  of  the 
future.  The  worst  of  these  justifications  is, 
that  they  are  generally  addressed  to  the  very 
people  engaged,  body  and  soul,  in  the  move- 
ment in  question ;  at  all  events,  that  they  are 
always  seized  with  the  greatest  avidity  by 
these  people,  and  taken  by  them  as  quite 
justifying  their  life ;  and  that  thus  they  tend 
to  harden  them  in  their  sins.  Now,  culture 
admits  the  necessity  of  the  movement  towards 
fortune-making  and  exaggerated  industrialism, 
readily  allows  that  the  future  may  derive 
benefit  from  it ;  but  insists,  at  the  same  time, 
that  the  passing  generations  of  industrialists, 
— •  forming,  for  the  most  part,  the  stout  main 
body  of  Philistinism,  —  are  sacrificed  to  it. 
In  the  same  way,  the  result  of  all  the  games 
and  sports  which  occupy  the  passing  genera- 
tion of  boys  and  young  men  may  be  the 
establishment  of  a  better  and  sounder  physical 
type  for  the  future  to  work  with.  Culture 
does  not  set  itself  against  the  games  and 
sports  ;  it  congratulates  the  future,  and  hopes 
it  will  make  a  good  use  of  its  improved 
physical  basis ;  but  it  points  out  that  our 
passing  generation  of  boys  and  young  men  is, 
meantime,  sacrificed.  Puritanism  was  per- 
haps necessary  to  develop  the  moral  fibre  of 
the  EngUsh  race.  Nonconformity  to  break 
the  yoke  of  ecclesiastical  domination  over 
men's  minds  and  to  prepare  the  way  for  free- 
dom of  thought  in  the  distant  future;  still, 
culture  points  out  that  the  harmonious  per- 
fection of  generations  of  Puritans  and  Non- 
conformists has  been,  in  consequence,  sacri- 
ficed. Freedom  of  speech  may  be  necessary 
for  the  society  of  the  future,  but  the  young 
lions  ^  of  the  Daily  Telegraph  in  the  meanwhile 
arc  sacrificed.  A  voice  for  every  man  in  his 
country's  government  may  be  necessary  for 
the  society  of  the  future,  but  meanwhile  Mr. 
Beales-  and  Mr.  Bradlaugh^  are  sacrificed. 

^  Arnold's  term  for  the  editorial  writers  of  the 
Telegraph  ^  Edmond  Beales,  M.P.,  an  active  ad- 
vocate of  reforms  "  Charles  Bradlaugh,  a  radical 
lecturer  and  writer,  later  a  member  of  Parliament 


CULTURE   AND    ANARCHY 


599 


Oxford,  the  Oxford  of  the  past,  has  many 
faults ;  and  she  has  heavily  paid  for  them  in 
defeat,  in  isolation,  in  want  of  hold  upon  the 
modern  world.  Yet  we  in  Oxford,  brought  up 
amidst  the  beauty  and  sweetness  of  that 
beautiful  place,  have  not  failed  to  seize  one 
truth,  —  the  truth  that  beauty  and  sweetness 
are  essential  characters  of  a  complete  human 
perfection.  When  I  insist  on  this,  I  am  all  in 
the  faith  and  tradition  of  Oxford.  I  say 
boldly  that  this  our  sentiment  for  beauty  and 
sweetness,  our  sentiment  against  hideousness 
and  rawness,  has  been  at  the  bottom  of  our 
attachment  to  so  many  beaten  causes,  of  our 
opposition  to  so  many  triimiphant  movements. 
And  the  sentiment  is  true,  and  has  never  been 
wholl}'  defeated,  and  has  shown  its  power  even 
in  its  defeat.  We  have  not  won  our  political 
battles,  we  have  not  carried  our  main  points, 
we  have  not  stopped  our  adversaries'  advance, 
we  have  not  marched  victoriously  with  the 
modern  world ;  but  we  have  told  silently  upon 
the  mind  of  the  country,  we  have  prepared 
currents  of  feeling  which  sap  our  adversaries' 
position  when  it  seems  gained,  we  have  kept 
up  our  own  communications  with  the  future. 
Look  at  the  course  of  the  great  movement 
which  shook  Oxford  to  its  centre  some  thirty 
years  ago  !  It  was  directed,  as  any  one  who 
reads  Dr.  Newman's  .4 /'o/ogy^  may  see,  agai.nst 
what  in  one  word  may  be  caUed  "Liberalism." 
Liberalism  prevailed ;  it  was  the  appointed 
force  to  do  the  work  of  the  hour  ;  it  was  neces- 
sary, it  was  inevitable  that  it  should  prevail. 
The  Oxford  movement  was  broken,  it  failed; 
our  wrecks  are  scattered  on  every  shore :  — 

Quae  regio  in  terris  nostri  non  plena  laboris?  ^ 

But  what  was  it,  this  liberalism,  as  Dr.  New- 
man saw  it,  and  as  it  really  broke  the  Oxford 
movement?  It  was  the  great  middle-class 
liberalism,  which  had  for  the  cardinal  points 
of  its  belief  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832,  and  local 
self-government,  in  politics;  in  the  social 
sphere,  free-trade,  unrestricted  competition, 
and  the  making  of  large  industrial  fortunes ; 
in  the  religious  sphere,  the  Dissidence  of 
Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Prot- 
estant religion.  I  do  not  say  that  other  and 
more  intelligent  forces  than  this  were  not 

^  J.  H.  Newman  (later  Cardinal),  Apologia  pro 
Vita  Sua  ^  "What  region  in  the  world  is  not 
filled  with  the  tale  of  our  woe?" 


opposed  to  the  Oxford  movement :  but  this 
was  the  force  which  really  beat  it ;  this  was 
the  force  which  Dr.  Newman  felt  himself 
fighting  with ;  this  was  the  force  which  till 
only  the  other  day  seemed  to  be  the  para- 
moimt  force  in  this  countr\%  and  to  be  in 
possession  of  the  future ;  this  was  the  force 
whose  achievements  fill  Mr.  Lowe  ^  with  such 
inexpressible  admiration,  and  whose  rule  he 
was  so  horror-struck  to  see  threatened.  And 
where  is  this  great  force  of  Philistinism  now? 
It  is  thrust  into  the  second  rank,  it  is  become 
a  power  of  yesterday,  it  has  lost  the  future. 
x\  new  power  has  suddenly  appeared,  a 
power  which  it  is  impossible  yet  to  judge 
fully,  but  which  is  certainly  a  whoUy  different 
force  from  middle-class  liberalism ;  different 
in  its  cardinal  points  of  belief,  dift'erent  in  its 
tendencies  in  every  sphere.  It  loves  and 
admires  neither  the  legislation  of  middle- 
class  Parliaments,  nor  the  local  self-gov- 
ernment of  middle-class  vestries,  nor  the 
unrestricted  competition  of  middle-class  indus- 
trialists, nor  the  Dissidence  of  middle-class 
Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  middle- 
class  Protestant  religion.  I  am  not  now 
praismg  this  new  force,  or  saying  that  its 
own  ideals  are  better ;  all  I  say  is,  that  they 
are  wholly  different.  And  who  wiU  estimate 
how  much  the  currents  of  feeling  created  by 
Dr.  Newman's  movement,  the  keen  desire  for 
beauty  and  sweetness  which  it  nourished,  the 
deep  aversion  it  manifested  to  the  hardness 
and  vulgarity  of  middle-class  liberalism,  the 
strong  light  it  turned  on  the  hideous  and 
grotesque  illusions  of  middle-class  Protestan- 
tism, — •  who  will  estimate  how  much  all  these 
contributed  to  swell  the  tide  of  secret  dis- 
satisfaction which  has  mined  the  ground 
imder  self-confident  liberahsm  of  the  last 
thirty  years,  and  has  prepared  the  way  for  its 
sudden  coUapse  and  supersession?  It  is 
in  this  manner  that  the  sentiment  of  Oxford 
for  beauty  and  sweetness  conquers,  and  in 
this  manner  long  may  it  continue  to  conquer ! 


Culture  is  alwaj'S  assigning  to  system- 
makers  and  systems  a  smaller  share  in  the 
bent  of  human  destiny  than  their  friends  hke. 
A  current: in  people's  minds  sets  towards  new 
ideas ;    people  are  dissatisfied  with  their  old 

^  Robert  Lowe  (afterwards  Lord  Sherbrooke), 
a  bitter  opponent  of  Disraeli's  Reform  Bill 


6oo 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


narrow  stock  of  Philistine  ideas,  Anglo-Saxon 
ideas,  or  any  other ;  and  some  man,  some 
Bentham  ^  or  Comte,"  who  has  the  real  merit  of 
having  early  and  strongly  felt  and  helped  the 
new  current,  but  who  brings  plenty  of  narrow- 
ness and  mistakes  of  his  own  into  his  feeling 
and  help  of  it,  is  credited  with  being  the  author 
of  the  whole  current,  the  fit  person  to  be  en- 
trusted with  its  regulation  and  to  guide  the 
human  race. 

The  excellent  German  historian  of  the  my- 
thology of  Rome,  Preller,  relating  the  introduc- 
tion at  Rome  under  the  Tarquins  ^  of  the  wor- 
ship of  Apollo,  the  god  of  light,  heaUng,  and 
reconciliation,  will  have  us  observe  that  it  was 
not  so  much  the  Tarquins  who  brought  to 
Rome  the  new  worship  of  Apollo,  as  a  current 
in  the  mind  of  the  Roman  people  which  set 
powerfully  at  that  time  towards  a  new  worship 
of  this  kind,  and  away  from  the  old  run  of 
Latin  and  Sabine*  religious  ideas.  In  a 
similar  way,  culture  directs  our  attention  to 
the  natural  current  there  is  in  human  affairs, 
and  to  its  Continual  working,  and  will  not  let 
us  rivet  our  faith  upon  any  one  man  and  his 
doings.  It  makes  us  see  not  only  his  good 
side,  but  also  how  much  in  him  was  of  neces- 
sity limited  and  transient ;  nay,  it  even  feels 
a  pleasure,  a  sense  of  an  increased  freedom 
and  of  an  ampler  future,  in  so  doing. 

I  remember,  when  I  was  under  the  influence 
of  a  mind  to  which  I  feel  the  greatest  obliga- 
tions, the  mind  of  a  man  who  was  the  very 
incarnation  of  sanity  and  clear  sense,  a  man 
the  most  considerable,  it  seems  to  me,  whom 
America  has  yet  produced,  —  Benjamin 
Franklin,  —  I  remember  the  relief  with  which, 
after  long  feeling  the  sway  of  Franklin's  im- 
perturbable common-sense,  I  came  upon  a 
project  of  his  for  a  new  version  of  the  Book  of 
Job,  to  replace  the  old  version,  the  style  of 
which,  says  Franklin,  has  become  obsolete, 
and  thence  less  agreeable.  "I  give,"  he  con- 
tinues, "a  few  verses,  which  may  serve  as  a 
sample  of  the  kind  of  version  I  would  recom- 
mend."    We  all  recollect  the  famous  verse 

^Jeremy  Bentham  (1748-1832),  founder  of 
Utilitarianism,  the  doctrine  that  virtue  consists 
in  acting  for  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest 
number  ^  Auguste  Comte  (lygS-iSsy)^ founderof 
Positivism,  the  doctrine  that  only  the  verifiable 
facts  of  existence  are  to  be  attended  to  in  phi- 
losophy ^  mythical  kings  of  Rome  *  a  race 
incorporated  with  the  Romans 


in  our  translation:  "Then  Satan  answered 
the  Lord  and  said :  '  Doth  Job  fear  God  for 
nought?'"  Franklin  makes  this:  "Does 
your  Majesty  imagine  that  Job's  good  con- 
duct is  the  effect  of  mere  personal  attachment 
and  affection?"  I  well  remember  how,  when 
first  I  read  that,  I  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief, 
and  said  to  myself:  "After  all,  there  is  a 
stretch  of  humanity  beyond  Franklin's  vic- 
torious good  sense!"  So,  after  hearing 
Bentham  cried  loudly  up  as  the  renovator 
of  modern  society,  and  Bentham's  mind 
and  ideas  proposed  as  the  rulers  of  our 
future,  I  open  the  Deontology }  There  I  read : 
"While  Xenophon  was  writing  his  history  and 
Euclid  teaching  geometry,  Socrates  and  Plato 
were  talking  nonsense  tmder  pretence  of  talk- 
ing wisdom  and  morality.  This  morality  of 
theirs  consisted  in  words;  this  wisdom  of 
theirs  was  the  denial  of  matters  known  to 
every  man's  experience."  From  the  moment 
of  reading  that,  I  am  delivered  from  the  bond- 
age of  Bentham !  the  fanaticism  of  his  adhe- 
rents can  touch  me  no  longer.  I  feel  the  in- 
adequacy of  his  mind  and  ideas  for  supplying 
the  rule  of  human  society,  for  perfection. 

Culture  tends  always  thus  to  deal  with  the 
men  of  a  system,  of  disciples,  of  a  school ; 
with  men  like  Comte,  or  the  late  Mr.  Buckle, 
or  .Mr.  Mill.^  However  much  it  may  find  to 
admire  in  these  personages,  or  in  some  of 
them,  it  nevertheless  remembers  the  text : 
"Be  not  ye  called  Rabbi !"  and  it  soon  passes 
on  from  any  Rabbi.  But  Jacobinism  loves  a 
Rabbi ;  it  does  not  want  to  pass  on  from  its 
Rabbi  in  pursuit  of  a  future  and  still  un- 
reached perfection  ;  it  wants  its  Rabbi  and  his 
ideas  to  stand  for  perfection,  that  they  may 
with  the  more  authority  recast  the  world ; 
and  for  Jacobinism,  therefore,  culture,  — 
eternally  passing  onwards  and  seeking,  —  is 
an  impertinence  and  an  offence.  But  culture, 
just  because  it  resists  this  tendency  of  Jacobin- 
ism to  impose  on  us  a  man  with  limitations 
and  errors  of  his  own  along  with  the  true  ideas 
of  which  he  is  the  organ,  really  does  the  world 
and  Jacobinism  itself  a  service. 

So,  too.  Jacobinism,  in  its  fierce  hatred  of 
the  past  and  of  those  whom  it  makes  liable  for 
the  sins  of  the  past,  cannot  away  with  the  in- 
exhaustible indulgence  proper  to  culture,  the 
consideration    of    circumstances,   the   severe 

^  "The  theory  of  what  is  proper"  ^ration- 
alistic philosophers 


CULTURE    AND    ANARCHY 


6oi 


judgment  of  actions  joined  to  the  merciful 
judgment  of  persons.  "The  man  of  culture 
is  in  politics,"  cries  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,' 
"one  of  the  poorest  mortals  alive!"  Mr. 
Frederic  Harrison  wants  to  be  doing  business, 
and  he  complains  that  the  man  of  culture  stops 
him  with  a  "turn  for  small  fault-finding,  love 
of  selfish  ease,  and  indecision  in  action."  Of 
what  use  is  culture,  he  asks,  except  for  "a  critic 
of  new  books  or  a  professor  of  helles  lettres"  ? 
Why,  it  is  of  use  because,  in  presence  of  the 
fierce  exasperation  which  breathes,  or  rather, 
I  may  say,  hisses  through  the  whole  produc- 
tion in  which  j\Ir.  Frederic  Harrison  asks  that 
question,  it  reminds  us  that  the  perfection  of 
human  nature  is  sweetness  and  light.  It  is 
of  use  because,  like  religion,  —  that  other 
effort  after  perfection,  —  it  testifies  that, 
where  bitter  envying  and  strife  are,  there  is 
confusion  and  every  evU  work. 

The  pursuit  of  perfection,  then,  is  the  pur- 
suit of  sweetness  and  light.  He  who  works 
for  sweetness  and  light,  works  to  make  reason 
and  the  will  of  God  prevail.  He  who  works 
for  machinery,  he  who  works  for  hatred,  works 
only  for  confusion.  Culture  looks  beyond 
machinery,  culture  hates  hatred ;  culture  has 
one  great  passion,  the  passion  for  sweetness 
and  light.  It  has  one  even  yet  greater !  — 
the  passion  for  making  them  prevail.  It  is 
not  satisfied  till  we  all  come  to  a  perfect  man ; 
it  knows  that  the  sweetness  and  light  of  the 
few  must  be  imperfect  until  the  raw  and  xm- 
kindled  masses  of  humanity  are  touched  with 
sweetness  and  light.  If  I  have  not  shrunk 
from  saying  that  we  must  work  for  sweetness 
and  light,  so  neither  have  I  shrunk  from  saying 
that  we  must  have  a  broad  basis,  must  have 
sweetness  and  light  for  as  many  as  possible. 
Again  and  again  I  have  insisted  how  those  are 
the  happy  moments  of  humanity,  how  those 
are  the  marking  epochs  of  a  people's  life,  how 
those  are  the  flowering  times  for  literature  and 
art  and  all  the  creative  power  of  genius,  when 
there  is  a  national  glow  of  life  and  thought, 
when  the  whole  of  society  is  in  the  fullest 
measure  permeated  by  thought,  sensible  to 
beauty,  intelligent  and  alive.  Only  it  must  be 
real  thought  and  real  beauty ;  real  sweetness 
and  real  fight.  Plenty  of  people  will  try  to 
give  the  masses,  as  they  call  them,  an  intel- 
lectual food  prepared  and  adapted  in  the  way 
they  think  proper  for  the  actual  condition  of 
the  masses.  The  ordinary  popular  litera- 
ture is  an  example  of  this  way  of  working  on 


the  masses.  Plenty  of  people  will  try  to  in- 
doctrinate the  masses  with  the  set  of  ideas 
and  judgments  constituting  the  creed  of  their 
own  profession  or  party.  Our  religious  and 
political  organisations  give  an  example  of  this 
way  of  working  on  the  masses.  I  condemn 
neither  way ;  but  culture  works  differently. 
It  does  not  try  to  teach  down  to  the  level  of 
inferior  classes ;  it  does  not  try  to  win  them 
for  this  or  that  sect  of  its  own,  with  ready- 
made  judgments  and  watchwords.  It  seeks 
to  do  away  with  classes ;  to  make  the  best 
that  has  been  thought  and  known  in  the  World 
current  everywhere ;  to  make  all  men  live  in 
an  atmosphere  of  sweetness  and  light,  where 
they  may  use  ideas,  as  it  uses  them  itself, 
freely,  —  nourished,  and  not  bound  by  them. 
This  is  the  social  idea  ;  and  the  men  of  cul- 
ture are  the  true  apostles  of  equahty.  The 
great  men  of  culture  are  those  who  have  had 
a  passion  for  diffusing,  for  making  prevail, 
for  carrying  from  one  end  of  society  to  the 
other,  the  best  knowledge,  the  best  ideas  of 
their  time;  who  have  laboured  to  divest 
knowledge  of  all  that  was  harsh,  uncouth, 
diflicult,  abstract,  professional,  exclusive ;  to 
humanise  it,  to  make  it  efficient  outside  the 
clique  of  the  cultivated  and  learned,  yet  still 
remaining  the  best  knowledge  and  thought  of 
the  time,  and  a  true  source,  therefore,  of 
sweetness  and  light.  Such  a  man  was  Abelard* 
in  the  Middle  Ages,  in  spite  of  all  his  imper- 
fections; and  thence  the  boundless  emotion 
and  enthusiasm  which  Abelard  excited. 
Such  were  Lessing^  and  Herder^  in  Germany, 
at  the  end  of  the  last  century;  and  their 
services  to  Germany  were  in  this  way  in- 
estimably precious.  Generations  will  pass, 
and  literary  monuments  will  accumulate, 
and  works  far  more  perfect  than  the  works 
of  Lessing  and  Herder  will  be  produced  in 
Germany;  and  yet  the  names  of  these  two 
men  will  fill  a  German  with  a  reverence  and 
enthusiasm  such  as  the  names  of  the  most 
gifted  masters  will  hardly  awaken.  And 
why  ?  Because  they  humanised  knowledge  ; 
because  they  broadened  the  basis  of  life  and 
inteUigence  ;  because  they  worked  powerfully 
to  diffuse  sweetness  and  light,  to  make  reason 
and   the  will  of   God  prevail.      With  Saint 

1  Pierre  Abelard  (1079-1142),  a  brilliant 
teacher  and  philosopher  -  G.  E.  Lessing  (1729- 
1781),  famous  German  dramatist  and  critic 
3  J.  G.  von  Herder  (1744-1803),  poet  and  critic 


6o2 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD 


Augustine  they  said:  "Let  us  not  leave  thee 
alone  to  make  in  the  secret  of  thy  knowledge, 
as  thou  didst  before  the  creation  of  the  firma- 
ment, the  division  of  light  from  darkness  ;  let 
the  children  of  thy  spirit,  placed  in  their 
firmament,  make  their  light  shine  upon  the 
earth,  mark  the  division  of  night  and  day,  and 
announce  the  revolution  of  the  times  ;  for  the 
old  order  is  passed,  and  the  new  arises ;  the 
night  is  spent,  the  day  is  come  forth;  and 
thou  shalt  crown  the  year  with  thy  blessing, 
when  thou  shalt  send  forth  labourers  into  thy 
harvest  sown  by  other  hands  than  theirs ; 
when  thou  shalt  send  forth  new  labourers  to 
new  seedtimes,  whereof  the  harvest  shall  be 
not  yet." 

SHAKESPEARE 

Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free. 
We  ask  and  ask :  Thou  smilest  and  art  still, 
Out-topping  knowledge.     For  the  loftiest  hill 
That  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 
Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea. 
Making  the  Heaven  of  Heavens  his  dwelling- 
place, 
Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the  foil'd  searching  of  mortality  : 
And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams 

know, 
Self-school'd,  self-scann'd,  self-honour'd,  self- 
secure,  lO 
Didst  walk  on  Earth  unguess'd  at.     Better 

so ! 
All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 
All  weakness  that  impairs,  all  griefs  that  bow, 
Find  their  sole  voice  in  that  victorious  brow. 


THE   FORSAKEN  MERMAN 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away ; 

Down  and  away  below. 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay ; 
Now  the  great  winds  shorewards  blow ; 
Now  the  salt  tides  seawards  flow ; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 
Children  dear,  let  us  away. 
This  way,  this  way. 

Call  her  once  before  you  go. 

Call  once  yet. 
In  a  voice  that  she  will  know : 

"  Margaret !     Margaret ! " 


Children's  voices  should  be  dear 
(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear : 
Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain. 

Surely  she  will  come  again. 
Call  her  once  and  come  away. 

This  way,  this  way. 
"Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay."  20 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret. 

Margaret !     ]\Largaret ! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down. 

Call  no  more. 
One  last  look  at  the  white-wall'd  town,         25 
And  the  little  grey  church  on  the  windy  shore. 

Then  come  down. 
She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day. 

Come  away,  come  away. 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  30 

We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay  ? 

In  the  caverns  where  we  lay,   . 

Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell 
The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell  ? 
Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep, 
Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep ; 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam ; 
Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream ; 
Where  the  sea-beasts,  rang'd  all  round. 
Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture-ground ;    40 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine, 
Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine ; 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 
SaU  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 
Round  the  world  forever  and  aye  ?  45 

When  did  music  come  this  way  ? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 
(Call  yet  once)  that  she  went  away  ? 
Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me,  50 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the 

sea. 
And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 
She  comb'd  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended  it 

well, 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  the  far-off  bell. 
She  sigh'd,  she  look'd  up  through  the  clear 

green  sea. 
She  said :  "I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 
In  the  Httle  grey  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 
'Twill  be  Easter-time  in  the  world  —  ah  me  ! 
And  I  lose  my  poor  soul.  Merman,  here  with 

thee." 
I  said:    "Go    up,   dear   heart,    through  the 
waves. 


TO    MARGUERITE 


605 


Say  thy  praj'er,  and  come  back  to  the  kind  sea- 
caves."  61 

She  smil'd,  she  went  up  through  the  surf 
in  the  bay. 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Cliildren  dear,  were  we  long  alone  ? 
"The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan. 
Long  prayers,"  I  said,  "in  the  world  they  say. 
Come,"  I  said,  and  we  rose  through  the  surf  in 

the  bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,   to  the  white- 

wall'd  town. 
Through  the  narrow  pav'd  streets,  where  all 

was  still,  70 

To  the  little  grey  church  on  the  windy  hill. 
From  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk  at 

their  prayers. 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blo^^ng  airs. 
We  climb'd  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones,  worn 

with  rains. 
And  we  gaz'd  up  the  aisle  through  the  small 

leaded  panes. 
She  sate  by  the  pillar  ;  we  saw  her  clear : 
"  Margaret,  hist !  come  quick,  we  are  here. 
Dear  heart,"  I  said,  "we  are  long  alone. 
The  sea  grows  stormy,   the  little  ones 

moan." 
But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look,  80 

For  her  eyes  were  seal'd  to  the  holy  book. 
Loud  prays  the  priest ;   shut  stands  the  door. 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more. 
Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more. 

Down,  down,  down. 
Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea. 
She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming  towTi, 

Singing  most  joyfulh'. 
Hark,  what  she  sings ;   "O  joy,  O  joy. 
For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with 

its  toy. 
For  the  priest,  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy  well. 
For  the  wheel  where  I  spun,  92 

And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun." 
And  so  she  sings  her  fill, 
Singing  most  joyfully. 
Till  the  shuttle  falls  from  her  hand. 
And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 
She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the 
sand; 
And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea ; 
And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare ;  100 

And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 
And  anon  there  drops  a  tear, 


From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye, 
And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 
A  long,  long  sigh. 
For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mermaiden 
And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

Come  away,  away,  children. 

Come,  children,  come  down. 

The  salt  tide  rolls  seaward.  no 

Lights  shine  in  the  town. 

She  will  start  from  her  slumber 

When  gusts  shake  the  door ; 

She  will  hear  the  winds  howling, 

Will  hear  the  waves  roar. 

We  shall  see,  while  above  us 

The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 

A  ceiling  of  amber, 

A  pavement  of  pearl. 

Singing,  "Here  came  a  mortal,  120 

But  faithless  was  she. 

And  alone  dwell  forever 

The  kings  of  the  sea." 

But,  children,  at  midnight, 

When  soft  the  winds  blow ; 

When  clear  falls  the  moonlight ; 

When  spring-tides  are  low ; 

When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 

From  heaths  starr'd  with  broom ; 

And  high  rocks  throw  mildly  130 

On  the  blanch 'd  sands  a  gloom : 

Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches, 

Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie ; 

Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 

The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 

We  will  gaze,  from  the  sand-hills. 

At  the  white,  sleeping  town ; 

At  the  church  on  the  hill-side  — 

And  then  come  back  down. 
Singing,  "There  dwells  a  lov'd  one,         140 
But  cruel  is  she. 
She  left  lonely  forever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 

TO  MARGUERITE 

IN  RETURNING  A  VOLUME  OF  THE 
LETTERS   OF  ORTIS  i 

Yes  !  in  the  sea  of  life  enisrd,^ 

With  echoing  straits  between  us  thrown, 

^  The  Last  Letters  of  Jacopo  Ortis,  a  popular 
sentimental  romance  (1797)  by  Ugo  Foscolo,  an 
Italian  poet  anji  novelist    ^  confined  to  islands 


6o4 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD 


Dotting  the  shoreless  watery  wild, 

We  mortal  millions  live  alone. 

The  islands  feel  the  enclasping  flow, 

And  then  their  endless  bounds  they  know.  6 

But  when  the  moon  their  hollows  lights, 
And  they  are  swept  by  balms  of  spring, 
And  in  their  glens,  on  starry  nights, 
The  nightingales  divinely  sing; 
And  lovely  notes,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Across  the  sounds  and  channels  pour  —   12 

Oh  !  then  a  longing  like  despair 

Is  to  their  farthest  caverns  sent ; 

For  surely  once,  they  feel,  we  were 

Parts  of  a  single  continent ! 

Now  round  us  spreads  the  watery  plain  — 

Oh  might  our  marges  meet  again  !  18 

Who  order'd,  that  their  longing's  fire 
Should  be,  as  soon  as  kindled,  cool'd? 
Who  renders  vain  their  deep  desire?  — 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  rul'd  ! 
And  bade  betwixt  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumb'd,  salt,  estranging  sea.         24 

MORALITY 

We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 
The  fire  that  in  the  heart  resides, 
The  spirit  bloweth  and  is  still. 
In  mystery  our  soul  abides : 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  will'd 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfill'd.         6 

With  aching  hands  and  bleeding  feet 
We  dig  and  heap,  lay  stone  on  stone; 
We  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  the  long  day,  and  wish  'twere  done. 

Not  till  the  hours  of  light  return. 
All  we  have  built  do  we  discern.  1 2 

Then,  when  the  clouds  are  off  the  soul. 
When  thou  dost  bask  in  Nature's  eye. 
Ask,  how  she  view'd  thy  self-control, 
Thy  struggling  task'd  morality  — 

Nature,  whose  free,  light,  cheerful  air, 
Oft  made  thee,  in  thy. gloom,  despair.  18 

And  she,  whose  censure  thou  dost  dread. 
Whose  eye  thou  wert  afraid  to  seek, 
See,  on  her  face  a  glow  is  spread, 
A  strong  emotion  on  her  cheek. 

"Ah  child,"  she  cries,  "that  strife  divine  — 
Whence  was  it,  for  it  is  not  mii;ie?  24 


"There  is  no  effort  on  my  brow  — 
I  do  not  strive,  I  do  not  weep. 
I  rush  with  the  swift  spheres,  and  glow 
In  joy,  and,  when  I  will,  I  sleep.  — 
Yet  that  severe,  that  earnest  air 
I  saw,  I  felt  it  once  —  but  where? 


30 


"I  knew  not  yet  the  gauge  of  Time, 
Nor  wore  the  manacles  of  Space. 
I  felt  it  in  some  other  clime  — 
I  saw  it  in  some  other  place. 

—  'Twas  when  the  heavenly  house  I  trod, 
And  lay  upon  the  breast  of  God."  36 


THE   FUTURE 

A  wanderer  is  man  from  his  birth. 

He  was  born  in  a  ship 

On  the  breast  of  the  River  of  Time. 

Brimming  with  wonder  and  joy 

He  spreads  out  his  arms  to  the  light. 

Rivets  his  gaze  on  the  banks  of  the  stream. 

As  what  he  sees  is,  so  have  his  thoughts  been. 
Whether  he  wakes 
Where  the  snowy  mountainous  pass 
Echoing  the  screams  of  the  eagles  10 

Hems  in  its  gorges  the  bed 

Of  the  new-born  clear-flowing  stream  : 

Whether  he  first  sees  light 
Where  the  river  in  gleaming  rings 

Sluggishly  winds  through  the  plain : 
Whether  in  sound  of  the  swallowing  sea :  — 

As  is  the  world  on  the  banks 
So  is  the  mind  of  the  man. 

Vainly  does  each  as  he  glides 

Fable  and  dream  20 

Of  the  lands  which  the  River  of  Time 

Had  left  ere  he  woke  on  its  breast. 

Or   shall   reach    when    his   eyes    have    been 

clos'd. 
Only  the  tract  where  he  sails 
He  wots  of :   only  the  thoughts, 
Rais'd  by  the  objects  he  passes,  are  his. 

Who  can  see  the  green  Earth  any  more 
As  she  was  by  the  sources  of  Time? 
Who  imagines  her  fields  as  they  lay 
In  the  sunshine,  unworn  by  the  plough?      30 
Who  thinks  as  they  thought, 
The  tribes  who  then  liv'd  on  her  breast, 
Her  vigorous  primitive  sons  ? 


SOHRAB    AND    RUSTUM 


605 


What  girl 
Now  reads  in  her  bosom  as  clear 
As  Rebekah  read,  when  she  sate 
At  eve  by  the  palm-shaded  well  ?  ^ 
Who  guards  in  her  breast 
As  deep,  as  pellucid  a  spring 
Of  feeling,  as  tranquil,  as  sure?  40 

What  Bard, 
At  the  height  of  his  vision,  can  deem 
Of  God,  of  the  world,  of  the  soul, 
With  a  plainness  as  near. 
As  flashing  as  Moses  felt, 
When  he  lay  in  the  night  by  his  flock 
On  the  starlit  Arabian  waste  ?  ^ 
Can  rise  and  obey 
The  beck  of  the  Spirit  like  him  ? 

This  tract  which  the  River  of  Time  50 

Now  flows  through  with  us,  is  the  Plain. 
Gone  is  the  calm  of  its  earlier  shore. 
Border'd  by  cities  and  hoarse 
With  a  thousand  cries  is  its  stream. 
And  we  on  its  breast,  our  minds 
Are  confused  as  the  cries  which  we  hear. 
Changing  and  shot  as  the  sights  which  we 
see. 

And  we  say  that  repose  has  fled 

Forever  the  course  of  the  River  of  Time. 

That  cities  will  crowd  to  its  edge  60 

In  a  blacker  incessanter  line  ; 

That  the  din  will  be  more  on  its  banks, 

Denser  the  trade  on  its  stream, 

Flatter  the  plain  where  it  flows, 

Fiercer  the  sun  overhead ; 
That  never  will  those  on  its  breast 
See  an  ennobling  sight. 
Drink  of  the  feeling  of  quiet  again. 


But  what  was  before  us  we  know  not, 
And  we  know  not  what  shall  succeed. 

Haply,  the  River  of  Time, 
As  it  grows,  as  the  towns  on  its  marge 
Fling  their  wavering  lights 
On  a  wider,  stateUer  stream  — 
May  acquire,  if  not  the  calm 
Of  its  early  mountainous  shore, 
Yet  a  solemn  peace  of  its  own. 

And  the  width  of  the  waters,  the  hush 
Of  the  grey  expanse  where  he  floats, 

^  cf .  Genesis  xxiv    ^  of.  Exodus  ill 


70 


Freshening  its  current  and  spotted  with  foam 
As  it  draws  to  the  Ocean,  may  strike  81 

Peace  to  the  soul  of  the  man  on  its  breast : 
As  the  pale  waste  widens  around  him  — 
As  the  banks  fade  dimmer  away  — 
As  the  stars  come  out,  and  the  night-wind 
Brings  up  the  stream 
Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  Sea. 

SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM 
AN   EPISODE 

And  the  first  grey  of  morning  fill'd  the  east, 
And  the  fog  rose  out  of  the  Oxus  ^  stream. 
But  all  the  Tartar  camp  along  the  stream 
Was  hush'd,  and  still  the  men  were  plunged  in 

sleep : 
Sohrab  alone,  he  slept  not :  all  night  long 
He  had  lain  wakeful,  tossing  on  his  bed ; 
But  when  the  grey  dawn  stole  into  his  tent, 
He  rose,  and  clad  himself,  and  girt  his  sword, 
And  took  his  horseman's  cloak,  and  left  his 

tent. 
And  went  abroad  into  the  cold  wet  fog,  10 

Through  the  dim  camp  to  Peran-Wisa's  ^  tent. 
Through  the  black  Tartar  tents  he  pass'd, 

which  stood 
Clustering  like  bee-hives  on  the  low  flat  strand 
Of  Oxus,  where  the  summer  floods  o'erflow 
When  the  sun  melts  the  snows  in  high  Pamere : ' 
Through  the  black  tents  he  pass'd,  o'er  that 

low  strand, 
And  to  a  hillock  came,  a  little  back 
From  the  stream's  brink,  the  spot  where  first 

a  boat, 
Crossing  the  stream  in  summer,  scrapes  the 

land. 
The  men  of  former  times  had  crown'd  the  top 
With  a  clay  fort :    but  that  was  fall'n ;    and 

now  21 

The  Tartars  built  there  Peran-Wisa's  tent, 
A  dome  of  laths,  and  o'er  it  felts  were  spread. 
And  Sohrab  came  there,  and  went  in,  and 

stood 
Upon  the  thick-pil'd  carpets  in  the  tent, 
And  found  the  old  man  sleeping  on  his  bed 
Of  rugs  and  felts,  and  near  him  lay  his  arms. 
And  Peran-Wisa  heard  him,  though  the  step 

^  the  great  river  now  called  Amu  Daria,  fiowing 
between  Afghanistan  and  Bokhara  and  emptying 
into  the  Aral  Sea  -  leader  of  the  Tartars  ^  the 
plateau  of  Pamir  (16,000  ft.  high),  where  the  Oxus 
has  its  source 


6o6 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


Was  duU'd ;    for  he  slept  light,  an  old  man's 

sleep ;  29 

And  he  rose  quickly  on  one  arm,  and  said :  — 
"Who  art  thou?  for  it  is  not  yet  clear  dawn. 
Speak!    is  there  news,  or  any  night  alarm?" 
But  Sohrab  came  to  the  bedside,  and  said : 
"Thou  know'st  me,  Peran-Wisa:   it  is  I. 
The  sun  is  not  yet  risen,  and  the  foe 
Sleep  ;  but  I  sleep  not ;  all  night  long  I  he 
Tossing  and  wakeful,  and  I  come  to  thee. 
For  so  did  King  Afrasiab  ^  bid  me  seek 
Thy  counsel,  and  to  heed  thee  as  thy  son. 
In    Samarcand,    before   the    army    march'd ; 
And  I  will  tell  thee  what  my  heart  desires.     41 
Thou  know'st  if,  since  from  Ader-baijan^  first 
I  came  among  the  Tartars,  and  bore  arms, 
I  have  still  serv'd  Afrasiab  well,  and  shown, 
At  my  boy's  years,  the  courage  of  a  man. 
This  too  thou  know'st,  that,  while  I  still  bear  on 
The  conquering  Tartar  ensigns  through  the 

world. 
And  beat  the  Persians  back  on  every  field, 
I  seek  one  man,  one  man,  and  one  alone  —    49 
Rustum,  my  father ;    who,  I  hop'd,  should 

greet. 
Should  one  day  greet,  upon  some  well-fought 

field 
His  not  unworthy,  not  inglorious  son. 
So  I  long  hop'd,  but  him  I  never  find. 
Come  then,  hear  now,  and  grant  me  what  I  ask. 
Let  the  two  armies  rest  to-day :   but  I 
Will  challenge  forth  the  bravest  Persian  lords 
To  meet  me,  man  to  man :    if  I  prevail, 
Rustum  will  surely  hear  it ;   if  I  fall  — 
Old  man,  the  dead  need  no  one,  claim  no  kin. 
Dim  is  the  rumour  of  a  common  ^  fight,         60 
Where  host  meets  host,  and  many  names  are 

sunk : 
But  of  a  single  combat  Fame  speaks  clear." 

He  spoke :   and  Peran-Wisa  took  the  hand 
Of  the  young  man  in  his,  and  sigh'd,  and 

said :  — 
"O  Sohrab,  an  unquiet  heart  is  thine  ! 
Canst  thou  not  rest  among  the  Tartar  chiefs. 
And  share  the  battle's  common  chance  with  us 
Who  love  thee,  but  must  press  forever  first, 
In  single  fight  incurring  single  risk. 
To  find  a  father  thou  hast  never  seen  ?  70 

Or,  if  indeed  this  one  desire  rules  all. 
To  seek  out  Rustum  —  seek  him  not  through 

fight : 
Seek  him  in  peace,  and  carry  to  his  arms, 

*  king  of  the  Tartars    ^  the  northwest  province 
of  Persia,  west  of  the  Caspian  Sea     ^  general 


O  Sohrab,  carry  an  unwounded  son ! 
But  far  hence  seek  him,  for  he  is  not  here. 
For  now  it  is  not  as  when  I  was  young, 
When  Rustum  was  in  front  of  every  fray : 
But  now  he  keeps  apart,  and  sits  at  home, 
In  Seistan,^  with  Zal,  his  father  old. 
Whether  that  his  own  mighty  strength  at  last 
Feels  the  abhorr'd  approaches  of  old  age  ;      81 
Or  in  some  quarrel  with  the  Persian  King. 
There    go  !  —  Thou    wilt    not  ?     Yet    my 

heart  forebodes 
Danger  or  death  awaits  thee  on  this  field. 
Fain  would  I  know  thee  safe  and  well,  though 

lost 
To  us :    fain  therefore  send  thee  hence,  in 

peace 
To  seek  thy  father,  not  seek  single  fights 
In  vain :  —  but  who  can  keep  the  hon's  cub 
From  ravening?  and  who  govern  Rustum 's 

son? 
Go  :  I  will  grant  thee  what  thy  heart  desires." 
So  said  he,  and  dropp'd  Sohrab 's  hand,  and 

left  91 

His  bed,  and  the  warm  rugs  whereon  he  lay, 
And  o'er  his  chilly  limbs  his  woollen  coat 
He  pass'd,  and  tied  his  sandals  on  his  feet, 
And  threw  a  white  cloak  round  him,  and  he 

took 
In  his  right  hand  a  ruler's  staff,  no  sword  ; 
And  on  his  head  he  placed  his  sheep-skin  cap. 
Black,  glossy,  curl'd,  the  fleece  of  Kara-Kul  ;2 
And  rais'd  the  curtain  of  his  tent,  and  call'd 
His  herald  to  his  side,  and  went  abroad.       100 
The  sun,  by  this,  had  risen,  and  clear'd  the 

fog 
From  the  broad  Oxus  and  the  ghttering  sands : 
And  from  their  tents  the  Tartar  horsemen  fil'd 
Into  the  open  plain ;   so  Haman  bade  ; 
Haman,  who  next  to  Peran-Wisa  rul'd 
The  host,  and  still  was  in  his  lusty  prime. 
From  their  black  tents,  long  files  of  horse,  they 

stream'd : 
As  when,  some  grey  November  morn,  the  files 
In    marching    order    spread,    of    long-neck'd 

cranes. 
Stream  over  Casbin,^  and  the  southern  slopes 
Of  Elburz,  from  the  Aralian  *  estuaries,       1 1 1 
Or  some  frorc  ^  Caspian  reed-bed,  southward 

bound 

^  a  district  in  southwestern  Afghanistan,  border- 
ing on  Persia  ^  a  district  of  Bokhara  noted  for 
sheep,  near  the  city  of  Bokhara  ^  Kasbin,  a  city 
south  of  the  Caspian  Sea  and  the  Elburz  Moun- 
tains   ''  belonging  to  the  Aral  Sea    ^  frozen 


SOHRAB    AND    RUSTUM 


607 


For  the  warm  Persian  sea-board :    so  they 

streamed. 
The  Tartars  of  the  Oxus,  the  King's  guard, 
First,  with  black  sheep-skin  caps  and  with 

long  spears ; 
Large  men,  large  steeds ;   who  from  Bokhara 

come 
And  Khiva,  and  ferment  the  milk  of  mares.^ 
Next  the  more  temperate  Toorkmnns  ^  of  the 

south, 
The  Tukas,^  and  the  lances  of  Salore,  119 

And   those   from  Attruck  ^  and  the  Caspian 

sands ; 
Light  men,  and  on  light  steeds,  who  only  drink 
The  acrid  milk  of  camels,  and  their  wells. 
And  then  a  swarm  of  wandering  horse,  who 

came 
From  far,  and  a  more  doubtful  service  own'd  ; 
The  Tartars  of  Ferghana,  from  the  banks 
Of  the  Jaxartes,^  men  with  scanty  beards 
And  close-set  skull-caps;    and  those  wilder 

hordes 
Who  roam  o'er  Kipchak  and  the  northern 

waste, 
Kalmuks  and  unkemp'd  Kuzzaks,*  tribes  who 

stray 
Nearest  the  Pole,  and  wandering  Kirghizzes, 
Who  come  on  shaggy  ponies  from  Pamere.  131 
These  all  fil'd  out  from  camp  into  the  plain. 

And  on  the  other  side  the  Persians  form'd : 
First   a  Ught   cloud  of  horse,   Tartars   they 

seem'd, 
The  Uyats  of  Khorassan : "  and  behind, 
The  royal  troops  of  Persia,  horse  and  foot, 
Marshal'd  battalions  bright  in  burnished  steel. 

But  Peran-Wisa  with  his  herald  came, 
Threading  the  Tartar  squadrons  to  the  front, 
And  with  his  staff  kept  back  the  foremost 

ranks. 
And  when  Ferood,  who  led  the  Persians,  saw 
That  Peran-Wisa  kept  the  Tartars  back,     142 
He  took  his  spear,  and  to  the  front  he  came, 
And  check'd  his  ranks,  and  fix'd  them  where 

they  stood. 
And  the  old  Tartar  came  upon  the  sand 
Betwixt    the   silent   hosts,    and    spake,   and 

said :  — 

^  to  make  kumiss,  an  intoxicating  drink 
'  Turcomans  ^  the  Tekke-Turcomans  from  Merv 
^  the  river  Atrek,  which  flows  into  the  Caspian 
Sea  (at  the  southeast  corner)  ^  now  the  Syr 
Daria,  which  rises  in  northern  Pamir  and  flows 
into  the  Aral  Sea  *  Cossacks  '  a  desert  district 
in  northeastern  Persia 


"Ferood,  and  ye,  Persians  and  Tartars, 
hear  ! 
Let  there  be  truce  between  the  hosts  to-day. 
But  choose  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  our  champion  Sohrab,  man  to  man." 
As,  in  the  country,  on  a  morn  in  June,  151 
When  the  dew  gUstens  on  the  pearled  ears, 
A  shiver   runs   through   the   deep  corn^   for 

joy  — 
So,  when  they  heard  what  Peran-Wisa  said, 
A  thriU  through  all  the  Tartar  squadrons  ran 
Of  pride  and  hope  for  Sohrab,  whom  they 
lov'd. 
But  as  a  troop  of  peddlers,  from  Cabool,^ 
Cross  miderneath  the  Indian  Caucasus,^ 
That  vast  sky-neighboring  mountain  of  milk 
snow;  159 

Winding  so  high,  that,  as  they  mount,  they 

pass 
Long  flocks  of  travelling  birds   dead  on  the 

snow, 
Chok'd  by  the  air,  and  scarce  can  they  them- 
selves 
Slake  their  parch'd  throats  with  sugar'd  mul- 
berries — 
Li  single  file  they  move,  and  stop  their  breath, 
For  fear  they  should  dislodge  the  o'erhanging 

snows  — 
So  the  pale  Persians  held  their  breath  with 
fear. 
And  to  Ferood  his  brother  Chiefs  came  up 
To  counsel :   Gudurz  and  Zoarrah  came, 
And  Feraburz,  who  rul'd  the  Persian  host 
Second,  and  was  the  uncle  of  the  King:     170 
These  came  and  counsell'd ;  and  then  Gudurz 
said :  — 
"Ferood,  shame  bids  us  take  their  challenge 
up, 
Yet  champion  have  we  none  to  match  this 

youth. 
He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart. 
But  Rustiun  came  last  night ;   aloof  he  sits 
And  suUen,  and  has  pitched  his  tents  apart : 
Him  wUl  I  seek,  and  carry  to  his  ear 
The  Tartar  challenge,  and  this  young  man's 

name. 
Haply  he  will  forget  his  wrath,  and  fight.     179 
Stand  forth  the  while,  and  take  their  chal- 
lenge up."  ' 
So  spake  he;    and  Ferood  stood  forth  and 
said :  . 
"Old  man,  be  it  agreed  as  thou  hast  said. 

^  grain,  not  Indian  corn   -  Kabul    ^  the  Hindu- 
Kush  Mountains 


6o8 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


Let  Sohrab  arm,  and  we  will  find  a  man." 
He   spoke ;     and   Peran-Wisa   turn'd,   and 

strode 
Back  through  the  opening  squadrons  to  his 

tent. 
But  through  the  anxious  Persians  Gudurz  ran, 
And  cross'd  the  camp  which  lay  behind,  and 

reach'd, 
Out  on  the  sands  beyond  it,  Rustum's  tents. 
Of  scarlet  cloth  they  were,  and  glittering  gay. 
Just  pitch'd :    the  high  pavilion  in  the  midst 
Was    Rustum's,    and    his    men    lay    camp'd 

around.  191 

And  Gudurz  enter'd  Rustum's  tent,  and  found 
Rustvim  :  his  morning  meal  was  done,  but  still 
The  table  stood  beside  him,  charg'd  with  food ; 
A  side  of  roasted  sheep,  and  cakes  of  bread. 
And  dark  green  melons ;    and  there  Rustum 

sate 
Listless,  and  held  a  falcon  on  his  wrist,         197 
And  play'd  with  it ;    but  Gudurz  came  and 

stood 
Before  him ;    and  he  look'd,   and  saw  him 

stand ; 
And  with  a  cry  sprang  up,  and  dropp'd  the 

bird, 
And  greeted  Gudurz  with  both  hands,  and 

said :  — 
"Welcome  !  these  eyes  could  see  no  better 

sight. 
What  news?  but  sit  down  first,  and  eat  and 

drink." 
But   Gudurz  stood  in  the  tent  door,  and 

said :  — • 
"Not  now  :  a  time  will  come  to  eat  and  drink. 
But  not  to-day  :   to-day  has  other  needs. 
The  armies  are  drawn  out,  and  stand  at  gaze : 
For  from  the  Tartars  is  a  challenge  brought 
To  pick  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  their  champion — ^and  thou  know'st 

his  name  —  210 

Sohrab  men  call  him,  but  his  birth  is  hid. 
O  Rustum,  like  thy  might  is  this  young  man's  ! 
He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart. 
And  he  is  young,  and  Iran's  Chiefs  are  old. 
Or  else  too  weak  ;  and  all  eyes  turn  to  thee. 
Come  down  and  help  us,  Rustum,  or  we  lose." 
He  spoke  :  but  Rustum  answcr'd  with  a  smile  : 
"  Go  to  !  if  Iran's  Chiefs  are  old,  then  I 
Am  older :   if  the  young  are  weak,  the  King 
Errs  strangely  :  for  the  King,  for  Kai  Khosroo, 
Himself  is  young,  and  honours  younger  men, 
And  lets  the  aged  moulder  to  their  graves.    222 
Rustum    he   loves   no   more,   but   loves   the 

young  — 


The  young  may  rise  at  Sohrab's  vaunts,  not  I. 
For  what  care  I,  though  all  speak  Sohrab's 

fame  ? 
For  would  that  I  myself  had  such  a  son, 
And  not  that  one  slight  helpless  girl  I  have, 
A  son  so  fam'd,  so  brave,  to  send  to  war, 
And  I  to  tarry  with  the  snow-hair'd  Zal,^ 
My  father,  whom  the  robber  Afghans  vex,   230 
And  clip  his  borders  short,  and  drive  his  herds, 
And  he  has  none  to  guard  his  weak  old  age. 
There  would  I  go,  and  hang  my  armour  up, 
And  with  my  great  name  fence  that  weak  old 

man, 
And  spend  the  goodly  treasures  I  have  got, 
And  rest  my  age,  and  hear  of  Sohrab's  fame. 
And  leave  to  death  the  hosts  of  thankless  kings, 
And    with    these    slaughterous    hands    draw 

sword  no  more."  238 

He  spoke,  and  smiled ;    and  Gudurz  made 

reply : 
"What  then,  O  Rvistum,  will  men  say  to  this. 
When  Sohrab  dares  our  bravest  forth,  and 

seeks 
Thee  most  of  all,  and  thou,  whom  most  he 

seeks, 
Hidest  thy  face  ?     Take  heed,  lest  men  should 

say, 
'Like   some   old   miser,   Rustum   hoards   his 

fame, 
And  shuns  to  peril  it  with  younger  men.' " 
And,  greatly  mov'd,  then  Rustum  made  reply: 
"O   Gudurz,   wherefore  dost   thou  say  such 

words  ? 
Thou  knowest  better  words  than  this  to  say. 
What  is  one  more,  one  less,  obscure  or  fam'd, 
Valiant  or  craven,  young  or  old,  to  me  ?       250 
Are  not  they  mortal,  am  not  I  myself  ? 
But  who  for  men  of  nought  would  do  great 

deeds? 
Come,  thou  shall  see  how  Rustum  hoards  his 

fame. 
But  I  will  fight  unknown,  and  in  plain  arms; 
Let  not  men  say  of  Rustum,  he  was  match 'd 
In  single  fight  with  any  mortal  man." 

He  spoke  and  frown'd  ;  and  Gudurz  turn'd, 

and  ran  257 

Back  quickly  through  the  camp  in  fear  and  joy, 
Fear  at  his  wrath,  but  joy  that  Rustum  came. 
But  Rustum  strode  to  his  tent  door,  and  call'd 

'  Zal  was  at  this  time  old,  but  according  to  tra- 
dition he  was  born  with  snow-white  hair,  on  which 
account  his  father  cast  him  out  on  the  Elburz 
Mountains,  where  he  was  miraculously  preserved 
by  a  griftin,  cf.  11.  676-9. 


SOHRAB    AND    RUSTUM 


609 


His  followers  in,  and  bade  them  bring  his  arms, 
And  clad  himself  in  steel :   the  arms  he  chose 
Were  plain,  and  on  his  shield  was  no  device, 
Only  his  helm  was  rich,  inlaid  with  gold. 
And  from  the  fluted  spine  atop,  a  plume 
Of  horsehair  wav'd,  a  scarlet  horsehair  plume. 
So  arm'd,  he  issued  forth;    and  Ruksh,  his 

horse, 
FoUow'd  him,  like  a  faithful  hound,  at  heel, 
Ruksh,  whose  renown  was  nois'd  through  all 

the  earth. 
The  horse,  whom  Rustum  on  a  foray  once  270 
Did  in  Bokhara  by  the  river  find 
A  colt  beneath  its  dam,  and  drove  him  home. 
And  rear'd  him;    a  bright  bay,  with  lofty 

crest ; 
Dight  with  a  saddle-cloth  of  broider'd  green 
Crusted  with  gold,  and  on  the  ground  were 

work'd 
All  beasts  of  chase,  all  beasts  which  hunters 

know : 
So  foUow'd,  Rustum  left  his  tents,  and  cross'd 
The  camp,  and  to  the  Persian  host  appear'd. 
And  all  the  Persians  knew  him,  and  with  shouts 
Hail'd ;  but  the  Tartars  knew  not  who  he  was. 
And  dear  as  the  wet  diver  to  the  eyes  281 

Of  his  pale  wife  who  waits  and  weeps  on  shore. 
By  sandy  Bahrein,^  in  the  Persian  Gulf, 
Plunging  all  day  into  the  blue  waves,  at  night, 
Having  made  up  his  tale"  of  precious  pearls. 
Rejoins  her  in  their  hut  upon  the  sands  — 
So  dear  to  the  pale  Persians  Rustum  came. 

And  Rustum  to  the  Persian  front  advanc'd, 
And  Sohrab  arm'd  in  Haman's  tent,  and  came. 
And  as  afield  the  reapers  cut  a  swathe  290 

Down  through  the  middle  of  a  rich  man's  corn. 
And  on  each  side  are  squares  of  standing  corn, 
And  in  the  midst  a  stubble,  short  and  bare  ; 
So  on  each  side  were  squares  of  men,  with 

spears 
Bristling,  and  in  the  midst,  the  open  sand. 
And  Rustum  came  upon  the  sand,  and  cast 
His  eyes  towards  the  Tartar  tents,  and  saw 
Sohrab  come  forth,  and  ey'd  him  as  he  came. 
As  some  rich  woman,  on  a  winter's  morn. 
Eyes  through  her  silken  curtains  the  poor 

drudge  300 

Who  with  numb  blacken'd  fingers  makes  her 

fire  — 
At  cock-crow  on  a  starlit  winter's  morn. 
When  the  frost  flowers  the  whiten'd  window- 


panes  — 

^  an  island  famous  for  pearl-fisheries 
number 


required 


And  wonders  how  she  lives,  and  what  the 

thoughts 
Of  that  poor  drudge  may  be  ;  so  Rustum  ey'd 
The  unknown  adventurous  Youth,  who  from 

afar 
Came  seeking  Rustum,  and  defying  forth 
All  the  most  valiant  chiefs :   long  he  perus'd 
His  spirited  air,  and  wonder'd  who  he  was. 
For  very  young  he  seem'd,  tenderly  rear'd ; 
Like  some  young  cypress,  tall,  and  dark,  and 

straight,  311 

Which  in  a  cjueen's  secluded  garden  throws 
Its  slight  dark  shadow  on  the  moonlit  turf. 
By  midnight,  to  a  bubbling  fountain's  sound — 
So  slender  Sohrab  seem'd,  so  softly  rear'd. 
And  a  deep  pity  enter'd  Rustum's  soul 
As  he  beheld  him  coming ;  and  he  stood. 
And  beckon'd  to  him  with  his  hand,  and  said : 
"O  thou  young  man,  the  air  of  Heaven  is 

soft. 
And  warm,  and  pleasant ;  but  the  grave  is  cold. 
Heaven's   air  is  better   than   the   cold  dead 

grave. 
Behold  me:  I  am  vast,  and  clad  in  iron,       322 
And  tried ;  and  I  have  stood  on  many  a  field 
Of  blood,  and  I  have  fought  with  many  a  foe : 
Never  was  that  field  lost,  or  that  foe  sav'd. 
0  Sohrab,  wherefore  wilt  thou  rush  on  death? 
Be  govern'd  :   quit  the  Tartar  host,  and  come 
To  Iran,  and  be  as  my  son  to  me. 
And  fight  beneath  my  banner  till  I  die. 
There  are  no  youths  in  Iran  brave  as  thou." 
So   he   spake,   mildly :     Sohrab   heard   his 

voice,  331 

The  mighty  voice  of  Rustum  ;  and  he  saw 
His  giant  figure  planted  on  the  sand. 
Sole,  like  some  single  tower,  which  a  chief 
Has  builded  on  the  waste  in  former  years 
Against  the  robbers  ;  and  he  saw  that  head, 
Streak'd  with  its  first  grey  hairs  :   hope  fiU'd 

his  soul ; 
And  he  ran  forwards  and  embrac'd  his  knees, 
And  clasp'd  his  hand  within   his  own   and 

said :  — 
"  Oh,  by  thy  father's  head !  by  thine  own 

soul !  340 

Art  thou  not  Rustum  ?     Speak  !  art  thou  not 

he?" 
But    Rustum   ey'd    askance    the   kneeling 

youth. 
And  turn'd  away,  and  spoke  to  his  own  soul : — 
"Ah  me,  I  muse  what  this  young  fox  may 

mean. 
False,  wily,  boastful,  are  these  Tartar  boys. 
For  if  I  now  confess  this  thing  he  asks, 


6io 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


And  hide  it  not,  but  say,  'Rustum  is  here,' 
He  will  not  yield  indeed,  nor  quit  our  foes, 
But  he  will  find  some  pretext  not  to  fight, 
And  praise  my  fame,  and  proffer  courteous 

gifts, 
A  belt  or  sword  perhaps,  and  go  his  way.     351 
And  on  a  feast  day,  in  Afrasiab's  hall, 
In  Samarcand,  he  will  arise  and  cry : 
'  I  challeng'd  once,  when  the  two  armies  camp'd 
Beside  the  Oxus,  all  the  Persian  lords 
To  cope  with  me  in  single  fight ;  but  they 
Shrank  ;   only  Rustum  dar'd  :   then  he  and  I 
Chang'd  gifts,  and  went  on  equal  terms  away.' 
So  will  he  speak,  perhaps,  while  men  applaud. 
Then  were  the  chiefs  of  Iran  sham'd  through 

me." 
And   then   he    turn'd,    and   sternly   spake 

aloud :  — 
"  Rise !  wherefore  dost  thou  vainly  question 

thus 
Of  Rustum  ?     I  am  here,   whom  thou  hast 

call'd 
By  challenge  forth :  make  good  thy  vaunt,  or 

yield.  364 

Is  it  with  Rustvim  only  thou  wouldst  fight  ? 
Rash  boy,  men  look  on  Rustum's  face  and  flee. 
For  well  I  know,  that  did  great  Rustum  stand 
Before  thy  face  this  day,  and  were  reveal'd, 
There  would  be  then  no  talk  of  fighting  more. 
But  being  what  I  am,  I  tell  thee  this ;       370 
Do  thou  record  it  in  thine  inmost  soul : 
Either  thou  shalt  renounce  thy  vaunt,  and 

yield ; 
Or  else  thy  bones  shall  strew  this  sand,  till 

winds 
Bleach  them,  or  Oxus  with  his  summer  floods, 
Oxus  in  summer  wash  them  all  away." 
He  spoke  :    and  Sohrab  answer'd,  on  his 

feet :  — 
"Art  thou  so  fierce  ?     Thou  wilt  not  fright  me 

so. 
I  am  no  girl,  to  be  made  pale  by  words. 
Yet  this  thou  hast  said  well,  did  Rustum  stand 
'Here  on  this  field,  there  were  no  fighting  then. 
But  Rustum  is  far  hence,  and  we  stand  here. 
Begin :   thou  art  more  vast,  more  dread  than 

I,  382 

And   thou   art   prov'd,   I   know,   and   I   am 

young  — 
But  yet   Success  sways  with  the  breath  of 

Heaven. 
And  though  thou  thinkest  that  thou  knowest 

sure 
Thy  victory,  yel  thou  canst  not  surely  know. 
For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in  the  sea, 


Pois'd  on  the  top  of  a  huge  wave  of  Fate, 
Which  hangs  uncertain  to  which  side  to  fall. 
And  whether  it  will  heave  us  up  to  land,       390 
Or  whether  it  will  roll  us  out  to  sea. 
Back  out  to  sea,  to  the  deep  waves  of  death, 
We  know  not,  and  no  search  will  make  us 

know : 
Only  the  event  will  teach  us  in  its  hour." 
He  spoke;   and  Rustum  answer'd  not,  but 

hurl'd 
His  spear :   down  from  the  shoulder,  down  it 

came, 
As  on  some  partridge  in  the  corn  a  hawk 
That  long  has  tower'd  in  the  airy  clouds 
Drops  like  a  plummet :  Sohrab  sav/  it  come. 
And  sprang  aside,  quick  as  a  flash :   the  spear 
Hiss'd,   and  went   quivering  down  into   the 

sand,  401 

Which  it  sent  flying  wide  :■ — then  Sohrab  threw 
In  turn,  and   full   struck   Rustum's   shield : 

sharp  rang. 
The  iron  plates  rang  sharp,  but  turn'd  the 

spear. 
And  Rustum  seiz'd  his  club,  which  none  but  he 
Could  wield :   an  unlopp'd  trimk  it  was,  and 

huge. 
Still  rough ;   like  those  which  men  in  treeless 

plains 
To  build  them  boats  fish  from  the  flooded 

rivers, 
Hyphasis  or  Hydaspes,^  when,  high  up 
By  their  dark  springs,  the  wind  in  winter-time 
Has  made  in  Himalayan  forests  wrack,       411 
And  strewn  the  channels  with  torn  boughs ; 

so  huge 
The  club  which  Rustum  lifted  now,  and  struck 
One  stroke ;  but  again  Sohrab  sprang  aside 
Lithe  as  the  glancing  snake,  and  the  club  came 
Thundering  to  earth,  and  leapt  from  Rustum's 

hand. 
And  Rustum  follow'd  his  own  blow,  and  fell 
To  his  knees,  and  with  his  fingers  clutch'd  the 

sand : 
And  now  might  Sohrab  have  unsheath'd  his 

sword, 
And  pierc'd  the  mighty  Rustum  while  he  lay 
Dizzy,  and  on  his  knees,  and  chok'd  with 

sand:  421 

But  he  look'd  on,  and  smil'd,  nor  bar'd  his 

sword. 
But  courteously  drew  back,  and  spoke,  and 

said :  — 

*  rivers  which  rise  in  the  highlands  of  Kashmir 
and  flow  into  the  Indus 


SOHRAB    AND    RUSTUM 


6ii 


"Thou  strik'st  too  hard :  that  club  of  thine 

will  float 
Upon  the  summer-floods,  and  not  my  bones. 
But  rise,  and  be  not  wroth ;  not  wroth  am  I : 
No,  when  I  see  thee,  wrath  forsakes  my  soul. 
Thou  say'st  thou  art  not  Rustum  :  be  it  so. 
Who  art  thou  then,  that  canst  so  touch  my 

soul  ? 
Boy  as  I  am,  I  have  seen  battles  too ;  430 

Have  waded  foremost  in  their  bloody  waves, 
And  heard  their  hollow  roar  of  dying  men ; 
But  never  was  my  heart  thus  touch'd  before. 
Are  they  from  Heaven,  these  softenings  of  the 

heart  ? 
O  thou  old  warrior,  let  us  yield  to  Heaven  ! 
Come,  plant  we  here  in  earth  our  angry  spears, 
And  make  a  truce,  and  sit  upon  this  sand, 
And  pledge  each  other  in  red  wine,  like  friends, 
And  thou  shalt  talk  to  me  of  Rustum's  deeds. 
There  are  enough  foes  in  the  Persian  host     440 
Whom  I  may  meet,  and  strike,  and  feel  no 

pang; 
Champions  enough  Afrasiab  has,  whom  thou 
Mayst  fight ;  fight  them,  when  they  confront 

thy  spear. 
But  oh,  let  there  be  peace  'twixt  thee  and  me  ! " 
He  ceas'd :  but  while  he  spake,  Rustum  had 

risen, 
And  stood  erect,  trembling  with  rage  :  his  club 
He  left  to  lie,  but  had  regain'd  his  spear, 
Whose  fiery  point  now  in  his  maU'd  right-hand 
Blaz'd  bright  and  baleful,  like  that  autumn 

Star, 
The  baleful  sign  of  fevers  :  ^  dust  had  soil'd  450 
His  stately  crest,  and  dimm'd  his  glittering 

arms. 
His  breast  heav'd ;  his  lips  foam'd ;  and  twice 

his  voice 
Was  chok'd  with  rage :    at  last  these  words 

broke  way :  — 
"  Girl !     Nimble  with  thy  feet,  not  with  thy 

hands ! 
Curl'd  minion,  dancer,  coiner  of  sweet  words  ! 
Fight ;  let  me  hear  thy  hateful  voice  no  more  ! 
Thou  art  not  in  Afrasiab's  gardens  now 
With  Tartar  girls,  with  whom  thou  art  wont 

to  dance ; 
But  on  the  Oxus  sands,  and  in  the  dance 
Of  battle,  and  with  me,  who  make  no  play  460 
Of  war:  I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge,  and  wine  ! 
Remember  all  thy  valour :  try  thy  feints 

^  The  belief  that  the  stars  caused  epidemics 
was  universal  in  ancient  times. 


And  cunning :  all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone : 
Because  thou  hast  sham'd  me  before  both  the 

hosts 
With  thy  light  skipping  tricks,  and  thy  girl's 

wiles." 
He  spoke ;  and  Sohrab  kindled  at  his  taimts, 
And  he  too  drew  his  sword :    at  once  they 

rush'd 
Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 
Come  rushing  down  together  from  the  clouds. 
One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west :   their 

shields  471 

Dash'd  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 
Rose,  such  as  that  the  sinewy  woodcutters 
INIake  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn. 
Of  hewing  axes,  crashing  trees :    such  blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hail'd. 
And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars  took 

part 
In  that  unnatural  ^  conflict ;  for  a  cloud 
Grew  suddenly  in  Heaven,  and  dark'd  the  sim 
Over  the  fighters'  heads ;  and  a  wind  rose  480 
Under  their  feet,  and  moaning  swept  the  plain. 
And  in  a  sandy  whirlwind  wrapp'd  the  pair. 
In  gloom  they  twain  were  wrapp'd,  and  they 

alone ; 
For  both  the  on-looking  hosts  on  either  hand 
Stood  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  sky  was  pure. 
And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  in  the  gloom  they  fought,  with  bloodshot 

eyes 
And  labouring  breath;    first  Rustum  struck 

the  shield  488 

Which  Sohrab  held  stift"  out :   the  steel-spik'd 

spear 
Rent  the  tough  plates,  but  fail'd  to  reach  the 

skin, 
And  Rustum  pluck'd  it  back  with  angry  groan. 
Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rustum's 

helm. 
Nor  clove  its  steel  quite  through ;   but  all  the 

crest 
He   shore  ^  away,  and  that  proud  horsehair 

plume. 
Never  till  now  defil'd,  sank  to  the  dust ; 
And  Rustum  bow'd  his  head;    but  then  the 

gloom 
Grew  blacker :   thunder  rumbled  in  the  air. 
And  lightnings  rend  the  cloud;    and  Ruksh, 

the  horse, 
Who  stood  at  hand,  utter'd  a  dreadful  cry : 
No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the  roar    500 


^  because  between  father  and  son    '  sheared, 


cut 


6l2 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


Of  some  pain'd  desert  lion,  who  all  day 
Has  trail'd  the  hunter's  javelin  in  his  side, 
And  comes  at  night  to  die  upon  the  sand :  — 
The  two  hosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quak'd  for 

fear, 
And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  cross'd  his  stream. 
But  Sohrab  heard,  and  quail'd  not,  but  rush'd 

on, 
And  struck  again ;   and  again  Rustum  bow'd 
His  head;    but  this  time  all  the  blade,  like 

glass, 
Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the  helm. 
And  in  his  hand  the  hilt  remain'd  alone.     510 
Then  Rustum  rais'd  his  head ;    his  dreadful 

eyes 
Glar'd,  and  he  shook  on  high  his  menacing 

spear. 
And  shouted,  "Rustum  !"   Sohrab  heard  that 

shout, 
And  shrank  amaz'd :  back  he  recoil'd  one  step, 
And  scann'd  with  blinking  eyes  the  advancing 

Form : 
And  then  he  stood  bewilder'd  ;  and  he  dropp'd 
His  covering  shield,  and  the  spear  pierc'd  his 

side. 
He  reel'd,  and  staggering  back,  sunk  to  the 

ground. 
And  then  the  gloom  dispers'd,  and  the  wind 

fell. 
And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted  all 
The  cloud  ;   and  the  two  armies  saw  the  pair ; 
Saw  Rustum  standing,  safe  upon  his  feet,  522 
And  Sohrab,  wounded,  on  the  bloody  sand. 

Then  with  a  bitter  smile,  Rustum  began  :  — 
"  Sohrab,  thou  thoughtest  in  thy  mind  to  kill 
A  Persian  lord  this  day,  and  strip  his  corpse. 
And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent. 
Or  else  that  the  great  Rustum  would  come 

down 
Himself  to  fight,  and  that  thy  wiles  would 

move 
His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go.     530 
And  then  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would  praise 
Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,  and  spread  thy  fame. 
To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 
Fool !    thou  art  slain,  and  by  an  unknown 

man ! 
Dearer  to  the  red  jackals  shalt  thou  be, 
Than  to  thy  friends,  and  to  thy  father  old." 

And,  with  a  fearless  mien,  Sohrab  replied  :— ■ 
"Unknown  thou  art;   yet  thy  fierce  vaunt  is 

vain. 
Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boastful 

man  ! 
No !   Rustum  slays  me,  and  this  filial  heart. 


For  were  I  match'd  with  ten  such  men  as  thou, 
And  I  were  he  who  till  to-day  I  was,         542 
They  should  be  lying  here,  I  standing  there. 
But  that  beloved  name  unnerv'd  my  arm  — 
That  name,  and  something,  I  confess,  in  thee, 
Which  troubles  all  my  heart,  and  made  my 

shield 
Fall ;  and  thy  spear  transfix'd  an  unarm'd  foe. 
And  now  thou  boastest,  and  insult'st  my  fate. 
But  hear  thou  this,  fierce  Man,  tremble  to 

hear !  549 

The  mighty  Rustum  shall  avenge  my  death  ! 

My  father,  whom  I  seek  through  all  the  world. 

He  shall  avenge  my  death,  and  punish  thee!" 

As  when  some  hunter  in  the  spring  hath 

found 
A  breeding  eagle  sitting  on  her  nest, 
Upon  the  craggy  isle  of  a  hill-lake. 
And  pierc'd  her  with  an  arrow  as  she  rose. 
And  foUow'd  her  to  find  her  where  she  fell 
Far  off ;  —  anon  her  mate  comes  winging  back 
From  hunting,  and  a  great  way  off  descries 
His  huddling  young  left   sole ;    at   that,  he 

checks 
His  pinion,  and  with  short  uneasy  sweeps   561 
Circles  above  his  eyry,  v>dth  loud  screams 
Chiding  his  mate  back  to  her  nest ;   but  she 
Lies  dying,  with  the  arrow  in  her  side, 
In  some  far  stony  gorge  out  of  his  ken, 
A  heap  of  fluttering  feathers :   never  more 
Shall  the  lake  glass  her,  flying  over  it ; 
Never  the  black  and  dripping  precipices 
Echo  her  stormy  scream  as  she  sails  by :  — 
As  that  poor  bird  flies  home,  nor  knows  his 

loss  — 
So  Rustum  knew  not  his  own  loss,  but  stood 
Over  his  dying  son,  and  knew  him  not.      572 
But,    with   a   cold,    incredulous   voice,   he 

said :  — 
"What  prate  is  this  of  fathers  and  revenge? 
The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a  son." 

And,  with  a  failing  voice,  Sohrab  replied  :  — 
"Ah  yes,  he  had  !   and  that  lost  son  am  I. 
Surely  the  news  will  one  day  reach  his  ear. 
Reach  Rustum,  where  he  sits,  and  tarries  long. 
Somewhere,  I  know  not  where,  but  far  from 

here ; 
And  pierce  him  like  a  stab,  and  make  him  leap 
To  arms,  and  cry  for  vengeance  upon  thee. 
Fierce  Man,  bethink  thee,  for  an  only  son  ! 
What  will  that  grief,  what  will  that  vengeance 

be!         _  584 

Oh,  could  I  live,  till  I  that  grief  had  seen ! 
Yet  him  I  pity  not  so  much,  but  her, 
My  mother,  who  in  Ader-baijan  dwells 


SOHRAB    AND    RUSTUM 


613 


With  that  old  King,  her  father,  who  grows 

grey 
With  age,  and  rules  over  the  valiant  Koords. 
Her  most  I  pity,  who  no  more  will  see       590 
Sohrab  returning  from  the  Tartar  camp, 
With  spoils  and  honour,  when  the  war  is  done. 
But  a  dark  rumour  will  be  bruited  up, 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  until  it  reach  her  ear ; 
And  then  will  that  defenceless  woman  learn 
That  Sohrab  will  rejoice  her  sight  no  more ; 
But  that  in  battle  with  a  nameless  foe. 
By  the  far  distant  Oxus,  he  is  slain." 

He  spoke ;  and  as  he  ceas'd  he  wept  aloud, 
Thinking  of  her  he  left,  and  his  own  death.  600 
He  spoke ;    but  Rustum  hsten'd,  plung'd  in 

thought. 
Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son 
Who  spoke,  although  he  call'd  back  names  he 

knew ; 
For  he  had  had  sure  tidings  that  the  babe, 
Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  him, 
Had  been  a  puny  girl,  no  boy  at  aU : 
So  that  sad  mother  sent  him  word,  for  fear 
Rustum  should  take  the  boy,  to  train  in  arms ; 
And  so  he  deem'd  that  either  Sohrab  took. 
By  a  false  boast,  the  style  of  Rustum's  son; 
Or  that  men  gave  it  him,  to  swell  his  fame. 
So  deem'd  he ;    yet  he  listen'd,  plung'd  in 
thought;  612 

And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 
Of  the  bright  rocking  Ocean  sets  to  shore 
At  the  full  moon  :   tears  gathered  in  his  eyes 
For  he  remember'd  his  own  early  yoiith, 
And  all  its  bounding  rapture  ;   as,  at  dawn. 
The  Shepherd  from  his  mountain-lodge  de- 
scries 
A  far  bright  City,  smitten  by  the  sun. 
Through  many  rolling  clouds ;  —  so  Rustum 

saw 

His   youth ;     saw    Sohrab 's   mother,    in   her 

bloom ;  621 

And  that  old  King,  her  father,  who  lov'd  well 

His  wandering  guest,  and  gave  him  his  fair 

child 
With  joy ;   and  all  the  pleasant  life  they  led. 
They   three,    in   that    long-distant    summer- 
time — 
The  castle,  and  the  dewy  woods,  and  hunt 
And  hound,  and  morn  on  those  delightful  hills 
In  Ader-baijan.     And  he  saw  that  Youth, 
Of  age  and  looks  to  be  his  own  dear  son, 
Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand,       630 
Like  some  rich  hyacinth,  which  by  the  scythe 
Of  an  unskilful  gardener  has  been  cut. 
Mowing  the  garden  grass-plots  near  its  bed, 


And  lies,  a  fragrant  tower  of  purple  bloom, 
On  the  mown,  dying  grass ;  —  so  Sohrab  lay, 
Lovely  in  death,  upon  the  common  sand. 
And  Rustum  gaz'd  on  him  with  grief,  and 

said :  — 
"  O  Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 
Whom  Rustum,  wert  thou  his,  might  well  have 

lov'd! 
Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men  640 
Have  told  thee  false ;  —  thou  art  not  Rustum's 

son. 
For  Rustum  had  no  son :  one  child  he  had  — 
But  one  —  a  girl :  who  with  her  mother  now 
Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams  of  us  — 
Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor  war." 
But  Sohrab  answer'd  him  in  wrath  ;  for  now 
The   anguish   of   the   deep-tix'd   spear   grew 

fierce. 
And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel. 
And  let  the  blood  llow  free,  and  so  to  die; 
But  first  he  would  convince  his  stubborn  foe — 
And,  rising  sternly  on  one  arm,  he  said :  —  651 
"Man,  who  art  thou  who  dost  deny  my 

words  ? 
Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men. 
And  Falsehood,  while  I  liv'd,  was  far  from 

mine. 
I  tell  thee,  prick'd  upon  this  arm  I  bear 
That  seal  which  Rustum  to  my  mother  gave, 
That  she  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she  bore." 
He  spoke :   and  all  the  blood  left  Rustum's 

cheeks ; 
And  his  knees  totter'd,  and  he  smote  his  hand, 
Against  his  breast,  his  heavy  mailed  hand,  660 
That  the  hard  iron  corslet  clauk'd  aloud : 
And  to  his  heart  he  press'd  the  other  hand 
And  in  a  hollow  voice  he  spake,  and  said :  — 
"  Sohrab,  that  were  a  proof  which  could  not 

lie. 
If  thou  shew  this,   then  art  thou  Rustum's 

son." 
Then,    with    weak    hasty    fingers,    Sohrab 

loos'd 
His  belt,  and  near  the  shoulder  bar'd  his  arm. 
And  shew'd  a  sign  in  faint  vermilion  points 
Prick'd:    as  a  cunning  workman,  in  Pekin, 
Pricks  with  vermilion  some  clear  porcelain 

vase, 
An  emperor's  gift  —  at  early  morn  he  paints. 
And  all  day  long,  and,  when  night  comes,  the 

lamp  672 

Lights   up   his   studious   forehead   and   thin 

hands : — 
So  delicately  prick'd  the  sign  appear'd 
On  Sohrab's  arm,  the  sign  of  Rustum's  seal. 


6i4 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


It  was  that  Grififrn,  which  of  old  rear'd  Zal, 
Rustum's  great  father,  whom  they  left  to  die, 
A  helpless  babe,  among  the  mountain  rocks. 
Him  that  kind  Creature  found,  and  rear'd,  and 

lov'd — . 
Then  Rustum  took  it  for  his  glorious  sign. 
And  Sohrab  bar'd  that  figure  on  his  arm,  68 1 
And  himself  scann'd  it  long  with  mournful 

eyes, 
And  then  he  touch 'd  it  with  his  hand  and 

said :  — ■ 
"How  say'st  thou?     Is  that  sign  the  proper 

sign 
Of  Rustum's  son,  or  of  some  other  man's?" 
He  spoke :   but  Rustum  gaz'd,  and  gaz'd, 

and  stood 
Speechless ;    and  then  he  utter'd  one  sharp 

cry  — 
''O    Boy  —  thy    Father!"  —  and   his   voice 

chok'd  there. 
And  then  a  dark  cloud  pass'd  before  his  eyes, 
And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sank  down  to 

earth.  690 

But  Sohrab  crawl'd  to  where  he  lay,  and  cast 
His  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kiss'd  his  lips. 
And  with  fond  faltering  fingers  strok'd  his 

cheeks, 
Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life :   and  life 
Came  back  to  Rustum,  and  he  op'd  his  eyes, 
And  they  stood  wide  with  horror;    and  he 

seiz'd 
In  both  his  hands  the  dust  which  lay  around. 
And  threw  it  on  his  head,  and  smirch'd  his 

hair. 
His  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glittering 

arms : 
And  strong  convulsive  groanings  shook  his 

breast. 
And  his  sobs  chok'd  him  ;  and  he  clutch'd  his 

sword,  701 

To  draw  it,  and  forever  let  life  out. 
But  Sohrab  saw  his  thought,  and  held  his 

hands. 
And  with  a  soothing  voice  he  spoke,   and 

said :  — 
"Father,  forbear:   for  I  but  meet  to-day 
The  doom  that  at  my  birth  was  written  down 
In  Heaven,  and  thou  art  Heaven's  unconscious 

hand. 
Surely  my  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  thou, 
When  first  I  saw  thee ;    and  thy  heart  spoke 

too, 
I  know  it :    but  Fate  trod  those  promptings 

down  710 

Under  its  iron  heel ;   Fate,  Fate  engag'd 


The  strife,  and  hurl'd  me  on  my  father's  spear. 
But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this :   I  find 
My  father ;  let  me  feel  that  I  have  found. 
Come,  sit  beside  me  on  this  sand,  and  take 
My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my 

cheeks, 
And  wash  them  with  thy  tears,  and  say  :  '  My 

son ! ' 
Quick  !   quick  !   for  number'd  are  my  sands  of 

Hfe, 
And  swift ;  for  hke  the  lightning  to  this  field 
I  came,  and  like  the  wind  I  go  away  —  720 
Sudden,  and  swift,  and  like  a  passing  wind. 
But  it  was  writ  in  Heaven  that  this  should  be." 
So  said  he :  and  his  voice  releas'd  the  heart 
Of  Rustum,  and  his  tears  broke  forth  ;  he  cast 
His  arms  round  his  son's  neck,  and  wept  aloud, 
And  kiss'd  him.     And  awe  fell  on  both  the 

hosts 
When  they  saw  Rustum's  grief :   and  Ruksh, 

the  horse, 
With  his  head  bowing  to  the  ground,  and  mane 
Sweeping  the  dust,  came  near,  and  in  mute 

woe 
First  to  the  one,  then  to  the  other  mov'd  730 
His  head,  as  if  inquiring  what  their  grief 
Might  mean ;  and  from  his  dark,  compassion- 
ate eyes 
The  big  warm  tears  roll'd  down,  and  cak'd  the 

sand. 
But  Rustum  chid  him  with  stern  voice,  and 

said :  — 
"Ruksh,  now  thou  grievest ;  but,  O  Ruksh, 

thy  feet 
Should  then  have  rotted  on  their  nimble  joints, 
When  first  they  bore  thy  Master  to  this  field." 
But   Sohrab   look'd   upon   the   horse   and 

said :  — 
"Is  this  then  Ruksh?    How  often,  in  past 

days,  739 

My  mother  told  me  of  thee,  thou  brave  Steed  ! 
My  terrible  father's  terrible  horse ;   and  said, 
That  I  should  one  day  find  thy  lord  and  thee. 
Come,  let  me  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  mane. 
O  Ruksh,  thou  art  more  fortunate  than  I ; 
For  thou  hast  gone  where  I  shall  never  go, 
And  snuff 'd  the  breezes  of  my  father's  home. 
And  thou  hast  trod  the  sands  of  Seistan, 
And  seen  the  River  of  Helmund,  and  the  Lake 
Of  Zirrah ;   and  the  aged  Zal  himself 
Has  often  strok'd  thy  neck,  and  given  thee 

food. 
Corn  in  a  golden  platter  soak'd  with  wine,  751 
And  said  —  '  O  Ruksh  !  bear  Rustum  well ! '  — 

but  I 


SOHRAB    AND    RUSTUM 


6i 


Have  never  knowTi  my  grandsire's  furrow'd 

face, 
Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 
Nor  slak'd  my  thirst  at  the  clear  Helmund 

stream : 
But  lodg'd  among  my  father's  ioes,  and  seen 
Afrasiab's  cities  only,  Samarcand, 
Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste, 
And  the  black  Toorkmun  tents;    and  only 

drunk 
The  desert  rivers,  Moorghab  and  Tejend,  760 
Kohik,   and  where   the   Kalmuks  feed   their 

sheep. 
The    northern    Sir ;  ^    and    this    great    Oxus 

stream  — 
The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  I  die." 
And,    with    a   heavy    groan,    Rustum    re- 
plied :  — 
"Oh  that  its  waves  were  flowing  over  me ! 
Oh  that  I  saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll  tumbling  in  the  current  o'er  my  head  ! " 
And,  with  a  grave  mild  voice,  Sohrab  re- 
plied :  — 
"Desire  not  that,  my  father  :   thou  must  live. 
For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds,  and  live. 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscur'd,  and  die.  771 
Do  thou  the  deeds  I  die  too  young  to  do. 
And  reap  a  second  glory  in  thine  age. 
Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 
But  come  :  «•  thou  seest  this  great  host  of  men 
Which  follow  me ;  I  pray  thee,  slay  not  these  : 
Let  me  entreat  for  them :    what  have  they 

done? 
They  foUow'd  me,  my  hope,  my  fame,  my  star. 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
But  me  thou  must  bear  hence,  not  send  with 

them, 
But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan,  781 

And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  me, 
Thou,  and  the  snow-hair'd  Zal,  and  all  thy 

friends. 
And  thou  must  lay  me  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  my  bones. 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all : 
That  so  the  passing  horseman  on  the  waste 
May  see  my  tomb  a  great  way  off,  and  say  — 
'Sohrab,  the  mighty  Rustum's  son,  lies  there. 
Whom  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance  kill'  — 
And  I  be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave."       791 
And,  with  a  mournful  voice,  Rustum  re- 
plied :  — 
"Fear  not ;  as  thou  hast  said,  Sohrab,  my  son. 
So  shall  it  be ;   for  I  will  burn  my  tents, 

^  Syr  Daria,  cf.  1.  129 


And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence  with 

me, 
And  carry  thee  away  to  Seistan, 
And  place  thee  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  thee. 
With  the  snow-headed  Zal,  and  all  my  friends. 
And  I  will  lay  thee  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  thy  bones. 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  aU :  80  t 

And  men  shall  not  forget  thee  in  thy  grave. 
.And  I  will  spare  thy  host :   yea,,  let  them  go : 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
What  should  I  do  with  slaying  any  more? 
For  would  that  all  whom  I  have  ever  slain 
JSIight  be  once  more  alive ;   my  bitterest  foes, 
And  they  who  were  call'd  champions  in  their 

time, 
And  through  whose  death  I  won  that  fame  I 

have ; 
And  I  were  nothing  but  a  common  man,  810 
A  poor,  mean  soldier,  and  without  renown ; 
So  thou  mightest  hve  too,  my  Son,  my  Son ! 
Or  rather  would  that  I,  even  I  myself, 
JMight  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand. 
Near  death,  and  by  an  ignorant  stroke  of  thine, 
Not  thou  of  mine ;  and  I  might  die,  not  thou ; 
And  I,  not  thou,  be  borne  to  Seistan ; 
And  Zal  might  weep  above  my  grave,  not 

thine ; 
And  say  —  'O  son,  I  weep  thee  not  too  sore, 
For  willingly,  I  know,  thou  met'st  thine  end.' 
But  now  in  blood  and  battles  was  my  youth, 
And  full  of  blood. and  battles  is  my  age;   822 
And  1  shall  never  end  this  Ufe  of  blood." 
Then,   at  the  point  of  death,   Sohrab  re- 

phed : — 
"A  life  of  blood  indeed,  thou  dreadful  Man! 
But  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace  ;  only  not  now ; 
Not  yet :   but  thou  shalt  have  it  on  that  day, 
WTien  thou  shalt  sail  in  a  high-masted  Ship, 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai  Khosroo, 
Returning  home  over  the  salt  blue  sea, 
From  laying  thy  dear  Master  in  his  grave." 
And  Rustum  gazed  on  Sohrab 's  face,  and 

said :  —  832 

"  Soon  be  that  day,  my  Son,  and  deep  that  sea  ! 
TiU  then,  if  Fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure." 
He  spoke ;   and  Sohrab  smil'd  on  him,  and 

took 
The  spear,  and  drew  it  from  his  side,  and  eased 
His  wound's  imperious  anguish  :  but  the  blood 
Came  welling  from  the  open  gash,  and  life 
Flow'd  with  the  stream:    all  down  his  cold 

white  side 
The  crimson  torrent  pour'd,   dim  now  and 

soil'd, 


6i6 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


Like  the  soil'd  tissue  of  white  violets  841 

Left,  freshly  gather'd,  on  their  native  bank, 
By  romping  children,  whom  their  nurses  call 
From  the  hot  fields  at  noon  :  his  head  droop 'd 

low. 
His  Umbs  grew  slack;    motionless,  white,  he 

lay  — 
White,  with  eyes  clos'd;    only  when  heavy 

gasps. 
Deep,  heavy. gasps,  quivering  through  all  his 

frame, 
Convuls'd  him  back  to  life,  he  open'd  them, 
And  fix'd  them  feebly  on  his  father's  face : 
Till  now  all  strength  was  ebb'd,  and  from  his 

limbs 
Unwilhngly  the  spirit  fled  away,  851 

Regretting  the  warm  mansion  which  it  left. 
And  youth   and  bloom,   and   this  delightful 

world. 
So,  on  the  bloody  sand,  Sohrab  lay  dead. 
And  the  great  Rustum  drew  his  horseman's 

cloak 
Dovm  o'er  his  face,  and  sate  by  his  dead  son. 
As  those  black  granite  pillars,  once  high-rear'd 
By  Jemshid^  in  Persepolis,  to  bear 
His  house,  now,  'mid  their  broken  flights  of 

steps, 
Lie  prone,   enormous,    down    the    mountain 

side  —  860 

So  in  the  sand  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 

And   night    came   down   over    the  solemn 

waste. 
And  the  two  gazing  hosts,  and  that  sole  pair, 
And  darken'd  all ;   and  a  cold  fog,  with  night, 
Crept  from  the  Oxus.     Soon  a  hum  arose, 
As  of  a  great  assembly  loosed,  and  fires 
Began  to  twinkle  through  the  fog :  for  now 
Both  armies  moved  to  camp,  and  took  their 

meal : 
The  Persians  took  it  on  the  open  sands 
Southward  ;   the  Tartars  by  the  river  marge  : 
And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone.  871 

But  the  majestic  River  floated  on, 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land. 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  mov'd, 
Rejoicing,  through  the  hush'd  Chorasmian^ 

waste, 
Under  the  solitary  moon :   he  flow'd 
Right  for  the  Polar  Star,  past  Orgunje,^ 

'  a  mythical  king  who  reigned  700  years;  the 
black  granite  pillars  found  at  Persepolis  in  Persia 
are  called  the  ruins  of  his  throne  ^  Chorasmia 
on  the  Oxus  was  once  the  seat  of  a  great  empire. 
'  a  villa,ge  on  the  Oxus 


Brimming,  and  bright,  and  large :   then  sands 

begin 
To    hem   his   watery    march,    and    dam    his 

streams. 
And  split  his  currents ;  that  for  many  a  league 
The  shorn  and  parcell'd  Oxus  strains  along 
Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy  isles — ■ 
Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had  883 
In  his  high  mountain  cradle  in  Pam.ere, 
A  foil'd  circuitous  wanderer :  —  till  at  last 
The  long'd-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and 

wide 
His  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 
And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new-bath'd 

stars 
Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 

PHILOMELA 

Hark  !  ah,  the  Nightingale  !  ^ 

The  tawny-throated  ! 

Hark  !  from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a  burst ! 

What  triumph  !  hark  —  what  pain  ! 

O  Wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore. 
Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands, 
StiU  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder'd  brain 
That    wild,    unquench'd,    deep-sunken,    old- 
world  pain  — 

Say,  will  it  never  heal? 
And  can  this  fragrant  lawn  10 

With  its  cool  trees,  and  night. 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 

Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold 
Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English 

grass. 
The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse 
With  hot  cheeks  and  sear'd  eyes  20 

The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  Sister's 
shame  ? 
Dost  thou  once  more  assay 
Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee. 
Poor  Fugitive,  the  feathery  change 
Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make  re- 
sound 

'  Cf.  the  other  nightingale  poems  in  this  volume 
and  the  story  of  Philomela  in  Gayley's  Classic 
Myths,  p.  258. 


THE    SCHOLAR    GIPSY 


617 


With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony. 
Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian  vale? 

Listen,  Eugenia  — 
How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding  through 
the  leaves ! 

Again  —  thou  hearest !  30 

Eternal  Passion ! 
Eternal  Pain ! 


THE   SCHOLAR   GIPSY 

Go,  for  they  call  you,  Shepherd,  from  the  hill ; 
Go,  Shepherd,  and  untie  the  wattled  cotes  :^ 
No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  unfed. 
Nor   let    thy   bawUng    fellows   rack    their 
throats, 
Nor  the  cropped  grasses  shoot  another 
head. 
But  when  the  fields  are  still, 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  to  rest. 
And  only  the  white  sheep  are  sometimes 

seen 
Cross  and   recross   the  strips  of  moon- 
blanch'd  green ;  9 

Come,  Shepherd,  and  again  renew  the  quest. 

Here,  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of  late, 
In  this  high  field's  dark  comer,  where  he 
leaves 
His  coat,  his   basket,   and   his   earthen 
cruse,- 
And  in  the  sun  aU  morning  binds  the  sheaves. 
Then  here,  at  noon,  comes  back  his  stores 
to  use ; 
Here  will  I  sit  and  wait. 
While  to  my  ear  from  uplands  far  away  17 
The  bleating  of  the  folded  flocks  is  borne  ; 
With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in  the  corn — ■ 
All  the  live  murmur  of  a  summer's  day. 

Screen'd  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half-reap'd 
field. 
And  here  till  siui-down.  Shepherd,  will  I  be. 
Through    the    thick    corn,^    the    scarlet 
poppies  peep, 
And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing  stalks 
I  see 
Pale  blue  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep : 
.\nd  air-swept  lindens  yield 
Their  scent,  and  rustle  down  their  perfum'd 
showers 

^  sheepfolds  built  of  woven  boughs :   the  gates 
were  tied  up   -  water-jug   ^  grain 


Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am 

laid, 
And  bower  me  from  the  August  sun  with 
shade ;  29 

And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's  towers. 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's  book^ — 
Come,  let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again, 

The  story  of  that  Oxford  scholar  poor, 
Of  pregnant  parts  and  quick  inventive  brain, 
Who,  tired  of  knocking  at  Preferment's 
door. 
One  summer  morn  forsook 
His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  Gipsy  lore. 
And  roam'd  the  world  with  that  wild 

brotherhood. 
And  came,  as  most  men  deem'd,  to  little 
good,  39 

But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no  more. 

But  once,  j^ears  after,  in  the  country  lanes. 
Two  scholars  whom  at  college  erst  he  knew 
Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  enquir'd. 
Whereat  he  answer'd,  that  the  Gipsy  crew. 
His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  desir'd 
The  workings  of  men's  brains ; 
And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts 
they  will : 
"And  I,"  he  said,  "the  secret  of  their  art, 
When  fully  learn'd,   will   to   the   world 
impart :  49 

But  it  needs  happy  moments  for  this  skill." 

This  said,  he  left  them,  and  return'd  no  more. 
But  rumours  hung  about  the  country  side 
That  the  lost  Scholar  long  was  seen  to 
stray. 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses,  pensive  and  tongue- 
tied. 
In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of  grey. 
The  same  the  Gipsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  -  in 
spring : 
At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire 

moors. 
On  the  warm  ingle  bench,^  the  smock- 
frock'd  boors  ■■ 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  entering.     60 

^  The  Vanity  of  Dogmatizing,  by  Joseph  Glanvil 
(166 1),  contains  the  story  on  which  this  poem 
is  based.  ^  Cumner  Hurst,  a  hill  southwest  of 
Oxford  ^  bench  in  the  chimney-comer  •*  farm- 
laborers  in  smock-frocks  (outer  garments  Uke 
shirts  or  blouses) 


6i8 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


But,  'mid  their  drink  and  clatter,  he  would  fly  : 
And  I  myself  seem  half  to  know  thy  looks. 
And  put  the  shepherds,  Wanderer,  on  thy 
trace ; 
And  boys  who  m  lone  wheatfields  scare  the 
rooks 
I  ask  if  thou  hast  pass'd  their  quiet  place ; 
Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 
Moor'd  to  the  cool  'bank  in  the   summer 
heats, 
'Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the  sim- 

shine  fills. 
And    watch     the    warm     green-muiBed 
Cumner  hills. 
And   wonder   if   thou   haunt'st    their   shy 
retreats.  70 

For  most,  I  know,  thou  lov'st  retired  groimd. 
Thee,  at  the  ferry,  Oxford  riders  blithe. 
Returning  home  on  summer  nights,  have 
met 
•  Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bab-lock- 
hithe,! 
Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers  wet. 
As  the  slow  punt  ^  swings  round : 
And  leaning  backwards  in  a  pensive  dream. 
And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of  flowers 
Pluck'd  in  shy  fields  and  distant  wood- 
land bowers. 
And    thine    eyes    resting   on   the   moonlit 
stream.  80 

And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no  more. 
Maidens  who  from  the  distant  hamlets  come 
To  dance  ^  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in  May, 
Oft  through  the  darkening  fields  have  seen 
thee  roam. 
Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  pubhc  way. 
Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers  —  the  frail-leaf 'd,  white  anem- 
one — 
Dark  bluebells  drench'd  with  dews  of 

summer  eves  — 
And  purple  orchises  with  spotted  leaves — 
But    none  has   words    she    can   report  of 
thee.  90 

And,  above  Godstow  Bridge,'' when  hay-time's 
here 
In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine 
flames, 

^  a  village  four  miles  from  Oxford  ^  a  kind  of 
boat  much  used  on  the  Thames  '  the  Maypole 
dance     *  two  miles  above  Oxford 


Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of 
breezy  grass 
Where   black-wing'd   swallows   haunt   the 
glittering  Thames, 
To  bathe  in  the  abandon'd  lasher'  pass, 
Have  often  pass'd  thee  near 
Sitting  upon  the  river  bank  o'ergrown : 
Mark'd  thine  outlandish  garb,  thy  figure 

spare. 
Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft  abstracted 
air; 
But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,  thou 
wert  gone.  100 

At  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumner  hills. 

Where  at  her  open  door  the  housewife  darns. 

Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a  gate 

To  watch  the  threshers  in  the  mossy  barns. 

Children,  who  early  range  these  slopes  and 

late 

For  cresses  from  the  rills, 

Have  known  thee  watching,  all  an  April  day, 

The  springing  pastures  and  the  feeding 

kine; 
And  mark'd  thee,  when  the  stars  come 
out  and  shine. 
Through  the  long  dewy   grass  move  slow 
away.  no 

In  Autumn,  on  the  skirts  of  Bagley  Wood — 
Where  most  the  gipsies  by  the  turf-edg'd 
way 
Pitch  their  smok'd  tents,  and  every  bush 
you  see 
With  scarlet  patches  tagg'd  and  shreds  of 
grey, 
Above  the  forest-ground  called  Thessaly — 
The  blackbird  picking  food 
Sees  thee,  nor  stops  his  meal,  nor  fears  at 
all; 
So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him  stray, 
Rapt,   twirling  in  thy  hand  a  wither'd 
spray. 
And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  Heaven 
to  fall.  120 

And  once,  in  winter,  on  the  causeway  chill 
Where  home  through  flooded   fields  foot- 
travellers  go, 
Have  I  not   pass'd  thee  on  the  wooden 
bridge 
Wrapt  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with  the 
snow, 

'  the  pool  of  slack  water  below  a  dam 


THE    SCHOLAR    GIPSY 


619 


Thy  face  towards  Hinksej^^  and  its  wintry 
ridge  ? 
And  thou  hast  climbed  the  hill. 
And  gain'd  the  white  brow  of  the  Cumner 
range, 
Turn'd  once  to  watch,  while  thick  the 

snowflakes  fall, 
The  line  of  festal  light  in  Christ-Church^ 
hall  — 
Then  sought  thy  straw  in  some  sequester'd 
grange.  130 

But  what  —  I  dream  !     Two  hundred  years 
are  flown 
Since  first  thy  storj^  ran  through  Oxford 
halls, 
And  the  grave  Glanvildid  the  tale  inscribe 
That  thou  wert  wander'd  from  the  studious 
walls 
To  learn  strange  arts,  and  join  a  Gipsy 
tribe : 
And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 
Long  since,  and  in  some  quiet  churchyard 
laid; 
Some  country  nook,  where  o'er  thy  un- 
known grave 
Tall  grasses  and  white  flowering  nettles 
wave  — 
Under     a     dark     red-fruited     yew-tree's 
shade.  140 

—  No,  no,  thou  hast  not   felt  the  lapse  of 
hours. 
For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal  men? 
'Tis  that  from  change  to  change  their 
being  rolls : 
'Tis  that  repeated  shocks,  again,  again. 
Exhaust  the  energy  of  strongest  souls, 
And  numb  the  elastic  powers. 
Till  having  us'd  our  nerves  with  bliss  and 
teen,^ 
And  tir'd  upon  a  thousand  schemes  our 

wit. 
To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 
Our    worn-out    life,    and    are  —  what    we 
have  been.  150 

Thou  hast  not  liv'd,  why  should'st  thou  perish, 
so? 
Thou  hadst  one  aim,  one  business,  one  desire : 
Else  wert  thou  long  since  number'd  with 
the  dead  — 

^  a  neighboring  village     ^  one  of   the  largest 
and  richest  colleges  of  Oxford    ^  sorrow 


Else  hadst  thou  spent,  like  other  men,  thy 
fire. 
The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled, 
And  we  ourselves  shall  go ; 
But  thou  possessest  an  immortal  lot. 
And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age 
And  living  as  thou  hv'st  on  Glanvil's  page, 
Because  thou  hadst  —  what  we,  alas,  have 
not !  160 

For  early  didst  thou  leave  the  world,  with 
powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without, 
Firm  to  their  mark,  not  spent  on  other 
things ; 
Free   from    the   sick   fatigue,    the  languid 
doubt, 
Which  much  to  have  tried,  in  much  been 
baffled,  brings. 
O  Life  unlike  to  ours  ! 
Who  fluctuate  idly  without  term  or  scope. 
Of  whom  each  strives,  nor  knows  for  what 

he  strives, 
And  each  half  lives  a  hundred  different 
lives; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,  hke  thee,  in 
hope.  170 

Thou  waitest  for  the  spark  from  Heaven  :  and 
we, 
Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 

Who  never  deeply  felt,  nor  clearly  will'd. 
Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in  deeds. 
Whose  vague  resolves  never  have  been 
fulfiU'd ; 
For  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds    new    beginnings,    disappointments 
new; 
Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away, 
And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to- 
day — 
Ah,  do  not  we.  Wanderer,  await  it  too  ?   180 

Yes,  we  await  it,  but  it  still  delays, 

And  then  we  suffer ;   and  amongst  us  One, 
Who  most  has  suffer'd,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne ; 
And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 
Lays  bare  of  wretched  days  ; 
Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth  and 
signs. 
And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was  fed. 
And  how  the  breast  was  sooth'd,  and  how 
the  head. 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes.  100 


620 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD 


This  for  our  wisest :   and  we  others  pine, 
And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would 
end, 
And  waive  aU  claim  to  bliss,  and  try  to 
bear ; 
With   close-lipp'd    Patience    for   our   only 
friend, 
Sad  Patience,  too  near  neighbour  to  De- 
spair : 
But  none  has  hope  like  thine. 
Thou  through  the  fields  and  through  the 
woods  dost  stray,  197 

Roaming  the  country  side,  a  truant  boy. 
Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy, 
And  every  doubt  long  blown  by  time  away. 

O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear, 
And  life  ran  gaily  as  the  sparkling  Thames  ; 
Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims, 
Its  heads  o'ertax'd,  its  palsied  hearts,  was 
rife  — 
Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear  ! 
Still  fly,   plunge    deeper  in   the  bowering 
wood ! 
Averse,  as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 
From  her  false  friend's  ^  approach  in  Hades 
turn,  209 

Wave  us  away,  and  keep  thy  solitude. 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope. 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade. 
With  a  free  outward  impulse  brushing 
through, 
By   night,    the   silver'd   branches   of   the 
glade  — 
Far  on  the  forest  skirts,  where  none  pur- 
sue, 
On  some  mUd  pastoral  slope  216 

Emerge,  and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales, 
Freshen  thy  flowers,  as  in  former  years. 
With  dew,  or  listen  with  enchanted  ears. 
From  the  dark  dingles,^  to  the  nightingales. 

But  fly  our  paths,  our  feverish  contact  fly  ! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental  strife. 
Which,  though  its  gives  no  bliss,  yet  spoils 
for  rest ; 
And  we  should  win  thee  from  thy  own  fair 
life, 
Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  unblest. 
Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  woidd  die, 

'  /Eneas,   of.   Mneid,  VI,   450-71,  or  Gayley, 
p.  348    '■^  small  wooded  valleys 


Thy  hopes  grow  timorous,  and  unfix'd  thy 
powers. 
And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shifting 

made : 
And  then  thy  glad  perennial  youth  would 
fade,  229 

Fade,  and  grow  old  at  last  and  die  like  ours. 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and 
smiles ! 
—  As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,  from  the 
sea. 
Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool-hair'd  creepers  ^  stealthily, 
The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow 
Among  the  J^^gean  isles ; 
And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come, 
Freighted  with  amber  grapes,  and  Chian 

wine,^ 
Green  bursting  figs,  and  tunnies  steep'd 
in  brine ; 
And  knew  the   intruders   on  his  ancient 
home,  240 

The  young  light-hearted  Masters  of  the  waves; 
And  snatch'd  his  rudder,  and  shook  out 
more  sail, 
And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland^  waters  with  the  gale, 
Betwixt  the  Syrtes^  and  soft  Sicily, 
To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside  the  Western  Straits ;  ^  and  unbent 
sails 
There,  where  down  cloudy  cliffs,  through 
sheets  of  foam,  248 

Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  ^  come ; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales. 

THE  LAST  WORD 

Creep  into  thy  narrow  bed, 

Greep,  and  let  no  more  be  said ! 

Vain  thy  onset !   all  stands  fast. 

Thou  thyself  must  break  at  last.  4 

Let  the  long  contention  cease  ! 

Geese  are  swans,  and  swans  are  geese. 

Let  them  have  it  how  they  will ! 

Thou  art  tired  ;   best  be  still.  8 

^  vines  hanging  down  from  a  cliff  over  the  sea 
"^  wine  of  Chios,  a  Greek  island  ^  Mediterranean 
"*  the  gulfs  of  Sidra  and  Gabes  on  the  north  coast 
of  Africa  ^  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar  ^  a  race  in- 
habiting the  Spanish  peninsula  and,  at  this  time, 
parts  of  the  British  Islands 


EDWARD    FITZGERALD 


621 


They  out-talk'd  thee,  hiss'd  thee,  tore  thee ! 

Better  men  fared  thus  before  thee ; 

Fired  their  ringing  shot  and  pass'd, 

Hotly  charged  —  and  sank  at  last.  12 

Charge  once  more,  then,  and  be  dumb  ! 

Let  the  victors,  when  they  come, 

When  the  forts  of  folly  fall. 

Find  thy  body  by  the  wall.  ,      16 


EDWARD    FITZGERALD 

(1809-1883) 

From   THE   RUBAIYAT   OF   OlMAR 
KHAYYAM 

VII 

Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring 
Your  Winter-garment  of  Repentance  fling : 
The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter  —  and  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing. 

VIII 

Whether  at  Naishapur^  or  Babylon ,2 
Whether  the  Cup  with  sweet  or  bitter  nm. 
The  Wine  of    Life  keeps  oozing  drop  by 
drop. 
The  Leaves  of  Life  keep  falling  one  by  one. 


IX 

Each  Morn  a  thousand  Roses   brings,  you 

say; 
Yes,  but  where  leaves  the  Rose  of  Yesterday  ? 
And  this  first  Summer  month  that  brings 
the  Rose 
Shall  take  Jamshyd  ^  and  Kaikobad  *  away. 


XII 

A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread  — ■  and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness  — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow ! 

^  an  ancient  city  in  northeast  Persia  -  in 
southwest  Persia  ^  cf .  note  on  Sohrab  and 
Riistum,  1.  858  *  a  predecessor  of  Kai  Kosru, 
cf.  Sohrjb  and  Rustmn,  1.  220 


XIII 

Some  for  the  Glories  of  This  World ;  and  some 
Sigh  for  the  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come ; 

Ah,  take  the  Cash,  and  let  the  Credit  go. 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum  ! 


XVI 

The  Worldly  Hope  men  set  their  Hearts  upon 
Turns  Ashes  — ■  or  it  prospers  ;   and  anon, 

Like  Snow  upon  the  Desert's  dusty  Face, 
Lighting  a  little  hour  or  two  —  was  gone. 

XVII 

Think,  in  this  batter'd  Caravanserai 
Whose  Portals  are  alternate  Night  and  Day, 

How  Sultan  after  Sultan  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  destin'd  Hour,  and  went  his  way. 

XVIII 

They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 

The  Courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank 

deep : 
And  Bahram,  that  great  Hunter  —  the  Wild 

Ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  Head,  but  cannot  break  his 

Sleep. 


XXIV 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  Dust  descend ; 

Dust  into  Dust,  and  under  Dust,  to  lie, 
Sans  Wine,  sans  Song,  sans  Singer,  and  —  sans 
End! 


XXVII 

Myself  when  young  did  eagerly  frequent 
Doctor  and  Saint,  and  heard  great  argument 

About  it  and  about :   but  evermore 
Came  out  by  the  same  door  where  in  I  went. 

XXVIII 

With  them  the  seed  of  Wisdom  did  I  sow. 
And  with  mine  own  hand  wrought  to  make  it 
grow; 
And  this  was  all  the  Harvest  that  I  reap'd— 
"I  came  like  Water,  and  like  Wind  I  go." 


622 


EDWARD    FITZGERALD 


XXIX 

Into  this  Universe,  and  Why  not  knowing 
Nor  Whence,  like  Water  willy-nilly  flowing; 

And  out  of  it,  as  Wind  along  the  Waste, 
I  know  not  Whither,  willy-nilly  blowing. 


XXX 

What,  without  asking,  hither  hurried  Whence? 
And,  without  asking,  Whither  hurried  hence ! 

Oh,  many  a  Cup  of  this  forbidden  Wine 
Must  drown  the  memory  of  that  insolence ! 

XXXI 

Up  from  Earth's  Centre  through  the  Seventh 

Gate 
I  rose,  and  on  the  Throne  of  Saturn '  sate, 

And  many  a  Knot  unravel'd  by  the  Road; 
But  not  the  Master-knot  of  Human  Fate. 


XXXII 

There  was  the  Door  to  which  I  found  no  Key ; 
There  was  the  Veil  through  which  I  could  not 

see : 
Some  little  talk  awhile  of  Me  and  Thee 
There  was  —  and  then  no  more  of  Thee  and 

Me.2 


XLIX 

Would  you  that  spangle  of  Existence  spend 
About  THE  Secret  —  quick  about  it.  Friend  ! 
A    Hair   perhaps   divides    the    False   and 
True  — 
And  upon  what,  prithee,  does  life  depend? 


A  Hair  perhaps  divides  the  False  and  True ; 
Yes ;   and  a  single  Alif  ^  were  the  clue  — 
Could  you  but  find  it  —  to  the  Treasure- 
house, 
And  peradventure  to  the  Master  too ; 

^  In  the  old  astronomy  Saturn  is  lord  of  the 
seventh  sphere  or  heaven.  ^  the  individual  per- 
sonalities being  absorbed  in  the  absolute  One 
*  the  vowel  a,  represented  by  a  minute  symbol,  the 
presence  or  absence  of  which  would  change  the 
meaning  of  a  word 


LI 

Whose  secret   Presence,   through   Creation's 

veins 
Running  Quicksilver-like  eludes  your  pains; 

Taking  all  shapes  from  Mah  to  Mahi ;  ^  and 
They  change  and  perish  all  —  but  He  remains ; 

LII 

A  moment  guess'd  —  then  back  behind  the 

Fold 
Immerst  of  Darkness  round  the  Drama  roU'd 

Which,  for  the  Pastime  of  Eternity, 
He  doth  Himself  contrive,  enact,  behold. 


LXVI 

I  sent  my  Soul  through  the  Invisible 
Some  letter  of  that  After-life  to  spell : 

And  by  and  by  my  Soul  return'd  to  me. 
And  answer'd,   "I   Myself   am  Heav'n  and 
Hell:" 

LXVII 

Heav'i\  but  the  Vision  of  fulfiU'd  Desire, 
And  Hell  the  Shadow  from  a  Soul  on  fire. 

Cast  on  the  Darkness  into  which  Ourselves, 
So  late  emerg'd  from,  shall  so  soon  expire. 

LXVIII 

We  are  no  other  than  a  moving  row 

Of  Magic  Shadow-shapes  that  come  and  go 

Round  with  the  Sun-illumin'd  Lantern- held 
In  Midnight  by  the  Master  of  the  Show ; 

LXIX 

But  helpless  Pieces  of  the  Game  He  plays 
Upon  this  Checker-board  of  Nights  and  Days ; 
Hither  and  thither  moves,  and  checks,  and 
slays. 
And  one  by  one  back  in  the  Closet  lays. 

LXX 

The  Ball  no  question  makes  of  Ayes  and  Noes, 
But  Right  or  Left  as  strikes  the  Player  goes ; 
And  He  that  toss'd  you  down  into  the  Field, 
He  knows   about  it  all  —  He  knows  —  HE 
knows  ! 

'  from  fish  to  moon  "^  a  crude  sort  of  moving 
picture  show  made  by  a  revolving  cylinder  with 
figures  painted  on  its  translucent  sides  and  a 
candle  at  the  centre 


COVENTRY    PATMORE 


623 


LXXI 

The  Moving  Finger  writes ;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on :   nor  all  your  Piety  nor  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line 
Nor  all  your  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it. 


XCVI 

Yet  Ah,  that  Spring  should  vanish  with  the 

Rose  ! 
That  Youth's  sweet-scented  manuscript  should 

close ! 
The  Nightingale  that  in  the  branches  sang, 
Ah  whence,   and  whither  flown  again,  w^ho 

knows ! 

XCVII 

Would  but  the  Desert  of  the  Fountain  yield 
One  glimpse  —  if  dimly,  yet  indeed,  reveal'd. 
To    which    the    fainting    Traveller    might 
spring. 
As  springs  the  trampled  herbage  of  the  field  ! 

xcvm 

Would  but  some  winged  Angel  ere  too  late 
Arrest  the  yet  unfolded  Roll  of  Fate, 

And  make  the  stern  Recorder  otherwise 
Enregister,  or  quite  obhterate ! 

XCIX 

Ah  Love !  could  you  and  I  with  Him  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  entire. 
Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits  —  and  then 
Re-mould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  desire ! 


COVENTRY   PATMORE 

(1823-1896) 

From    THE    ANGEL    IN    THE    HOUSE 

BOOK  I,   CANTO   III.     PRELUDES 
I.  The  Lover 

He  meets,  by  heavenly  chance  express. 
The  destined  maid ;   some  hidden  hand 

Unveils  to  him  that  loveliness 
Which  others  cannot  understand. 

His  merits  in  her  presence  grow,  5 

To  match  the  promise  in 'her  eyes, 


And  round  her  happy  footsteps  blow 

The  authentic  airs  of  Paradise. 
For  joy  of  her  he  cannot  sleep. 

Her  beauty  haunts  him  all  the  night ;       10 
It  melts  his  heart,  it  makes  him  weep 

For  wonder,  worship,  and  dehght. 
O,  paradox  of  love,  he  longs, 

Most  humble  when  he  most  aspires, 
To  suffer  scorn  and  cruel  wrongs  15 

From  her  he  honours  and  desires. 
Her  graces  make  him  rich,  and  ask 

No  guerdon  ;   this  imperial  style 
Affronts  him  ;   he  disdains  to  bask, 

The  pensioner  of  her  priceless  smile.  20 

He  prays  for  some  hard  thing  to  do. 

Some  work  of  fame  and  labour  immense. 
To  stretch  the  languid  bulk  and  thew 

Of  love's  fresh-born  magnipotence. 
No  smallest  boon  were  bought  too  dear,       25 

Though  bartered  for  his  love-sick  Ufe ; 
Yet  trusts  he,  with  undaunted  cheer. 

To  vanquish  heaven,  and  caU  her  Wife. 
He  notes  how  queens  of  sweetness  still 

Neglect  their  crowns,  and  stoop  to  mate ; 
How,  self-consign'd  with  lavish  will,  31 

They  ask  but  love  proportionate ; 
How  swift  pursuit  by  small  degrees. 

Love's  tactic,  works  Uke  miracle  ; 
How  valour,  clothed  in  courtesies,  35 

Brings  down  the  loftiest  citadel ; 
And  therefore,  though  he  merits  not 

To  kiss  the  braid  upon  her  skirt, 
His  hope  discouraged  ne'er  a  jot. 

Out-soars  all  possible  desert.  40 

BOOK  I,   CANTO  VIII.     PRELUDES 
I.  Life  of  Life 

What's  that,  which,  ere  I  spake,  was  gone : 

So  joyful  and  intense  a  spark 
That,  whilst  o'erhead  the  wonder  shone, 

The  day,  before  but  dull,  grew  dark? 
I  do  not  know ;   but  this  I  know,  5 

That,  had  the  splendour  lived  a  year, 
The  truth  that  I  some  heavenly  show 

Did  see,  could  not  be  now  more  clear. 
This  know  I  too :   might  mortal  breath 

Express  the  passion  then  inspired,  10 

Evil  would  die  a  natural  death. 

And  nothing  transient  be  desired ; 
And  error  from  the  soul  would  pass. 

And  leave  the  senses  pure  and  strong 
As  sunbeams.     But  the  best,  alas,  15 

Has  neither  memory  nor  tongue  ! 


624 


DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI 


II.   The  Revelation 

An  idle  poet,  here  and  there, 

Looks  round  him ;  but,  for  all  the  rest, 
The  world,  unfathomably  fair. 

Is  duller  than  a  witling's  jest. 
Love  wakes  men,  once  a  life-time  each ;  ; 

They  lift  their  heavy  lids  and  look ; 
And,  lo,  what  one  sweet  page  can  teach, 

They  read  with  joy,  then  shut  the  book. 
And  some  give  thanks,  and  some  blaspheme, 

And  most  forget ;   but,  either  way,  k 

That  and  the  Child's  unheeded  dream 

Is  all  the  light  of  all  their  day. 


III.  The  Spirit's  Epochs 

Not  in  the  crises  of  events, 

Of  compass'd  hopes,  or  fears  fulfill'd, 
Or  acts  of  gravest  consequence. 

Are  life's  delight  and  depth  reveal'd. 
The  day  of  days  was  not  the  day ; 

That  went  before,  or  was  postponed ; 
The  night  Death  took  our  lamp  away 

Was  not  the  night  on  which  we  groaned. 
I  drew  my  bride,  beneath  the  moon. 

Across  my  threshold  ;  happy  hour  ! 
But,  ah,  the  walk  that  afternoon 

We  saw  the  water-flags  in  flower  ! 


And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there 
with  careful  art,  20 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 
To  God,  I  wept,  and  said : 
"  Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath. 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death,  25 

And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 
We  made  our  joys, 
How  weakly  understood 
Thy  great  commanded  good, 
Then,  fatherly  not  less  30 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the 

clay, 
Thou'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 
'I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness.'" 

DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI 

(1828-1882) 

THE   BLESSED   DAMOZEL 

The  blessed  damozel  ^  leaned  out 

From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven ; 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  stilled  at  even ; 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven.  6 


From  THE   UNKNOWN  EROS 

THE   TOYS 

My  little  Son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful 

eyes 
And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 
Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 
I  struck  him,  and  dismiss'd 
With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd,  —  5 

His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 
Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 
I  visited  his  bed, 
But  found  him  slumbering  deep. 
With  darken 'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet  10 
From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 
And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own  ; 
For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 
He  had  put,  within  his  reach,  15 

A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-vein'd  stone, 
A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach, 
And  six  or  seven  shells, 
A  bottle  of  bluebells, 


Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem. 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn. 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
For  service  meetly  worn  ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseemed^  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers ; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.  .  .     Yet  now,  and  in  this  place. 
Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me  —  her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.  .  .  . 
Nothing  :   the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 
That  she  was  standing  on ; 

^  lady        ^  It  seemed  to  her 


18 


24 


THE    BLESSED    DAMOZEL 


625 


By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun  ; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  ilood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 
'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims. 

Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 
Their  heart-remembered  names ; 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 


30 


36 


42 


48 


From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.     Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path  ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres.  54 

The  sun  was  gone  now ;   the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf ;   and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was,  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together. ^  60 

(Ah  sweet !     Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearkened  ?     When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air. 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair?)  66 

"I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  wUl  come,"  she  said. 
"Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven?  —  on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  pray'd? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid  ?  72 

*  Cf.  note  on  Milton's  Hymn  on  the  Nativity, 
1.  119. 


"When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings. 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light ; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight.  78 

"  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God ; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud.  84 

"We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove  ^ 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be. 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

§aith  His  Name  audibly.  90 

"And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so. 
The  songs  I  sing  here ;   which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow. 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know."  96 

(Alas  !     We  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st ! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee  ?)  102 

"We  too,"  she  said,  "will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  INIary  is. 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys.  108 

"  Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead.  114 

"He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb: 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak : 

1  the  Holy  Ghost 


626 


DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI 


And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak.  i 

"Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 

To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 

Bowed  with  their  aureoles : 
And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles.^ 


126 


"There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me :  — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 
With  Love,  only  to  be. 

As  then  awhile,  forever  now 
Together,  I  and  he." 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said. 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild,  — 

"All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  till'd 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smii'd. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 
Was  vague  in  distant  spheres : 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.) 


132 


138 


144 


SISTER  HELEN 

"Why  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man, 

Sister  Helen  ? 

To-day  is  the  third  since  you  began." 

"The  time  was  long,  yet  the  time  ran, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Three  days  to-day,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)  7 

"But  if  you  have  done  your  work  aright. 
Sister  Helen, 

You'll  let  me  play,  for  you  said  1  might." 

"Be  very  still  in  your  play  to-night. 

Little  brother."  12 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Third  night,  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"You  said  it  must  melt  ere  vesper-bell. 

Sister  Helen ; 
If  now  it  be  molten,  all  is  well." 

^  ancient  musical  instruments 


"Even  so,  —  nay,  peace  !   you  cannot  tell, 
Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  is  this,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?)        21 

"Oh  the  waxen  knave  was  plump  to-day, 
Sister  Helen ; 
How  like  dead  folk  he  has  dropped  away !" 
"Nay  now,  of  the  dead  what  can  you  say,  25 
Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  of  the  dead,  between  Hell  and  Heaven .?) 

"  See,  see,  the  sunken  pile  of  wood, 

Sister  Helen, 
Shines    through    the     thinned    wax     red    as 

blood !  " 
"Nay  now,  when  looked  you  yet  on  blood,  32- 
Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Hoiv  pale  she  is,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"  Now  close  your  eyes,  for  they're  sick  and  sore, 
Sister  Helen, 

And  I'll  play  without  the  gallery  door." 

"Aye,  let  me  rest,  —  I'll  lie  on  the  floor, 

Little  brother."4o 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  rest  to-night  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

"Here  high  up  in  the  balcony. 

Sister  Helen, 

The  moon  flies  face  to  face  with  me.'.' 

"Aye,  look  and  say  whatever  you  see, 

Little  brother. "47 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  sight  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"Outside  it's  merry  in  the  Avind's  wake. 
Sister  Helen ; 

In  the  shaken  trees  the  chill  stars  shake."  52 

"Hush,  heard  you  a  horse-tread  as  you  spake. 
Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  sound  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"I  hear  a  horse-tread,  and  I  see, 

Sister  Helen, 
Three  horsemen  that  ride  terribly." 
"Little  brother,  whence  come  the  three. 

Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Whence  should  they  come,   between  Hell  and 
Heaven?)  63 


SISTER    HELEN 


627 


"They  come  by  the  hill-verge  from  Boyne  Bar, 

Sisler  Helen, 

And  one  draws  nigh,  but  two  are  afar." 

"Look,  look,  do  you  know  them  who  they  are, 

Little  brother? "68 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Who  should  they  be,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"Oh,  it's  Keith  of  Eastholm  rides  so  fast, 
Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  mane  on  the  blast." 

"The  hour  has  come,  has  come  at  last. 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Her  hour  at  last,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)  77 

"He  has  made  a  sign  and  called  Halloo  ! 

Sister  Helen, 
And  he  says  that  he  would  speak  with  you." 
"Oh  tell  him  I  fear  the  frozen  dew, 

Little  brother."  82 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Why  laughs  she  thus,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

"The  wind  is  loud,  but  I  hear  him  cry. 
Sister  Helen, 
That  Keith  of  Ewern's  like  to  die." 
"And  he  and  thou,  and  thou  and  I, 

Little  brother."89 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
And  tliey  and  we,  between  Hell  atid  Heaven!) 

"Three  days  ago,  on  his  marriage-morn, 
Sister  Helen, 

He  sickened,  and  lies  since  then  forlorn." 

"For  bridegroom's  side  is  the  bride  a  thorn, 
Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Cold  bridal  cheer,  between  Hell  atid  Heaven!)  98 

"Three  days  and  nights  he  has  lain  abed, 
Sister  Helen, 

And  he  prays  in  torment  to  be  dead."         loi 

"The  thing  may  chance,  if  he  have  prayed, 
Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

If  he  have  prayed,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"But  he  has  not  ceased  to  cry  to-day. 

Sister  Helen, 

That  you  should  take  your  curse  away."  108 

"My  prayer  was  heard,  —  he  need  but  pray, 

Little  brother!" 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Shall  God  not  hear,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 


"But  he  says,  till  you  take  back  your  ban. 
Sister  Helen, 

His  soul  would  pass,  yet  never  can." 

"Nay  then,  shall  I  slay  a  living  man. 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

A  living  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !)     119 

"But  he  calls  forever  on  your  name. 

Sister  Helen, 

And  says  that  he  melts  before  a  flame." 

"My  heart  for  his  pleasure  fared  the  same, 
Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Fire  at  the  heart,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)  1 26 

"Here's  Keith  of  Westholm  riding  fast, 
Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  plume  on  the  blast." 

"The  hour,  the  sweet  hour  I  forecast,         130 
Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Is  the  hour  sweet,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"He  stops  to  speak,  and  he  stills  his  horse, 

Sister  Helen ; 

But   his  words   are   drowned   in   the  wind's 

course."  136 

"Nay  hear,  nay  hear,  you  must  hear  perforce, 

Little  brother!" 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother; 

What  word  now  heard,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

"Oh,  he  says  that  Keith  of  Ewern's  cry, 
Sister  Helen, 

Is  ever  to  see  you  ere  he  die." 

"In  all  that  his  soul  sees,  there  am  I,  144 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

The  souVs  one  sight,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

"He  sends  a  ring  and  a  broken  coin. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  bids  you  mind  the  banks  of  Bo>Tie."  ' 
"What  else  he  broke  will  he  ever  join,       151 
Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  AI other, 
No.  never  joined,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"He  yields  you  these  and  craves  full  fain, 

Sister  Helen, 
You  pardon  him  in  his  mortal  pain." 
"What  else  he  took  will  he  give  again. 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother.  Mary  Mother, 
Not  twice  to  give,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)  161 


628 


DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI 


"He  calls  your  name  in  an  agony,  "Her  hood  falls  back,  and  the  moon  shines  fair, 

Sister  Helen,  Sister  Helen, 

That  even  dead  Love  must  weep  to  see."  On  the  Lady  of  Ewern's  golden  hair."       213 

"Hate,  born  of  Love,  is  blind  as  he,  165  "Blest  hour  of  my  power  and  her  despair. 

Little  brother!"  Little  brother!" 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother,  (O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Love  turned  to  hate,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I)  Hour    blest    and    bann'd,    between    Hell    and 

Heaven !) 
"Oh  it's  Keith  of  Keith  now  that  rides  fast. 

Sister  Helen,  "Pale,  pale  her  cheeks,  that  in  pride  did  glow. 
For  I  know  the  white  hair  on  the  blast."  Sister  Helen,     219 

"The  short,  short  hour  will  soon  be  past,  172  'Neath  the  bridal-wreath  three  days  ago." 

Little  brother!"  "One  morn  for  pride  and  three  days  for  woe, 
{0  Mother,  Mary  Mother,  Little  brother!" 


(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Three   days,    three   nights,    between   Hell   and 
Heaven  I) 

"Her  clasped  hands  stretch  from  her  bending 
head, 

Sister  Helen ;     226 


Will  soon,  be  past,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"He  looks  at  me  and  he  tries  to  speak. 

Sister  Helen, 
But  oh  !   his  voice  is  sad  and  weak !" 
"What  here  should  the  mighty  Baron  seek. 
Little  brother!" 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother,      With  the  loud  wind's  wail  her  sobs  are  wed." 
Is  this  the  end,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?)    182      "What  wedding-strains  hath  her  bridal-bed. 

Little  brother?" 
"Oh  his  son  still  cries,  if  you  forgive,  (O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Sister  Helen,  What    strain    but    death's    between    Hell    and 

The  body  dies,  but  the  soul  shall  live."  Heaven  ?) 

"Fire  shall  forgive  me  as  I  forgive. 

Little  brother  ! "  "She  may  not  speak,  she  sinks  in  a  swoon, 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother,  Sister  Helen,  — 

As  she  forgives,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)  189      She  lifts  her  lips  and  gasps  on  the  moon."  234 

"Oh  !  might  I  but  hear  her  soul's  blithe  tune, 


"Oh  he  prays  you,  as  his  heart  would  rive, 
Sister  Helen, 

To  save  his  dear  son's  soul  alive." 

"Fire  cannot  slay  it,  it  shall  thrive, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Alas,  alas,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)  196 

"He  cries  to  you,  kneeling  in  the  road. 
Sister  Helen, 
To  go  with  him  for  the  love  of  God  !" 


Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  woe's  dumb  cry,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"They've  caught  her  to  West  holm's  saddle- 
bow. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  her  moonlit  hair  gleams  white  in  its  flow." 
"Let  it  turn  whiter  than  winter  snow,        242 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 


"The  way  is  long  to  his  son's  abode,  200      Woe-withered  gold,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

Little  brother." 
(0  Motlier,  Mary  Mother,      "O  Sister  Flelen,  you  heard  the  bell, 


The  way  is  long,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"A  lady's  here,  by  a  dark  steed  brought. 

Sister  Helen, 
So  darkly  clad,  I  saw  her  not." 
"See  her  now  or  never  see  aught,  207 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Motlier,  Mary  Mother, 
What  more  to  see,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 


Sister  Helen! 
More  loud  than  the  vesper-chime  it  fell." 
"No  vesper-chime,  but  a  dying  knell. 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Motlier,  Mary  Mother, 
His  dying  knell,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)  252 

"Alas!   but  I  fear  the  heavy  sound, 

Sister  Helen ; 


FRANCESCA    DA   RIMINI 


629 


Is  it  in  the  sky  or  in  the  ground?" 
"  Say,  have  they  turned  their  horses  round, 
Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What    would    she    more,    between    Hell    arid 
Heaven?)  259 

"They  have  raised  the  old  man  from  his  knee, 
Sister  Helen, 

And  they  ride  in  silence  hastily.'' 

"More  fast  the  naked  soul  doth  flee,  263 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

The  naked  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)  266 

"  Flank  to  flank  are  the  three  steeds  gone. 
Sister  Helen, 

But  the  lady's  dark  steed  goes  alone." 

"And  lonely  her  bridegroom's  soul  hath  flown. 
Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

The  lonely  ghost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)  273 

"Oh  the  wind  is  sad  in  the  iron  chill. 

Sister  Helen, 

And  weary  sad  they  look  by  the  hill." 

"But  he  and  I  are  sadder  still, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Most  sad  of  all,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)  280 

"  See,  see,  the  wax  has  dropped  from  its  place, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  the  flames  are  winning  up  apace!" 
"Yet  here  they  burn  but  for  a  space. 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Here  for  a  space,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)  287 

"  Ah !  what  white  thing  at  the  door  has  cross'd, 
Sister  Helen, 

Ah!   what  is  this  that  sighs  in  the  frost?" 

"A  soul  that's  lost  as  mine  is  lost,  291 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Lost,  lost,  all  lost,  between  Hell  aitd  Heaven !) 


THE   BALLAD    OF   DEAD    LADIES 

(From  FRANCOIS  VILLON)  1 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 
Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman  ? 

^  Cf.  Stevenson's  essay,  pp.  662  ff. 


Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 

Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman  ? 

Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man. 
Only  heard  on  river  and  mere,  — 

She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human?  .  .  . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year?      8 

Where's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun. 
For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween. 

Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on? 
(From  Love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen!) 
And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen 

Who  wUled  that  Buridan  should  steer 

Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth  down  the  Seine?  .  .  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year?     16 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies. 
With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden,  — 

Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ermengarde  the  lady  of  INIaine,  — 
And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there,  — - 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then?  .  .  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year?     24 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord. 
Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 

Except  with  this  for  an  overword,^  — 

"But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year?" 

FRANCESCA    DA    RIlVItNl 

(From  DANTE)  ^ 

:f:  :{:  :le  :{e  :{:  :^  :f; 

When  I  made  answer,  I  began:    "Alas! 
How  many  sweet  thoughts  and  how  much 
desire 
Led  these  two  onward  to  the  dolorous  pass!  " 
Then  turned  to  them,  as  who  would  fain 
inquire, 
And  said  :    "  Francesca,  these  thine  agonies 
Wiring  tears  for  pity  and  grief  that  they  in- 
spire :  — 
But  tell  me,  —  in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs. 
When  and  what  way  did  Love  instruct  you 
so 
That  he  in  your  vague  longings  made  }'ou 
wise?"  '.       9 

Than  she  to  me :   "  There  is  no  greater  woe 
Then  the  remembrance  brings  of  happy  days 
In  Misery  ;  and  this  thy  guide  ^  doth  know. 

^refrain      "^Inferno,  v,   112-42      'Vergil;    no 
special  passage,  but  his  general  experience  is  meant 


630 


DANTE    GABRIEL   ROSSETTI 


But  if  the  first  beginnings  to  retrace 

Of  our  sad  love  can  yield  thee  solace  here, 
So  will  I  be  as  one  that  weeps  and  says. 
One  day  we  read,  for  pastime  and  sweet 
cheer, 
Of  Lancelot,^  how  he  found  Love  tyrannous : 

We  were  alone  and  without  any  fear. 
Our  eyes  were  drawn  together,  readmg  thus, 
Full  oft,  and  still  our  cheeks  would  pale  and 
glow ;  20 

But  one  sole  point  it  was  that  conquered  us. 

For  when  we  read  of  that  great  lover,  how 
He  kissed  the  smile  which  he  had  longed  to 
win,  — 
Then  he  whom  nought  can  sever  from  me 
now 
Forever,  kissed  my  mouth,  all  quivering. 

A  Galahalt^  was  the  book,  and  he  that  writ : 
Upon  that  day  we  read  no  more  therein." 

At  the  tale  told,  while  one  so  id  uttered  it, 
The  other  wept :   a  pang  so  pitiable 

That  I  was  seized,  like  death,  in  swooning- 
fit,  30 

And  even  as  a  dead  body  falls,  I  fell. 

ON  REFUSAL  OF  AID  BETWEEN 
NATIONS 

Not  that  the  earth  is  changing,  O  my  God! 
Nor  that  the  seasons  totter  in  their  walk,  — 
Not  that  the  virulent  ill  of  act  and  talk 
Seethes  ever  as  a  winepress  ever  trod,  — 
Not  therefore  are  we  certain  that  the  rod 
Weighs  in  thine  hand  to  smite  thy  world; 

though  now 
Beneath  thine  hand  so  many  nations 'bow. 
So  many  kings :  —  not  therefore,  O  my  God!  — 
But  because  Man  is  parcelled  out  in  men 
To-day ;  because,  for  any  wrongful  blow,  10 
No  man  not  stricken  asks,  "I  would  be 
told 
Why  thou  dost  thus  : "  but  his  heart  whispers 
then, 
"He  is  he,  I  am  I."     By  this  we  know 
That  the  earth  falls  asunder,  being  old. 

THE   SONNET 

A  Sor^net  is  a  moment's  monument,  — 
Memorial  from  the  Soul's  eternity 
To  one  dead  deathless  hour.  Look  that  it  be, 

1  the  lover  of  Guinevere,  King  Arthur's  queen 
^  i.e.,  the  book  brought  them  together  as  he  did 
Launcelot  and  Guinevere 


Whether  for  lustral  rite  or  dire  portent. 
Of  its  own  arduous  fulness  reverent : 
Carve  it  in  ivor>^  or  in  ebony. 
As  Day  or  Night  may  rule ;    and  let  Time 
see 
Its  flowering  crest  impearled  and  orient. 
A  Sonnet  is  a  coin :   its  face  reveals 

The  soul,  —  its  converse,  to  what  Power 
'tis  due:  —  10 

Whether  for  tribute  to  the  augvist  appeals 
Of  Life,  or  dower  in  Love's  high  retinue, 
It  serve ;  or,  'mid  the  dark  wharf's  cavernous 

breath. 
In  Charon's^  palm  it  pay  the  toll  to  Death. 

LOVE-SIGHT 

When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one? 
When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyes 
Before  thy  face,  their  altar,  solemnize 

The  worship  of  that  Love  through  thee  made 
known  ? 

Or  when  in  the  dusk  hours,  (we  two  alone,) 
Close-kissed  and  eloquent  of  still  replies 
Thy  twilight-hidden  glimmering  visage  lies, 

And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own? 

O  love,  my  love!   if  I  no  more  should  see 

Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of  thee, 
Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring,  —  n 

How  then  should  sound  upon  Life's  darkening 
slope 

The  ground-whirl  of  the  perished  leaves  of 
Hope, 
The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing? 

LOVE-SWEETNESS 

Sweet  dimness  of  her  loosened  hair's  downfall 
About  thy  face ;  her  sweet  hands  round  thy 

head 
In  gracious  fostering  union  garlanded ; 
Her  tremulous  smiles  ;  her  glances'  sweet  recall 
Of  love ;   her  murmuring  sighs  memorial ; 
Her  mouth's  culled  sweetness  by  thy  kisses 

shed 
On  cheeks  and  neck  and  eyelids,  and  so  led 
Back  to  her  mouth  which  answers  there  for 

all:  — 
What  sweeter  than  these  things,  except  the 
thing 

^  the  ferryman  who  in  Greek  ■  raythologj'  con- 
veyed the  spirits  of  the  dead  across  the  river  Styx 
to  Hades 


THE    LANDMARK 


631 


In  lacking  which  all  these  would  lose  their 
sweet :  —  10 

The   confident   heart's   still   fervour:     the 
swift  beat 
And  soft  subsidence  of  the  spirit's  wing, 
Then  when  it  feels,  in  cloud-girt  wayfaring, 
The  breath  of- kindred  plumes  against  its 
feet  ? 

MID-RAPTURE 

Thou  lovely  and  beloved,  thou  my  love ; 
Whose   kiss   seems   still   the   first ;    whose 

summoning  eyes, 
Even  now,  as  for  our  love-world's  new  sun- 
rise. 
Shed  very  dawn ;  whose  voice,  attuned  above 
All  modulation  of  the  deep-bowered  dove. 
Is  Uke  a  hand  laid  softly  on  the  soul ; 
Whose  hand  is  like  a  sweet  voice  to  control 
Those  worn  tired  brows  it  hath  the  keeping 

of:  — 
What  word  can  answer  to  thy  word,  —  what 
gaze 
To   thine,   which   now   absorbs   within  its 
sphere  .10 

IVIy  worshipping  face,  till  I  am  mirrored 
there 
Light-circled  in  a  heaven  of  deep-drawn  rays  ? 
What  clasp,  what  kiss  mine  inmost  heart 

can  prove, 
O  lovely  and  beloved,  0  my  love? 

SOUL-LIGHT 

What  other  woman  could  be  loved  like  you, 
Or  how  of  you  should  love  possess  his  fill  ? 
After  the  fulness  of  all  rapture,  still,  — 
As  at  the  end  of  some  deep  avenue 
A  tender  glamour  of  day,  —  there  comes  to 
view 
Far  in  your  eyes  a  yet  more  hungeritig 

thriU,  — 
Such  fire  as  Love's  soul-winnowing  hands 
distil 
Even  from  his  inmost  ark  of  light  and  dew. 
And  as  the  traveller  triumphs  with  the  sun, 
Glorying  in  heat's  mid-height,  yet  startide 

brings 

Wonder  new-born,  and  still  fresh  transport 

springs  1 1 

From  limpid  lambent  hours  of  day  begun  ;  — 

Even  so,  through  eyes  and  voice,  your  soul 

doth  move 

!My  soul  with  changeful  light  of  infinite  love. 


KNOWN  IN  VAIN 

As   two   whose   love,   first   foolish,   widening 
scope. 
Knows  suddenly,  to  music  high  and  soft, 
The   Holy   of   holies ;     who   because   they 
scoff'd 
Are  now  amazed  with   shame,   nor  dare  to 

cope 
With  the  whole  truth  aloud,  lest  heaven  should 
ope; 
Yet,  at  their  meetings,  laugh  not  as  they 

laugh 'd 
In  speech ;  nor  speak,  at  length ;  but  sitting 
oft 
Together,  withiri  hopeless  sight  of  hope 
For  hours  are  silent :  — •  So  it  happeneth 
When  Work  and  Will  awake  too  late,  to 
gaze  10 

After   their   life   sailed   by,    and   hold    their 
breath. 
Ah!  who  shall  dare  to  search  through  what 

sad  maze 
Thenceforth  their  incommunicable  ways 
Follow  the  desultory  feet  of  Death  ? 


THE  LANDMARK 

Was  that  the  landmark  ?    \\Tiat ,  —  the  foolish 
weU 
Whose  wave,  low  down,  I  did  not  stoop  to 

drink, 
But  sat   and  flung  the  pebbles  from    its 
brink 
In  sport  to  send  its  imaged  skies  pell-mell, 
(And  mine  own  image,  had  I  noted  well !)  — 
W^as  that  my  point  of  turning  ?  —  I  had 

thought 
The  stations  of  my  course  should  rise  un- 
sought, 
As  altar-stone  or  ensigned  citadel. 
But  lo!   the  path  is  missed,  I  must  go  back. 
And  thirst  to  drink  when  next  I  reach  the 
spring  10 

WTiich  once  I  stained,  which  since  may  have 
grown  black. 
Yet  though  no  Ught  be  left  nor  bird  now 

sing 
As  here  I  turn,  I'll  thank  God,  hastening, 
That   the   same   goal    is  still   on   the  same 
track. 


632 


DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI 


THE    CHOICE 


Eat  thou  and  drink;    to-morrow  thou  shalt 
die. 
Surely  the  earth,  that's  wise  being  very  old, 
Needs  not  our  help.     Then  loose  me,  love, 
and  hold 
Thy  sultry  hair  up  from  my  face ;   that  I 
May  pour  for  thee  this  golden  wine,  brim- 
high, 
Till  round  the  glass  thy  lingers  glow  like 

gold. 
We'll   drown   all   hours :     thy   song,   while 
hours  are  toll'd, 
Shall  leap,  as  fountains  veil  the  changing  sky. 
Now  kiss,   and  think   that   there  are  really 
those. 
My  own  high-bosomed  beauty,  who  increase 
Vain  gold,  vain  lore,  and  yet  might  choose 
our  way!  11 

Through  many  years  they  toil ;    then  on 
a  day 
They  die  not,  —  for  their  life  was  death,  — 
but  cease ; 
And  round  their  narrow  lips  the  mould  falls 
close. 


in 


Think  thou  and  act ;   to-morrow  thou  shalt 
die. 
Outstretch'd  in  the  sun's  warmth  upon  the 

shore. 
Thou  say'st :   "Man's  measured  path  is  all 
gone  o'er ; 
Up  all  his  years,  steeply,  with  strain  and  sigh, 
Man    clomb    until    he    touched    the    truth ; 
and  I, 
Even  I,  am  he  whom  it  was  destined  for." 
How  should  this  be  ?     Art  thou  then  so 
much  more 
Than  they  who  sowed,  that  thou  shouldst  reap 

thereby  ? 
Nay,    come    up    hither.     From    this    wave- 
washed  mound 
Unto  the  furthest  flood-brim  look  with  me ; 
Then  reach  on  with  thy  thought  till  it  be 
drown'd.  11 

Miles  and  miles  distant  though  the  last  line 
be, 
And  though  thy  soul  sail  leagues  and  leagues 
beyond, — 
Still,  leagues  beyond  those  leagues,  there  is 
more  sea. 


II 


Watch  thou  and  fear ;    to-morrow  thou  shalt 
die. 
Or  art  thou  sure  thou  shalt  have  time  for 

death  ? 
Is  not  the  day  which  God's  word  promiseth 
To  come  man  knows  not  when?     In  yonder 

sky, 
Now  while  we  speak,  the  sun  speeds  forth: 
can  I 
Or  thou  assure  him  of  his  goal  ?     God's 

breath 
Even  at  this  moment  haply  quickeneth 
The  air  to  a  flame ;   till  spirits,  always  nigh 
Though  screened  and  hid,  shall  walk  the  day- 
light here. 
And  dost  thou  prate  of  all  that  man  shall 
do? 
Canst  thou,  who  hast  but  plagues,  pre- 
sume to  be  II 
Glad  in  his   gladness   that   comes  after 
thee? 
Will  his  strength  slay  thy  worm  in  Hell  ? 
Go  to : 
Cover  thy  countenance,  and  watch,  and  fear. 


VAIN  VIRTUES 

What  is  the  sorriest  thing  that  enters  Hell  ? 
None  of  the  sins,  —  but  this  and  that  fair 

deed 
Which  a  soul's  sin  at  length  could  supersede. 
These  yet  are  virgins,  whom  death's  timely 

knell 
Might  once  have  sainted ;    whom  the  fiends 
compel 
Together  now,  in  snake-bound  shuddering 

sheaves 
Of  anguish,  while  the  pit's  pollution  leaves* 
Their  refuse  maidenhood  abominable. 
Night  sucks  them  down,   the  tribute  of  the 
pit, 
Whose  names,  half  entered  in  the  book  of 
Life, 
Were  God's  desire  at  noon.     And  as  their 
hair  1 1 

And  eyes  sink  last,  the   Torturer   deigns  no 
whit 
To  gaze,  but,  yearning,  waits  his  destined 
wife, 
The  Sin  still  blithe  on  earth   that  sent 
them  there. 


WILLIAM    MORRIS 


633 


LOST  DAYS 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, 

What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the 

street 
Lie  as  they  fell?     Would  they  be  ears  of 
wheat 
Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay? 
Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to-pay  ? 
Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet  ? 
Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 
The  undying  throats  of  Hell,  athirst  alway  ? 
I  do  not  see  them  here ;  but  after  death 

God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see,   10 
Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last  breath. 
"I  am  thyself,  —  what  hast  thou  done  to 
me?" 
"And  I  —  and  I  —  thyself,"  (lo  I    each  one 
saith,) 
"And  thou  thyself  to' all  eternity!" 

A   SUPERSCRIPTION 

Look  in  my  face ;    my  name  is  Might-have- 
been  ; 
I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Fare- 
well ; 
Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 
Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  between  ; 
Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is  seen 
Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by 

my  spell 
Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable. 
Of  ultimate  things  unuttered  the  frail  screen. 
Mark  me,  how  still  I  am !     But  should  there 
dart 
One  moment  through  thy  soul  the  soft  sur- 
prise     .  10 
Of  that  winged  Peace  which  lulls  the  breath 
of  sighs,  — 
Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn  apart 
Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart. 
Sleepless  with  cold  commemorative  eyes. 

THE   ONE   HOPE 

When  vain  desire  at  last  and  vain  regret 
Go  hand  in  hand  to  death,  and  all  is  vain, 
What  shall  assuage  the  unforgotten  pain 
And  teach  the  vmforgetful  to  forget  ? 
Shall  Peace  be  still  a  simk  stream  long  un- 
met, — 
Or  may  the  soul  at  once  in  a  green  plain 
Stoop  through  the  spray  of  some  sweet  life- 
fountain 


And  cull  the  dew-drenched  flowering  amulet  ? 

Ah !   when  the  wan  soul  in  that  golden  air 
Between  the  scriptured  petals  softly  blown 
Peers  breathless  for  the  gift  of  grace  un- 
known,—  ir 

Ah  !   let  none  other  alien  spell  soe'er 

But  only  the  one  Hope's  one  name  be  there,  — 
Not  less  nor  more,  but  even  that  word  alone. 

WILLIAM  MORRIS   (1834-1896) 
THE   EARTHLY   PARADISE 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing. 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your  tears, 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day.  7 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth, 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh, 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth, 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by. 
Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet  days 

die  — 
—  Remember  me  a  little  then,  I  pray, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day.  14 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care 
That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn  our 

bread, 
These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear ; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered. 
Because  they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be  dead. 
Or  long  time  take  their  memory  quite  away 
From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day.       21 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due 
time, 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  straight? 
Let  it  suffice  me  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gate,^ 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay, 
Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day.  28 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 
At  Christmas-tide  such  wondrous  things  did 
show, 

^  the  gate  of  false  dreams;    cf.  jEneid,  \1, 
895-6 


634 


WILLIAM    MORRIS 


That  through  one  window  men  beheld   the 

spring. 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow, 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  a-row, 
While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  waj^, 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December  day. 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is,  36 

If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me, 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea,^ 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must  be  ; 
Whose  ravening  monsters  mighty  men  shall 

slay. 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day.  42 


PROLOGUE 

Forget  six  counties  overhung  with  sm.oke, 
Forget  the  snorting  steam  and  piston  stroke, 
Forget  the  spreading  of  the  hideous  town  ; 
Think  rather  of  the  pack-horse  on  the  down. 
And  dream  of  London,  small,  and  white,  and 

clean. 
The  clear  Thames  bordered  by  its  gardens 

_  green; 
Think,  'that  below  bridge  the  green  lapping 

waves 
Smite  some  few  keels  that  bear  Levantine 

staves. 
Cut  from  the  yew  wood  on  the  burnt-up  hill, 
And  pointed  jars  that  Greek  hands  toiled  to 

fill,  10 

And  treasured  scanty  spice  from  some  far  sea, 
Florence  gold  cloth,  and  Ypres  napery, 
And    cloth    of    Bruges,    and    hogsheads    of 

Guienne ; 
While    nigh    the    thronged,  wharf    Geoffrey 

Chaucer's  pen 
Moves  over  bills  of  lading  — ;  mid  such  times 
Shall  dwell  the  hollow  puppets  of  my  rhymes. 


THE    LADY   OF   THE   LAND 

It  happened  once,  some  men  of  Italy 
Midst  the  Greek  Islands  went  a  sea-roving, 
And  much  good  fortune  had  they  on  the  sea : 
Of  many  a  man  they  had  the  ransoming, 
And  many  a  chain  they  gat,  and  goodly  thing ; 
And  midst  their  voyage  to  an  isle  they  came. 
Whereof  my  story  keepeth  not  the  name.     7 

'  of  modern  life 


Now  though  but  little  was  there  left  to  gain, 
Begause  the  richer  folk  had  gone  away. 
Yet  since  by  this  of  water  they  were  fain 
They  came  to  anchor  in  a  land-locked  bay. 
Whence  in  a  while  some  went  ashore  to  play, 
Going  but  lightly  armed  in  twos  or  threes. 
For  midst  that  folk  they  feared  no  enemies.  14 

And  of  these  fellows  that  thus  went  ashore, 
One  was  there  who  left  all  his  friends  behind  ; 
Who  going  inland  ever  more  and  more, 
And  being  left  quite  alone,  at  last  did  lind 
A  lonely  valley  sheltered  from  the  wind. 
Wherein,  amidst  an  ancient  cypress  wood, 
A  long-deserted  ruined  castle  stood.  21 

The  wood,  once  ordered  in  fair  grove  and 

glade. 
With  gardens  overlooked  by  terraces. 
And  marble-paved  pools  for  pleasure  made. 
Was   tangled  now,   and   choked  with   fallen 

trees ; 
And  he  who  went  there,  with  but  little  ease 
Must  stumble  by  the  stream's  side,  once  made 

meet 
For  tender  women's  dainty  wandering  feet.   28 

The  raven's  croak,  the  low  wind  choked  and 
drear. 
The  baffled  stream,  the  grey  wolf's  doleful  cry. 
Were  all  the  sounds  that  mariner  could  hear, 
As  through  the  wood  he  wandered  painfully ; 
But  as  unto  the  house  he  drew  anigh, 
The  pillars  of  a  ruined  shrine  he  saw, 
The  once  fair  temple  of  a  fallen  law.  35 

No  image  was  there  left  behind  to  tell 
Before  whose  face  the  knees  of  men  had  bowed  ; 
An  altar  of  black  stone,  of  old  wrought  well. 
Alone  beneath  a  ruined  roof  now  showed 
The  goal  whereto  the  folk  were  wont  to  crowd, 
Seeking  for  things  forgotten  long  ago, 
Praying  for  heads  long  ages  laid  a-low.        42 

Close  to  the  temple  was  the  castle-gate, 
Doorless   and   crumbling;     there   our   fellow 

turned. 
Trembling  indeed  at  what  might  chance  to 

wait 
The  prey  entrapped,  yet  with  a  heart  that 

burned 
To  know  the  most  of  what  might  there  be 

learned, 
And  hoping  somewhat  too,  amid  his  fear, 
To  light  on  such  things  as  all  men  hold  dear. 


THE    EARTHLY   PARADISE 


63s 


Noble  the  house  was,  nor  seemed  built  for 
war,  50 

But  rather  like  the  work  of  other  days, 
When  men,  in  better  peace  than  now  they  are, 
Had  leisure  on  the  world  around  to  gaze, 
And  noted  well  the  past  times'  changing  ways ; 
And    fair    with    sculptured     stories    it    was 

wrought . 
By  lapse  of  time  unto  dim  ruin  brought.     56 

Now  as  he  looked  about  on  all  these  things, 
And  strove  to  read  the  mouldering  histories. 
Above  the  door  an  image  with  wide  wings, 
Wliose  unclad  limbs  a  serpent  seemed  to  seize, 
He  dimly  saw,  although  the  western  breeze, 
And  years  of  biting  frost  and  washing  rain, 
Had  made  the  carver's  laboiu-  well-nigh  vain. 

But  this,  though  perished  sore,  and  worn 
away,  64 

He  noted  well,  because  it  seemed  to  be. 
After  the  fashion  of  another  day, 
Some  great  man's  badge  of  war,  or  armoury ;  ^ 
And  round  it  a  carved  wreath  he  seemed  to 

see : 
But  taking  note  of  these  things,  at  the  last 
The  mariner  beneath  the  gateway  passed.   70 

And   there  a  lovely   cloistered    court   he 
found, 
A  fountain  in  the  midst  o'erthrowTi  and  dry, 
And  in  the  cloister  briers  twining  round 
The  slender  shafts  ;   the  wondrous  imagery 
Outworn  by  more  than  many  years  gone  by ; 
Because  the  country  people,  in  their  fear 
Of  wizardry,  had  wrought  destruction  here ; 

And  piteously  these  fair  things  had  been 

maimed ;  78 

There  stood  great  Jove,  lacking  his  head  of 

might. 
Here  was  the  archer,  swift  Apollo,  lamed; 
The  shapely  limbs  of  \'enus  hid  from  sight 
By  weeds  and  shards  ;  Diana's  ankles  light 
Bound  with  the  cable  of  some  coasting  ship ; 
And  rusty  nails  through  Helen's  maddening 
lip.  84 

Therefrom  unto  the  chambers  did  he  pass. 
And  found  them  fair  still,  midst  of  their  decay. 
Though  in  them  now  no  sign  of  man  there  was. 
And  everything  but  stone  had  passed  away 
That  made  them  lovely  in  that  vanished  day ; 

^  coat  of  arms 


Nay,  the  mere  walls  themselves  would  soon  be 
gone  90 

And  nought  be  left  but  heaps  of  mouldering 
stone. 

But  he,  when  all  the  place  he  had  gone  o'er, 
And  with  much  trouble  clomb  the  broken  stair, 
And  from  the  topmost  turret  seen  the  shore 
And  his  good  ship  drawn  up  at  anchor  there, 
Came  down  again,  and  found  a  crypt  most  fair 
Built  wonderfully  beneath  the  greatest  hall. 
And  there  he  saw  a  door  within  the  wall,     98 

Well-hinged,  close  shut ;    nor  was  there  in 

that  place 
Another  on  its  hinges,  therefore  he 
Stood  there  and  pondered  for  a  little  space. 
And  thought,  "  Perchance  some  marvel  I  shall 

see. 
For  surely  here  some  dweller  there  must  be, 
Because  this  door  seems  whole,  and  new,  and 

sound, 
While  nought  but  ruin  I  can  see  around."  105 

So    with    that    word,  moved  by  a   strong 
desire, 
He  tried  the  hasp,  that  yielded  to  his  hand, 
And  in  a  strange  place,  Ut  as  by  a  fire 
Unseen  but  near,  he  presently  did  stand ; 
And  by  an  odorous  breeze  his  face  was  fanned. 
As  though  in  some  Arabian  plain  he  stood, 
Anigh  the  border  of  a  spice-tree  wood.         112 

He  moved  not  for  awhile,  but  looking  round. 
He  wondered  much  to  see  the  place  so  fair. 
Because,  imlike  the  castle  above  ground, 
No  pillager  or  wTecker  had  been  there ; 
It  seemed  that  time  had  passed  on  otheru'here, 
Nor  laid  a  finger  on  this  hidden  place. 
Rich  mth  the  wealth  of  some  forgotten  race. 

With  hangings,  fresh  as  when  they  left  the 
loom,  1 20 

The  walls  were  hung  a  space  above  the  head, 
Slim  ivory  chairs  were  set  about  the  room. 
And  in  one  corner  was  a  dainty  bed. 
That  seemed  for  some  fair  queen  apparelled ; 
And  marble  was  the  worst  stone  of  the  floor, 
That  Tvdth  rich  Indian  webs  was  covered  o'er. 

The  wanderer  trembled  when  he  saw' all  this. 

Because  he  deemed  by  magic  it  was  wrought ; 

Yet  in  his  heart  a  longing  for  some  bliss,   129 

Whereof  the  hard  and  changing  world  know^ 

nought. 


636 


WILLIAM    MORRIS 


Arose  and  urged  him  on,  and  dimmed  the 

thought 
That  there  perchance  some  devil  lurked  to  slay 
The  heedless  wanderer  from  the  light  of  day. 

Over  against  him  was  another  door         134 
Set  in  the  wall ;  so,  casting  fear  aside, 
With  hurried  steps  he  crossed  the  varied  floor, 
And  there  again  the  silver  latch  he  tried 
And  with  no  pain  the  door  he  opened  wide, 
And  entering  the  new  chamber  cautiously 
The  glory  of  great  heaps  of  gold  could  see. 

Upon  the  floor  uncounted  medals  lay,     141 
Like  things  of  little  value ;  here  and  there 
Stood  golden  caldrons,  that  might  well  out- 
weigh 
The  biggest  midst  an  emperor's  copper-ware, 
And  golden  cups  were  set  on  tables  fair. 
Themselves  of  gold ;   and  in  all  hollow  things 
Were  stored  great  gems,  worthy  the  crowns 
of  kings.  147 

The  walls  and  roof  with  gold  were  overlaid. 
And  precious   raiment   from   the  wall  hung 

down ; 
The  fall  of  kings  that  treasure  might  have 

stayed, 
Or  gained  some  longing  conqueror  great  re- 
nown, 
Or  built  again  some  god-destroyed  old  town ; 
What  wonder,  if  this  plunderer  of  the  sea 
Stood  gazing  at  it  long  and  dizzily?  154 

But  at  the  last  his  troubled  eyes  and  dazed 
He  lifted  from  the  glory  of  that  gold, 
And  then  the  image,  that  well-nigh  erased 
Over  the  castle-gate  he  did  behold. 
Above  a  door  well  wrought  in  colored  gold 
Again  he  saw ;   a  naked  girl  with  wings 
Enfolded  in  a  serpent's  scaly  rings.  161 

And  even  as  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  it 
A  woman's  voice  came  from  the  other  side, 
And  through  his  heart  strange  hopes  began  to 

flit 
That  in  some  wondrous  land  he  might  abide 
Not  dying,  master  of  a  deathless  bride,      166 
So  o'er  the  gold  which  now  he  scarce  could  see 
He  went,  and  passed  this  last  door  eagerly. 

Then  in  a  room  he  stood  wherein  there  was 
A  marble  bath,  whose  brimming  water  yet 
Was  scarcely  still ;  a  vessel  of  green  glass 
Half  fuU  of  odorous  ointment  was  there  set 


Upon  the  topmost  step  that  still  was  wet, 
And  jewelled  shoes  and  women's  dainty  gear. 
Lay  cast  upon  the  varied  pavement  near.  175 

In  one  quick  glance  these  things  his  eyes 
did  see, 
But  speedily  they  turned  round  to  behold 
Another  sight,  for  throned  on  ivory 
There  sat  a  woman,  whose  wet  tresses  rolled 
On  to  the  floor  in  waves  of  gleaming  gold,  180 
Cast  back  from  such  a  form  as,  erewhile  shown 
To  one  poor  shepherd,  lighted  up  Troy  town.' 

Naked  she  was,  the  kisses  of  her  feet      183 
Upon  the  floor  a  dying  path  had  made 
From  the  full  bath  unto  her  ivory  seat ; 
In  her  right  hand,  upon  her  boso.m  laid, 
She  held  a  golden  comb,  a  mirror  weighed 
Her  left  hand  down,  aback  her  fair  head  lay 
Dreaming  awake  of  some  long  vanished  day. 

Her  eyes  were  shut,  but  she  seemed  not  to 

sleep,  190 

Her  lips  were  murmuring  things  unheard  and 

low. 
Or  sometimes  twitched  as  though  she  needs 

must  weep 
Though  from  her  eyes  the  tears  refused  to  flow, 
And  oft  with  heavenly  red  her  cheek  did  glow. 
As  if  remembrance  of  some  half-sweet  shame 
Across  the  web  of  many  memories  came.     196 

There  stood  the  man,  scarce  daring  to  draw 

breath 
For  fear  the  lovely  sight  should  fade  away ; 
Forgetting  heaven,  forgetting  life  and  death, 
Trembling  for  fear  lest  something  he  should 

say 
Unwitting,  lest  some  sob  should  yet  betray 
His  presence  there,  for  to  his  eager  eyes 
Already  did  the  tears  begin  to  rise.  203 

But  as  he  gazed,  she  moved,  and  with  a  sigh 
Bent  forward,  dropping  down  her  golden  head  ; 
"Alas,  alas  !   another  day  gone  by. 
Another  day  and  no  soul  come,"  she  said ; 
"Another  year,  and  still  I  am  not  dead !" 
And  with  that  word  once  more  her  head  she 

raised,  209 

And  on  the  trembling  man  with  great  eyes 

gazed. 

'  Helen's,  shown  to  Paris,  who  abducted  her, 
brought  on  the  war  that  ended  in  the  burning  oi 
Troy. 


THE    EARTHLY    PARADISE 


637 


Then  he  imploring  hands  to  her  did  reach, 
And  toward  her  very  slowly  'gan  to  move 
And  with  wet  eyes  her  pity  did  beseech, 
And  seeing  her  about  to  speak,  he  strove    214 
From  trembling  lips  to  utter  words  of  love ; 
But  W'ith  a  look  she  stayed  his  doubtful  feet, 
And  made  sweet  music  as  their  eyes  did  meet. 

For  now  she  spoke  in  gentle  voice  and  clear, 
Using  the  Greek  tongue  that  he  knew  full 

well ; 
"What  man  art  thou,  that  thus  hast  wandered 

here,  220 

And  found  this  lonely  chamber  where  I  dwell  ? 
Beware,  beware  !   for  I  have  many  a  spell ; 
If  greed  of  power  and  gold  have  led  thee  on, 
Not  lightly  shall  this  untold  wealth  be  won. 

"But  if  thou  com'st  here,  knowing  of  my 
tale,  225 

In*  hope  to  bear  away  my  body  fair, 
Stout  must  thine  heart  be,  nor  shall   that 

avail 
If  thou  a  wicked  soul  in  thee  dost  bear ; 
So  once  again  I  bid  thee  to  beware. 
Because  no  base  man  things  like  this  may  see, 
And  live  thereafter  long  and  happily."       231 

"Lady,"  he  said,  "in  Florence  is  my  home, 
And  in  my  city  noble  is  my  name ; 
Neither  on  peddling  voyage  am  I  come. 
But,  like  my  fathers,  bent  to  gather  fame ; 
And  though  thy  face  has  set  my  heart  a-flame 
Yet  of  thy  story  nothing  do  I  know, 
But  here  have  wandered  heedlessly  enow. 

"But  since  the  sight  of  thee  mine  eyes  did 
bless,  239 

What  can  I  be  but  thine  ?  what  wouldst  thou 
have? 

From  those  thy  words,  I  deem  from  some 
distress 

By  deeds  of  mine  thy  dear  life  I  might  save ; 

O  then,  delay  not !   if  one  ever  gave 

His  life  to  any,  mine  I  give  to  thee ; 

Come,  tell  me  what  the  price  of  love  must  be  ? 

"Swift  death,  to  be  with  thee  a  day  and 
night  246 

And  with  the  earliest  dawning  to  be  slain  ? 
Or  better,  a  long  year  of  great  dehght, 
And  many  years  of  misery  and  pain  ? 
Or  worse,  and  this  poor  hour  for  all  my  gain  ? 
A  soiyry  merchant  am  I  on  this  day. 
E'en  as  thou  wiliest  so  must  I  obey."         252 


She   said,   "  What   brave   words !    nought 
divine  am  I, 
But  an  unhappy  and  unheard-of  maid 
Compelled  by  evil  fate  and  destiny 
To  live,  who  long  ago  should  have  been  laid 
Under  the  earth  within  the  cypress  shade. 
Hearken  awhile,  and  quickly  shalt  thou  know 
What  deed  I  pray  thee  to  accomplish  now. 

"God  grant  indeed  thy  words  are  not  for 
nought !  260 

Then  shalt  thou  save  me,  since  for  many  a  day 
To  such  a  dreadful  life  I  have  been  brought : 
Nor  will  I  spare  with  all  my  heart  to  pay 
What  man  soever  takes  my  grief  away ; 
Ah !  I  will  love  thee,  if  thou  lovest  me 
But  well  enough  my  saviour  now  to  be.      266 

"My  father  lived  a  many  years  agone 
Lord  of  this  land,  master  of  all  cunning, 
Who  ruddy  gold  could  draw-  from  out  grey 

stone, 
And  gather  wealth  from  many  an  uncouth 

thing ; 
He  made  the  wilderness  rejoice  and  sing. 
And  such  a  leech  he  was  that  none  could  say 
Without  his  word  what  soul  should  pass  away. 

" Unto  Diana  such  a  gift  he  gave,  274 

Goddess  above,  below,  and  on  the  earth, 
That  I  should  be  her  virgin  and  her  slave 
From  the  first  hour  of  my  most  wretched 

birth ; 
Therefore  my  life  had  known  but  little  mirth 
When  I  had  come  unto  my  twentieth  year 
And  the  last  time  of  hallowing  drew  anear.  280 

"So  in  her  temple  had  I  lived  and  died 
And  all  would  long  ago  have  passed  away, 
But  ere  that  time  came,  did  strange  things 

betide, 
Whereby  I  am  alive  unto  this  day ; 
Alas,  the  bitter  words  that  I  must  say ! 
Ah  !  can  I  bring  my  wretched  tongue  to  tell 
How  I  was  brought  unto  this  fearful  hell?  287 

"A  queen  I  was,  what  gods  I  knew  I  loved. 
And  nothing  evil  was  there  in  my  thought, 
And  yet  by  love  my  w-retched  heart  was  moved 
Until  to  utter  ruin  I  was  brought ! 
Alas !    thou  sayest  our  gods  were  vain  and 

nought ; 
Wait,  wait,  till  thou  hast  heard  this  tale  of 

mine,  293 

Then  shalt  thou  think  them  devilish  or  divine. 


6^8 


WILLIAM   MORRIS 


"Hearken  !  in  spite  of  father  and  of  vow 
I  loved  a  man ;   but  for  that  sin  I  think 
Men  had  forgiven  me  —  yea,  yea,  even  thou ; 
But  from  the  gods  the  full  cup  must  I  drink, 
And  into  misery  unheard  of  sink,  299 

Tormented,  when  their  own  names  are  forgot, 
And  men  must  doubt  if  e'er  they  lived  or  not. 

"Glorious  my  lover  was  unto  my  sight, 
Most  beautiful,  —  of  love  we  grew  so  fain 
That  we  at  last  agreed,  that  on  a  night      304 
We  should  be  happy,  but  that  ^  he  were  slain 
Or  shut  in  hold ;   and  neither  joy  nor  pain 
Should  else  forbid  that  hoped-for  time  to  be ; 
So  came  the  night  that  made  a  wretch  of  me. 

"Ah  !  well  do  I  remember  all  that  night. 
When  through  the  window  shone  the  orb  of 
June,  310 

And  by  the  bed  flickered  the  taper's  light. 
Whereby  I  trembled,  gazing  at  the  moon : 
Ah  me  !   the  meeting  that  we  had,  when  soon 
Into  his  strong,  well-trusted  arms  I  fell, 
And  many  a  sorrow  we  began  to  tell.         315 

"Ah  me!   what  parting  on  that  night  we 
had! 
I  think  the  story  of  my  great  despair 
A  little  while  might  merry  folk  make  sad ; 
For,  as  he  swept  away  my  yellow  hair 
To  make  my  shoulder  and  my  bosom  bare, 
I  raised  mine  eyes,  and  shuddering  could  be- 
hold 
A  shadow  cast  upon  the  bed  of  gold :         322 

"Then   suddenly   was   quenched   my  hot 
desire 
And  he  untwined  his  arms ;   the  moon  so  pale 
A  while  ago,  seemed  changed  to  blood  and  fire, 
And  yet  my  limbs  beneath  me  did  not  fail. 
And  neither  had  I  strength  to  cry  or  wail, 
But  stood  there  helpless,  bare,  and  shivering. 
With  staring  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  thing.  320 

"Because  the  shade  that  on  the  bed  of  gold 
The  changed  and  dreadful  moon  was  throwing 

down 
Was  of  Diana,  whom  I  did  behold, 
With  knotted  hair,  and  shining  girt-up  gown, 
And  on  the  high  white  brow,  a  deadly  frown 
Bent   upon   us,   who   stood   scarce    drawing 

breath, 
Striving  to  meet  the  horrible  sure  death.    336 


"No  word  at  all  the  dreadful  goddess  said, 
But  soon  across  my  feet  my  lover  lay. 
And  well  indeed  I  knew  that  he  was  dead ; 
And  would  that  I  had  died  on  that  same  day  ! 
For  in  a  while  the  image  turned  away, 
And  without  words  my  doom  I  understood, 
And  felt  a  horror  change  my  human  blood.  343 

"And  there  I  fell,  and  on  the  floor  I  lay 
By  the  dead  man,  till  daylight  came  on  me, 
And  not  a  word  thenceforward  could  I  say 
For  three  years ;   till  of  grief  and  misery, 
The  lingering  pest,^  the  cruel  enemy. 
My  father  and  his  folk  were  dead  and  gone, 
And  in  this  castle  I  was  left  alone :  350 

"  And  then  the  doom  foreseen  upon  me  fell, 
For  Queen  Diana  did  my  body  change 
Into  a  fork-tongued  dragon,  flesh  and  fell,- 
And  through  the  island  nightly  do  I  range. 
Or  in  the  green  sea  mate  with  monsters  strange, 
When  in  the  middle  of  the  moonlit  night 
The  sleepy  mariner  I  do  affright.  357 

"But  all  day  long  upon  this  gold  I  lie 
Within  this  place,  where  never  mason's  hand 
Smote  trowel  on  the  marble  noisily ; 
Drowsy  I  lie,  no  folk  at  my  command, 
Who  once  was  called  the  Lady  of  the  Land ; 
Who  might  have  bought  a  kingdom  with  a 
kiss,  363 

Yea,  half  the  world  with  such  a  sight  as  this." 

And  therewithal,  with  rosy  fingers  light. 
Backward  her  heavy-hanging  hair  she  threw, 
To  give  her  naked  beauty  more  to  sight ; 
But  \yhen,  forgetting  all  the  things  he  knew, 
Maddened  with  love  unto  the  prize  he  drew. 
She  cried,  "Nay,  wait!    for  wherefore  wilt 

thou  diej 
Why  should  we  not  be  happy,  thou  and  I  ?  371 

"  Wilt  thou  not  save  me  ?  once  in  every  year 
This  rightful  form  of  mine  that  thou  dost  see 
By  favour  of  the  goddess  have  I  here 
From  sunrise  unto  sunset  given  me. 
That  some  brave  man  may  end  my  misery. 
And  thou  —  art  thou  not  brave  ?    can  thy 
heart  fail,  377 

Whose  eyes  e'en  now  are  weeping  at  my  tale  ? 

"Then  listen  !   when  this  day  is  overpast, 
A  fearful  monster  shall  I  be  again. 


unless 


^  plague 


THE    EARTHLY   PARADISE 


639 


And  thou  raayst  be  my  saviour  at  the  last ; 
Unless,  once  more,  thy  words  are  nought  and 

vam. 
If  thou  of  love  and  sovereignty  art  fain, 
Come  thou  next  morn,  and  when  thou  seest 

here 
A  hideous  dragon,  have  thereof  no  fear,    385 

"But  take  the  loathsome  head  up  in  thine 
hands, 
And  kiss  it,  and  be  master  presently 
Of  tmce  the  wealth  that  is  in  all  the  lands 
From  Cathay '  to  the  head  of  Italy ; 
And  master  also,  if  it  pleaseth  thee, 
Of  all  thou  praisest  as  so  fresh  and  bright, 
Of  what  thou  callest  crown  of  aU  delight.  392 

"Ah  !  with  what  joy  then  shall  I  see  again 
The  sunhght  on  the  green  grass  and  the  trees, 
And  hear  the  clatter  of  the  summer  rain, 
And  see  the  joyous  folk  beyond  the  seas. 
Ah,  me !  to  hold  my  child  upon  my  knees, 
After  the  weeping  of  unkindly  tears,  398 

And  all  the  wrongs  of  these  four  hundred  years. 

"Go  now,  go  quick!    leave  this  grey  heap 
of  stone ; 
And  from  thy  glad  heart  think  upon  thy  way. 
How  I  shall  love  thee  —  yea,  love  thee  alone. 
That  bringest  me  from  dark  death  mito  day ; 
For  this  shall  be  thy  wages  and  thy  pay ; 
Unheard-of  wealth,  unheard-of  love  is  near. 
If  thou  hast  heart  a  little  dread  to  bear."  406 

Therewith  she  turned  to  go ;  but  he  cried  out, 
"Ah  !  wilt  thou  leave  me  then  without  one  kiss, 
To  slay  the  very  seeds  of  fear  and  doubt. 
That  glad  to-morrow  may  bring  certain  bliss  ? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  how  love  lives  by  this. 
The  memory  of  some  hopeful  close  embrace. 
Low   whispered   words   within    some    lonely 
place?"  413 

But  she,  when  his  bright  glittering  eyes  she 
saw, 

And  burning  cheeks,  cried  out,  "Alas,  alas! 

Must  I  be  quite  undone,  and  wilt  thou  draw 

A  worse  fate  on  me  than  the  first  one  was  ? 

O  haste  thee  from  this  fatal  place  to  pass  ! 

Yet,  ere  thou  goest,  take  this,  lest  thou 
shouldst  deem 

Thou  hast  been  fooled  by  some  strange  mid- 
day dream."  420 

1  China 


So  saying,  blushing  like  a  new-kissed  maid, 
From  off  her  neck  a  little  gem  she  drew, 
That,  'twixt  those  snowy  rose-tinged  hillocks 

laid. 
The  secrets  of  her  glorious  beauty  knew ;  4^24 
And  ere  he  well  perceived  what  she  would  do, 
She  touched  his  hand,  the  gem  within  it  lay. 
And,  turning,  from  his  sight  she  fled  away. 

Then  at  the  doorway  where  her  rosy  heel 
Had  glanced   and   vanished,   he   awhile   did 
stare,  429 

And  still  upon  his  hand  he  seemed  to  feel 
The  varying  kisses  of  her  fingers  fair ; 
Then  turned  he  toward  the  dreary  crypt  and 

bare. 
And  dizzily  throughout  the  castle  passed. 
Till  by  the  ruined  fane  he  stood  at  last.     434 

Then  weighmg  still  the  gem  within  his  hand. 
He  stumbled  backward  through  the  cjqDress 

wood. 
Thinking  the  while  of  some  strange  lovely 

land, 
WTiere  all  his  life  should  be  most  fair  and  good 
Till  on  the  valley's  wall  of  hills  he  stood,  439 
And  slowly  thence  passed  down  imto  the  bay 
Red  with  the  death  of  that  bewildering  day. 

The  next  day  came,  and  he,  who  all  the 

night 
Had  ceaselessly  been  turning  in  his  bed. 
Arose  and  clad  himself  in  armour  bright, 
And  many  a  danger  he  remembered ; 
Storming  of  towns,  lone  sieges  full  of  dread. 
That  with  renown  his  heart  had  borne  him 

through 
And  this  thing  seemed  a  little  thing  to  do.  448 

So  on  he  went,  and  on  the  way  he  thought 
Of  all  the  glorious  things  of  yesterday. 
Nought  of  the  price  whereat  they  must  be 

bought. 
But  ever  to  himself  did  softly  say, 
"No  roaming  now,  my  wars  are  passed  away ; 
No  long  dull  days  devoid  of  happiness, 
When  such  a  love  my  yearning  heart   shall 

bless."  4SS 

Thus  to  the  castle  did  he  come  at  last. 
But  when  unto  the  gateway  he  drew  near. 
And  midemeath  its  ruined  archway  passed 
Into  a  court,  a  strange  noise  did  he  hear, 
And  through  his  heart  there  shot  a  pang  of 
fear ;  46c 


640 


ALGERNON    CHARLES    SWINBURNE 


Trembling,  he  gat  his  sword  into  his  hand, 
And  midmost  of  the  cloisters  took  his  stand. 

But  for  a  while  that  unknown  noise  in- 
creased, 
A  rattling,  that  with  strident  roars  did  blend, 
And  whining  moans ;  but  suddenly  it  ceased, 
A  fearful  thing  stood  at  the  cloister's  end. 
And  eyed  him  for  a  while,  then  'gan  to  wend 
Adown  the  cloisters,  and  began  again  468 
That  rattling,  and  the  moan  like  fiends  in  pain. 

And  as  it  came  on  towards  him,  with  its 

teeth 
The  body  of  a  slain  goat  did  it  tear, 
The  blood  whereof  in  its  hot  jaws  did  seethe, 
And  on  its  tongue  he  saw  the  smoking  hair ; 
Then  his  heart  sank,  and  standing  trembling 

there, 
Throughout  his  mind  wild  thoughts  and  fearful 

ran, 
"Some  fiend  she  was,"  he  said,  "the  bane^  of 

man."  476 

Yet  he  abode  her  still,  although  his  blood 
Curdled  within  him :    the  thing  dropped  the 

goat. 
And  creeping  on,  came  close  to  where  he  stood. 
And  raised  its  head  to  him,   and  wrinkled 

throat. 
Then  he  cried  out  and  wildly  at  her  smote. 
Shutting  his  eyes,  and  turned  and  from  the 

place  482 

Ran  swiftly,  with  a  white  and  ghastly  face. 

But   Uttle   things   rough  stones  and   tree- 
trunks  seemed. 
And  if  he  fell,  he  rose  and  ran  on  still ; 
No  more  he  felt  his  hurts  than  if  he  dreamed, 
He  made  no  stay  for  valley  or  steep  hill. 
Heedless  he  dashed  through  many  a  foaming 

rill, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  ship  at  last  489 

And  with  no  word  into  the  deep  hold  passed. 

Meanwhile  the  dragon,  seeing  him  clean 
gone. 
Followed  him  not,  but  crying  horribly. 
Caught  up  within  her  jaws  a  block  of  stone 
Anfl  ground  it  into  powder,  then  turned  she. 
With  cries  that  folk  could  hear  far  out  at  sea. 
And  reached  the  treasure  set  apart  of  old, 
To  brood  above  the  hidden  heaps  of  gold.  497 

^  destroyer 


Yet  was  she  seen  again  on  many  a  day 
By  some  half-waking  mariner,  or  herd, 
Playing  amid  the  ripples  of  the  bay. 
Or  on  the  hills  making  all  things  afeard, 
Or  in  the  wood,  that  did  that  castle  gird, 
But  never  any  man  again  durst  go  503 

To  seek  her  woman's  form,  and  end  her  woe. 

As  for  the  man,  who  knows  what  things  he 

bore  ? 
What  mournful  faces  peopled  the  sad  night, 
What  wailings  vexed  him  with  reproaches  sore, 
WTiat  images  of  that  nigh-gained  delight ! 
What  dreamed  caresses  from  soft  hands  and 

'white. 
Turning  to  horrors  ere  they  reached  the  best : 
What  struggles  vain,  what  shame,  what  huge 

unrest  ?  511 

No  man  he  knew,  three  days  he  lay  and 

raved. 
And  cried  for  death,  until  a  lethargy 
Fell  on  him,   and  his  fellows   thought  him 

saved ;  • 
But  on  the  third  night  he  awoke  to  die ; 
And  at  Byzantium  doth  his  body  lie 
Between  two  blossoming  pomegranate  trees, 
Within  the  churchyard  of  the  Genoese.     518 


ALGERNON      CHARLES      SWIN- 
BURNE  (183 7-1 909) 

CHORUS    FROM   ATALANTA   IN 
CALYDON 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's 
traces. 

The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain ; 
And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 
Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus,^ 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces, 

The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain.       8 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying  of 
quivers. 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light. 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers. 

With  a  clamour  of  waters,  and  with  might ; 

'  cf.  the  nightingale  poems  in  this  volume  and 
the  note  on  Sidney's  The  Nightingale. 


THE    GARDEN   OF    PROSERPINE 


641 


Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  fleet, 
Over  the  splendour  and  speed  of  thy  feet ; 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west 

shivers, 
Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of 

the  night.  16 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing  to 
her. 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees,  and  cling  ? 
Oh  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could 
spring  to  her. 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that 
spring  ! 
For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her 
And  the  southwest-wind  and  the  west-wind 


sing. 


24 


For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over. 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins ; 
The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover. 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins ; 
And  time  remember'd  is  grief  forgotten. 
And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten. 
And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 

Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins.     32 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes. 
Ripe  grasses  trammel'a  travelling  foot, 
The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 

From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit ; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oat  ^  is  heard  above  the  lyre. 
And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 

The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root.  40 

And  Fan^  by  noon  and  Bacchus'  by  night, 

Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid. 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  dehght 

The  Maenad  ^  and  the  Bassarid  ;  •* 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide, 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide, 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid.  48 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  *  hair 
Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes ; 

The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 
Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs  ; 

^  reed  pipe    ^  god  of  wild  life     ^  god  of  wine 
*  women  worshippers  of  Bacchus 


The  -wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its 

leaves. 
But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 
The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies.  56 


THE    GARDEN    OF    PROSERPINE  1 

Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet ; 

Here,  where  all  trouble  seems 
Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  riot 

In  doubtful  dreams  of  dreams; 
I  watch  the  green  field  growing 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing. 
For  harvest-time  and  mowing, 

A  sleepy  world  of  streams. 

I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter. 

And  men  that  laugh  and  weep ; 
Of  what  may  come  hereafter 
For  men  that  sow  to  reap  : 
I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours, 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers 
And  everything  but  sleep. 


16 


24 


Here  life  has  death  for  neighbour. 
And  far  from  eye  or  ear 

Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labour, 
Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer ; 

They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 

They  wot  not  who  make  thither ; 

But  no  such  winds  blow  hither. 
And  no  such  things  grow  here. 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice, 

No  heather-flower  or  vine, 
But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies. 
Green  grapes  of  Proserpine,- 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes. 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes 
Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 
For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 

Pale,  without  name  or  number. 
In  fruitless  fields  of  corn. 

They  bow  themselves  and  slumber 
All  night  till  light  is  born ; 

And  like  a  soul  belated. 

In  hell  and  heaven  unmated. 


^  the  wife  of  Pluto,  god  of  the  infernal  regions ; 
she  was  the  daughter  of  Ceres,  goddess  of  harvests 
^  Proserpine,  as  queen  of  Hades 


32 


642 


ALGERNON    CHARLES    SWINBURNE 


By  cloud  and  mist  abated 

Comes  out  of  darkness  morn.  40 

Though  one  were  strong  as  seven, 
He  too  with  death  shall  dwell, 

Nor  wake  with  wings  in  heaven. 
Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell ; 

Though  one  were  fair  as  roses, 

His  beauty  clouds  and  closes ; 

And  well  though  love  reposes, 

In  the  end  it  is  not  well.  48 


Pale,  beyond  porch  and  portal. 

Crowned  with  calm  leaves,  she  stands 
Who  gathers  all  things  mortal 
With  cold  immortal  hands ; 
Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 
Than  love's  who  fears  to  greet  her 
To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her 
From  many  times  and  lands. 


56 


She  waits  for  each  and  other, 
She  waits  for  aU  men  born ; 
Forgets  the  earth  her  mother, 
The  life  of  fruits  and  corn ; 
And  spring  and  seed  and  swaUow 
Take  wing  for  her  and  follow 
Where  summer  song  rings  hollow 
And  flowers  are  put  to  scorn. 

There  go  the  loves  that  wither. 

The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings ; 
And  all  dead  years  draw  thither, 

And  all  disastrous  things ; 
Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken. 
Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken. 
Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken, 
Red  str&,ys  of  ruined  springs. 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow, 

And  joy  was  never  sure  ; 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow ; 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure; 
And  love,  grown  faint  and  fretful, 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 

Weeps  that  no  loves  endure. 

From  too  much  love  of  living. 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free. 

We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 
Whatever  gods  may  be 

That  no  life  lives  forever  ; 

That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 

That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 


64 


72 


80 


Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 
Nor  any  change  of  light : 

Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken. 
Nor  any  sound  or  sight : 

Nor  wintry  leaves  nor  vernal, 

Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal ; 

Only  the  sleep  eternal 
In  an  eternal  night. 


ITYLUS 


96 


88 


Swallow,  my  sister,  O  sister  swallow. 

How  can  thine  heart  be  full  of  the  spring  ? 

A  thousand  summers  are  over  and  dead. 

What  hast  thou  found  in  the  spring  to  follow  ? 

What  hast  thou  found  in  thy  heart  to  sing  ? 

What  wilt  thou  do  when  the  summer  is 

shed  ?  6 

0  svv^allow,  sister,  O  fair  swift  swallow. 
Why  wilt  thou  fly  after  spring  to  the  south, 

The  soft  south  whither  thine  heart  is  set? 
Shall  not  the  grief  of  the  old  time  follow? 
Shall  not  the  song  thereof  cleave  to  thy 
,  mouth  ? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  ere  I  forget?  12 

Sister,  my  sister,  O  fleet  sweet  swallow, 
Thy    way    is    long    to   the  sun   and    the 
south ; 
But  I,  fulfill'd  of  my  heart's  desire, 
Shedding  my  song  upon  height,  upon  hollow 
From  tawny  body  and  sweet  small  mouth 
Feed  the  heart  of  the  night  with  fire.     18 

1  the  nightingale  all  spring  through, 

O  swallow,  sister,  O  changing  swallow, 
All  spring  through  till  the  spring  be  done, 
Clothed  with  the  light  of  the  night  on  the 
dew, 
Sing,  while  the  hours  and  the  wild  birds 
follow,  23 

Take  flight  and  follow  and  find  the  sun. 

Sister,  my  sister,  O  soft  light  swallow, 
Though  all  things  feast  in  the  spring's  guest- 
chamber, 
How  hast  thou  heart  to  be  glad  thereof 
yet  ?       ■ 
For  where  thou  fliest  I  shall  not  follow. 
Till  life  forget  and  death  remember. 

Till  thou  remember  and  I  forget.  -30 

^  cf.  note  on  Sidney's  The  Nightingale 


I 


I 


THE    SALT    OF    THE    EARTH 


643 


Swallow,  my  sister,  O  singing  swallow, 
I  know  not  how  thou  hast  heart  to  sing. 
Hast  thou  the  heart?   is  it  all  past  over? 
Thy  lord  the  summer  is  good  to  foUow, 
And  fair  the  feet  of  thy  lover  the  spring : 
But  what  wilt  thou  say  to  the  spring  thy 
lover  ?  36 

O  swallow,  sister,  0  fleeting  swallow, 
]My  heart  in  me  is  a  molten  ember 
And  over  my  head  the  waves  have  met. 
But  thou  wouldst  tarry  or  I  would  follow 
Could  I  forget  or  thou  remember, 
Couldst  thou  remember  and  I  forget.    42 

O  sweet  stray  sister,  O  shifting  swallow, 
The  heart's  division  divideth  us. 

Thy  heart  is  hght  as  a  leaf  of  a  tree ; 
But  mine  goes  forth  among  sea-gulfs  hollow 
To  the  place  of  the  slaying  of  Itylus, 
The  feast  of  Dauhs,  the  Thracian  sea.  48 

O  swaUou-,  sister,  O  rapid  swallow, 
I  pray  thee  sing  not  a  little  space. 
Are  not  the  roofs  and  the  lintels  wet  ? 
The  woven  web  ^  that  was  plain  to  follow. 
The  small  slain  body,  the  flower-like  face, 
Can  I  remember  if  thou  forget?  54 

O  sister,  sister,  thy  first -begotten  ! 

The  hands  that  cling  and  the  feet  that  follow, 
The  voice  of  the  child's  blood  crying  yet, 
Who  hath  remembered  me?  who  hath  forgotten? 
Thou  hast  forgotten,  O  summer  swaUow, 
But  the  world  shall  end  when  I  forget.  60 

ETUDE   REALISTE2 
I 

A  baby's  feet,  like  sea-shells  pink. 

Might  tempt,  should  heaven  see  meet, 

An  angel's  lips  to  kiss,  we  think, 

A  baby's  feet.  4 

Like  rose-hued  sea-flowers  toward  the  heat 

They  stretch  and  spread  and  wink 
Their  ten  soft  buds  that  part  and  meet.        7 

No  flower-bells  that  expand  and  shrink 

Gleam  half  so  heavenly  sweet 
As  shine  on  life's  untrodden  brink 

A  baby's  feet.  11 

^  containing    the    story    of    Procne's    wrongs 
^  study  from  life 


II 

A  baby's  hands,  like  rosebuds  furled   ' 

Whence  yet  no  leaf  expands. 
Ope  if  you  touch,  though  close  upcurled, 

A  baby's  hands.  4 

Then,  fast  as  warriors  grip  their  brands 

When  battle's  bolt  is  hurled, 
They   close,    clenched   hard   like   tightening 
bands.  7 

No  rosebuds  yet  by  dawn  impearled 
Match,  even  in  loveliest  lands, 

The  sweetest  flowers  in  aU  the  world  — 

A  baby's  hands.  11 


III 

A  baby's  eyes,  ere  speech  begin, 
Ere  lips  learn  words  or  sighs. 

Bless  all  things  bright  enough  to  win 
A  baby's  ej^es. 

Love,  while  the  sweet  thing  laughs  and  lies. 

And  sleep  flows  out  and  in, 
Sees  perfect  in  them  Paradise. 

Their  glance  might  cast  out  pain  and  sin, 
Their  speech  make  dumb  the  wise, 

By  mute  glad  godhead  felt  within 

A  baby's  eyes.  i 


THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 

If  childhood  were  not  in  the  world, 
But  only  men  and  women  grown ; 

No  baby-locks  in  tendrils  curled, 

No  baby-blossoms  blo-'.\'n ;  4 

Though  men  were  stronger,  women  fairer, 
And  nearer  all  delights  in  reach. 

And  verse  and  music  uttered  rarer 

Tones  of  more  godlike  speech ;  8 

Though  the  utmost  life  of  life's  best  hours 
Found,  as  it  cannot  now  find,  words ; 

Though  desert  sands  were  sweet  as  flowers. 
And  flowers  could  sing  like  birds,  1 2 

But  children  never  heard  them,  never 
They  felt  a  child's  foot  leap  and  run  ; 

This  were  a  drearier  star  than  ever 

Yet  looked  upon  the  sun.  16 


644 


GEORGE    MEREDITH 


I 


SONNETS 


AFTER   SUNSET 


ON    LAMB'S     SPECIMENS    OF    DRA- 
MATIC  POETS 

If  all  the  flowers  of  all  the  fields  on  earth 
By  wonder-working  summer  were  made  one, 
Its  fragrance  were  not  sweeter  in  the  sun, 
Its  treasure-house  of  leaves  were  not  more 

worth 
Than  those  wherefrom  thy  light  of  musing 
mirth 
Shone,  till  each  leaf  whereon  thy  pen  would 

run 
Breathed  life,  and  all  its  breath  was  benison. 
Beloved  beyond  all  names  of  English  birth, 
More  dear  than  mightier  memories;   gentlest 

name 
That   ever   clothed   itself   with   flower-sweet 

fame, 
Or  linked  itself  with  loftiest  names  of  old     1 1 
By  right  and  might  of  loving ;   I,  that  am 
Less  than  the  least  of  those  within  thy  fold, 
Give  only  thanks  for  them  to  thee,  Charles 
Lamb. 


HOPE   AND   FEAR 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  dawn's  aerial  cope. 
With    eyes   enkindled    as    the    sun's   own 

sphere, 
Hope  from  the  front  of  youth  in  godlike 
cheer 
Looks  God  ward,  past  the  shades  where  blind 

men  grope 
Round  the  dark  door  that  prayers  nor  dreams 
can  ope, 
And  makes  for  joy  the  very  darkness  dear 
That  gives  her  wide  wings  play ;  nor  dreams 
that  fear 
At  noon  may  rise  and  pierce  the  heart  of 

hope. 
Then,  when  the  soul  leaves  off  to  dream  and 

yearn. 

May  truth  first  purge  her  eyesight  to  discern 

What   once  being   known   leaves  time  no 

power  to  appal ;  •  1 1 

Till   youth   at    last,   ere   yet   youth  be  not, 

learn 

The  kind  wise  word  that  falls  from  years 

that  fall  — 
"Hope  thou  not  much,  and  fear  thou  not 
at  aU." 


If  light  of  life  outlive  the  set  of  sun 

That  men  call  death  and  end  of  all  things, 

then 
How  should  not  that  which  life  held  best  for 
men 
And  proved  most  precious,  though  it  seem 

undone 
By  force  of  death  and  woful  victory  won, 
Be  first  and  surest  of  revival,  when 
Death  shall  bow  down  to  life  arisen  again? 
So  shall  the  soul  seen  be  the  self-same  one 
That  looked  and  spake  with  even  such  lips 

and  eyes 
As  love  shall  doubt  not  then  to  recognise,  lo 
And  all  bright  thoughts  and  smiles  of  all 
time  past  - 

Revive,  transfigured,  but  in  spirit  and  sense     ■ 
None  other  than  we  knew,  for  evidence  ■ 

That  love's  last  mortal  word  was  not  his 
last. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH   (1828-1909) 

LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY 

Under  yonder  beech-tree  single  on  the  green- 
sward. 
Couch 'd  with  her  arms  behind  her  golden 
head. 
Knees  and  tresses  folded  to  slip  and  ripple  idly, 

Lies  my  young  love  sleeping  in  the  shade. 
Had  I  the  heart  to  slide  an  arm  beneath  her, 
Press  her  parting  lips  as  her  waist  I  gather 
slow. 
Waking  in  amazement  she  could  not  but  em- 
brace me : 
Then  would  she  hold  me  and  never  let  me 
go?  8 


Shy  as  the  squirrel  and  wayward  as  the  swal- 
low, 
Swift  as  the  swallow  along  the  river's  light 
Circleting  the  surface  to  meet  his  mirror'd 
winglets, 
Fleeter  she  seems  in  her  stay  than  in  her 
flight. 
Shy  as  the  squirrel  that  leaps  among  the  pine- 
tops. 
Wayward  as  the  swallow  overhead  at  set  of 


LOVE    IN   THE    VALLEY 


645 


She  whom  I  love  is  hard  to  catch  and  conquer, 

Hard,  but  oh  the  glory  of  the  winning  were 

she  won  !  1 6 

When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  laugh- 
ing mirror, 
Tying  up  her  laces,  looping  up  her  hair, 
Often  she  thinks,  were  this  wild  thing  wedded. 
More  love  should  I  have,  and  much  less  care. 
When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  Hghted 
mirror, 
Loosening   her   laces,    combing   down   her 
curls, 
Often  she  thinks,  were  this  wild  thing  wedded, 
I  should  miss  but  one  for  many  boys  and 
girls.  24 


Heartless  she  is  as  the  shadow  in  the  meadows 
Flying  to  the  hills  on  a  blue  and  breezy  noon. 
No,  she  is  athirst  and  drinking  up  her  wonder  : 
Earth  to  her  is  young  as  the  slip  of  the  new 
moon. 
Deals  she  an  unkindness,  'tis  but  her  rapid 
measure, 
Even  as  in  a  dance ;  and  her  smile  can  heal 
no  less : 
Like  the  swinging  May-cloud  that  pelts  the 
flowers  with  hailstones 
Off  a  sunny  border,  she  was  made  to  bruise 
and  bless.  32 

Lovely  are  the  curves  of  the  white  owl  sweep- 
ing 
Wavy  in  the  dusk  lit  by  one  large  star. 
Lone  on  the  fir-branch,  his  rattle- note  un- 
varied, 
Brooding  o'er  the  gloom,  spins  the  brown 
evejar.^ 
Darker  grows  the  valley,  more  and  more  for- 
getting-. 
So  were  it  with  me  if  forgetting  could  be 
will'd. 
Tell  the  grassy  hollow  that  holds  the  bubbling 
well-spring, 
Tell  it  to  forget  the  source  that  keeps  it 
fill'd.  40 


Stepping  down  the  hiU  with  her  fair  com- 
panions, 
Arm  in  arm,  all  against  the  raying  West, 

^  a  bird  similar  to  the  whippoorwill 


Boldly   she   sings,    to   the   merry   tune   she 
marches, 
Brave  is  her  shape,  and  sweeter  unpossess'd. 
Sweeter,  for  she  is  what  my  heart  first  awaking 
Whisper'd  the  world  was ;   morning  light  is 
she. 
Love   that   so   desires   would   fain  keep   her 
changeless ; 
Fain  would  fling  the  net,  and  fain  have  her 
free.  _    48 

Happy  happy  time,  when  the  white.star  hovers 
Low  over  dim  fields  fresh  with  bloomy  dew, 
Near  the  face  of  dawn,  that  draws  athwart  the 
darkness, 
Threading  it  with  colour,  like  yewberries 
the  yew. 
Thicker  crowd  the  shades  as  the  grave  East 
deepens 
Glowing,  and  with  crimson  a  long  cloud 
swells. 
Maiden  still  the  morn  is ;   and  strange  she  is, 
and  secret ; 
Strange  her  eyes ;  her  cheeks  are  cold  as  cold 
sea-sheUs.  56 


Sunrays,  leaning  on  our  southern  hills  and 
lighting 
Wild  cloud-mountains  that  drag  the  hills 
along. 
Oft  ends  the  day  of  your  shifting  brilliant 
laughter 
Chill  as  a  dull  face  frowning  on  a  song. 
Ay,    but    shows    the*  South-West    a    ripple- 
feather'd  bosom 
Blown  to  silver  while  the  clouds  are  shaken 
and  ascend 
Scaling  the  mid-heavens  as  they  stream,  there 
comes  a  sunset  63 

Rich,  deep  like  love  in  beauty  without  end. 

When  at  dawn  she  sighs,  and  like  an  infant 
to  the  window 
Turns  grave   eyes  craving  light,   released 
from  dreams, 
Beautiful  she  looks,  like  a  white  water-lily 

Bursting  out  of  bud  in  havens  of  the  streams. 
When  from  bed  she  rises  clothed  from  neck  to 
ankle 
In  her  long  nightgown  sweet  as  boughs  of 
May, 
Beautiful  she  looks,  like  a  tall  garden-lily  71 
Pure  from  the  night,  and  splendid  for  the  day. 


646 


GEORGE    MEREDITH 


Ivlother  of  the  dews,  dark  eye-lash'd  twilight,      You,  my  wild  one,  you  tell  of  honied  field-rose. 


Low-lidded  twilight,  o'er  the  valley's  brim. 
Rounding    on    thy    breast    sings    the     dew- 
delighted  skylark. 
Clear  as  though  the  dew-drops  had  their 
voice  in  him, 
Hidden  where  the  rose-flush  drinlvs  the  rayless 
planet, 
Fountaui-full  he  pours  the  spraying  foun- 
taua-showers. 
Let  me  hear  her  laughter,  I  would  have  her 
ever    . 
Cool  as  dew  in  twilight,  the  lark  above  the 
flowers.  80 

All  the  girls  are  out  with  their  baskets  for  the 
primrose ; 


Violet,  blushing  eglantine  in  life ;   and  even 
as  they. 
They  by  the  wayside  are  earnest  of  your  good- 
ness, 
You  are  of  life's,  on  the  banks  that  line  the 
way.  104 


Peering  at  her  chamber  the  white  crowns  the 
red  rose. 
Jasmine  winds  the  porch  with  stars  two  and 
three. 
Parted  is  the  window  ;  she  sleeps  ;   the  starry 
jasmine 
Breathes    a    falling    breath    that    carries 
thoughts  of  me. 


Up  lanes,   woods  through,   they  troop  in      Sweeter  unpossess'd,  have  I  said  of  her  my 


joyful  bands. 
My  sweet  leads :  she  knows  not  why,  but  now 
she  loiters. 


sweetest  ? 

Not  wliile  she  sleeps :   while  she  sleeps  the 
jasmine  breathes. 


Eyes  the  bent  anemones,   and  hangs  her  Luring  her  to  love;    she  sleeps;    the  starry 
hands.  jasmine 
Such  a  look  will  tell  that  the  violets  are  peep-  Bears  me  to  her  pillow  under  white  rose- 
ing,  wreaths.                                                    112 
Coming  the  rose  :  and  unaware  a  cry 
Springs  in  her  bosom  for  odours  and  for  colour.  Yellow   with   birdfoot-trefoil   are   the   grass- 
Covert  and  the  nightingale ;  she  knows  not  glades  ; 
why.                                                           88  Yellow  with  cinquefoil  of  the  dew-grey  leaf ; 

Yellow  with  stonecrop ;  the  moss-mounds  are 
yellow ; 
Kerchief'd  head  and  chin  she  darts  between  Blue-neck'd  the  wheat  sways,  yellowing  to 
her  tulips,  the  sheaf. 
Streaming  like   a  Avijlow  grey  in   arrowy  Green-yellow,  bursts  from  the  copse  the  laugh- 
rain  :  ing  yaffle  ;  ^ 
Some  bend  beaten  cheek  to  gravel,  and  their  Sharp  as-  a  sickle  is  the  edge  of  shade  and 
angel  shine : 
She  will  be;    she  lifts  them,  and  on  she  Earth   in   her   heart   laughs   looking  at    the 
speeds  again.  heavens. 
Black  the  driving  raincloud  breasts  the  iron  Thinking  of  the  harvest :   I  look  and  think 
gateway :  of  mine.                                                    1 20 
She  is  forth  to  cheer  a  neighbour  lacking 
mirth. 
So  when  sky  and  grass  met  rolling  dumb  for  THs    I    may    know :    her   dressing   and    un- 
thunder                                                      95  dressing 
Saw  I  once  a  white  dove,  sole  light  of  earth.  Such  a  change  of  light  shows  as  when  the 

skies  in  sport 

Prim  little  scholars   are  the  flowers  of  her  Shift  from  cloud  to  moonlight ;  or  edging  over 


garden, 
Train'd  to  stand  in  row^,  and  asking  if  they 
please. 
I  might  love  them  well  but  for  loving  more  the 
wild  ones : 
O  my  wild  ones!    they  tell  me  more  than 
these. 


thunder 
Slips  a  ray  of  sun ;   or  sweeping  into  port 
White  sails  furl ;   or  on  the  ocean  borders 
White  sails  lean  along  the  waves   leaping 

green. 

^  the  green  woodpecker 


LOVE    IN   THE    VALLEY 


647 


Visions  of  her  shower  before  me,  but    from 
eyesight 
Guarded  she  would  be  Hke  the  sun  were  she 
seen.  1 28 

Front  door  and  back  of  the  moss'd  old  farm- 
house 
Open  with  the  morn,  and  in  a  breezy  link 
Freshly  sparkles  garden   to   stripe-shadow'd 
orchard. 
Green  across  a  riU  where  on  sand  the  min- 
nows wink. 
Busy  in  the  grass  the  early  sun  of  summer 
Swarms,  and  the  blackbird's  mellow  fluting 
notes 
Call  my  darling  up  with  round  and  roguish 
challenge : 
Quaintest,  richest  carol  of  all  the  singing 
throats !  136 


Cool  was  the  woodside ;    cool  as  her  white 
dairy 
Keeping  sweet  the  cream-pan ;    and  there 
the  boys  from  school, 
Cricketing  below,  rush'd  brown  and  red  with 
sunshine ; 
O  the  dark  translucence  of  the  deep-eyed 
cool ! 
Spying  from  the  farm,  herself  she  fetch'd  a 
pitcher 
Full  of  milk,  and  tilted  for  each  in  turn  the 
beak. 
Then  a  little  fellow,  mouth  up  and  on  tiptoe. 
Said,  "I  will  kiss  you":    she  laugh'd  and 
lean'd  her  cheek.  144 

Doves  of  the  iir-wood  walling  high  our  red  roof 
Through    the    long    noon    coo,    crooning 
through  the  coo. 
Loose  droop  the  leaves,  and  do\vn  the  sleepy 
roadway 
Sometimes  pipes  a  chaflinch ;   loose  droops 
the  blue. 
Cows  flap  a  slow  tail  knee-deep  in  the  river. 
Breathless,  given  up  to  sun  and  gnat  and  fly. 
Nowhere  is  she  seen  ;  and  if  I  see  her  nowhere. 
Lightning  may  come,   straight  rains   and 
tiger  sky.  152 


O   the   golden   sheaf,   the   rustling   treasure- 
armful  ! 
O  the  nutbrown  tresses  nodding  interlaced  ! 
O  the  treasure-tresses  one  another  over 


Nodding !     O  the  girdle  slack  about   the 
waist ! 
Slain  are  the  poppies  that  shot  their  random 
scarlet 
Quick  amid  the  wheat-ears :    wound  about 
the  waist, 
Gather'd,  see  these  brides  of  Earth  one  blush 
of  ripeness  !  1 59 

O  the  nutbrown  tresses  nodding  interlaced  ! 

Large  and  smoky  red  the  sun's  cold  disk  drops, 
Clipp'd  by  naked  hills,  on  violet  shaded 
snow: 
Eastward  large  and  still  lights  up  a  bower  of 
moonrise, 
\Vhence  at  her  leisure  steps  the  moon  aglow. 
Nightlong  on  black  print -branches  our  beech- 
tree 
Gazes  in  this  whiteness  :  nightlong  could  I. 
Here  may  Ufe  on  death  or  death  on  life  be 
painted. 
Let  me  clasp  her  soul  to  know  she  cannot 
die !  168 


Gossips  count  her  faults  ;  they  scour  a  narrow 
chamber 
AVhere  there  is  no  window,  read  not  heaven 
or  her. 
"^^^len  she  was   a  tiny,"  one  aged  woman 
quavers. 
Plucks  at  my  heart  and  leads  me  by  the  ear. 
Faults  she  had  once  as  she  learn'd  to  run  and 
tmnbled : 
Faults   of   feature   some   see,   beauty   not 
complete. 
Yet,  good  gossips,  beauty  that  makes  holy 
Earth  and  air,  may  have  faults  from  head 
to  feet.  176 

Hither  she  comes ;    she  comes  to  me ;    she 
Hngers, 
Deepens  her  brown  eyebrows,  while  in  new 
surprise 
High  rise  the  lashes  in  wonder  of  a  stranger ; 

Yet  am  I  the  light  and  living  of  her  eyes. 
Something  friends  have  told  her  fills  her  heart 
to  brimming. 
Nets  her  in  her  blushes,  and  wounds  her, 
and  tames.  — 
Sure  of  her  haven,  O  like  a  dove  alighting. 
Arms  up,  she  dropp'd :  our  souls  were  in  our 
names.  1 84 


648 


GEORGE    MEREDITH 


Soon  will  she  lie  like  a  white  frost  sunrise. 
Yellow  oats  and  brown  wheat,  barley  pale 
as  rye. 
Long  since  your  sheaves  have  yielded  to  the 
thresher, 
Felt  the  girdle  loosen'd,  seen  the  tresses  fly. 
Soon  will  she  lie  like  a  blood-red  sunset. 

Swift    with    the    to-morrow,    green-wing'd 

Spring ! 

Sing  from  the  South-west,  bring  her  back  the 

truants. 

Nightingale  and  swallow,  song  and  dipping 

wing.  192 

Soft  new  beech-leaves,  up  to  beamy  April 
Spreading    bough    on    bough    a    primrose 
mountain,  you 
Lucid  in  the  moon,  raise  lilies  to  the  skyfields, 
Youngest  green  transfused  in  silver  shining 
through ; 
Fairer   than   the   lily,   than   the   wild   white 
cherry : 
Fair  as  in  image  my  seraph  love  appears 
Borne  to  me  by  dreams  when  dawn  is  at  my 
eye-lids:  199 

Fair  as  in  the  flesh  she  swims  to  me  on  tears. 


Could  I  find  a  place  to  be  alone  with  heaven, 
I  would  speak  my  heart  out :   heaven  is  my 
need. 
Every  woodland  tree  is  flushing  like  the  dog- 
wood, 
Flashing  like  the  whitebeam,^  swaying  like 
the  reed. 
Flushing  like  the  dogwood  crimson  in  October ; 
Streaming    like    the    flag-reed    South-west 
blown ; 
Flashing  as  in  gusts  the  sudden-lighted  white- 
beam  :  207 
All  seem  to  know  what  is  for  heaven  alone. 

JUGGLING  JERRY 

Pitch  here  the  tent,  while  the  old  horse  grazes : 

By  the  old  hedge-side  we'll  halt  a  stage. 
It's  nigh  my  last  above  the  daisies : 

My  next  leaf'U  be  man's  blank  page. 
Yes,  my  old  girl!  and  it's  no  use  crying: 

Juggler,  constable,  king,  must  bow. 
One  that  outjuggles  all's  been  spying 

Long  to  have  me,  and  he  has  me  now.        8 

^  a  European  tree  with  white  flowers  and  orange- 
red  fruits 


We've  travelled  times  to  this  old  common : 

Often  we've  hung  our  pots  in  the  gorse. 
We've  had  a  stirring  life,  old  woman ! 

You,  and  I,  and  the  old  grey  horse. 
Races,  and  fairs,  and  royal  occasions, 

Found  us  coming  to  their  call : 
Now  they'll  miss  us  at  our  stations: 

There's  a  Juggler  outjuggles  all !  16 

Up  goes  the  lark,  as  if  all  were  jolly ! 

Over  the  duck-pond  the  willow  shakes. 
Easy  to  think  that  grieving's  folly, 

When  the  hand's  firm  as  driven  stakes ! 
Ay,    when    we're    strong,    and    braced,    and 
manful, 

Life's  a  sweet  fiddle :  but  we're  a  batch 
Born  to  become  the  Great  Juggler's  han'ful : 

Balls  he  shies  up,  and  is  safe  to  catch.         24 

Here's  where  the  lads  of  the  village  cricket : 

I  was  a  lad  not  wide  from  here : 
Couldn't    I    whip    off    the   bale^    from   the 
wicket  ? 

Like  an  old  world  those  days  appear  ! 
Donkey,  sheep,  geese  and  thatched  ale-house 
—  I  know  them ! 

They  are  old  friends  of  my  halts,  and  seem. 
Somehow,  as  if  kind  thanks  I  owe  them  :   3 1 

Juggling  don't  hinder  the  heart's  esteem. 

Juggling's  no  sin,  for  we  must  have  victual : 

Nature  allows  us  to  bait  for  the  fool. 
Holding  one's  own  makes  us  juggle  no  little ; 

But,  to  increase  it,  hard  juggling's  the  rule. 
You  that  are  sneering  at  my  profession. 

Haven't  you  juggled  a  vast  amovmt  ?        38 
There's  the  Prime  Minister,  in  one  Session, 

Juggles  more  games  than  my  sins'll  count. 

I've  murdered  insects  with  mock  thunder : 

Conscience,  for  that,  in  men  don't  quail. 
I've  made  bread  from  the  bump  of  wonder : 

That's  my  business,  and  there's  my  tale. 
Fashion  and  rank  all  praised  the  professor : 

Ay !  and  I've  had  my  smile  from  the  Queen  : 
Bravo,  Jerry  !  she  meant :   God  bless  her  ! 

Ain't  this  a  sermon  on  that  scene  ?  48 

I've  studied  men  from  my  topsy-turvy 
Close,  and,  I  reckon,  rather  true. 

Some  are  fine  fellows  :   some,  right  scurvy  : 
Most,  a  dash  between  the  two. 

^  the  cross-piece  on  a  cricket  wicket;    Jerry 
means  he  was  a  good  bowler 


BELLEROPHON 


649 


But  it's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  makes  me 

Think  more  kindly  of  the  race  : 
And  it's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  shakes  me 

When  the  Great  Juggler  I  must  face.        s9 

We  two  were  married,  due  and  legal : 

Honest  we've  lived  since  -ue've  been  one. 
Lord  !  I  could  then  jump  like  an  eagle  : 

You  danced  bright  as  a  bit  o'  the  sun. 
Birds  in  a  May-bush  we  were !  right  merry ! 

All  night  we  kiss'd,  we  juggled  all  day. 
Joy  was  the  heart  of  Juggling  Jerry !  63 

Now  from  his  old  girl  he's  juggled  away. 

It's  past  parsons  to  console  us : 

No,  nor  no  doctor  fetch  for  me : 
I  can  die  without  my  bolus ; 

Two  of  a  trade,  lass,  never  agree ! 
Parson  and  Doctor  !  —  don't  they  love  rarely, 

Fighting  the  devil  in  other  men's  fields  ! 
Stand  up  yourself  and  match  him  fairly : 

Then  see  how  the  rascal  yields  !  7  2 

I,  lass,  have  lived  no  gipsy,  flaunting 

Finery  while  his  poor  helpmate  grubs : 
Coin  I've  stored,  and  you  won't  be  wanting : 

You  sha'n't  beg  from  the  troughs  and  tubs. 
Nobly   you've   stuck   to   me,   though   in   his 
kitchen 

Many  a  Marquis  would  hail  you  Cook ! 
Palaces  you  could  have  ruled  and  grown  rich 
in. 

But  your  old  Jerry  you  never  forsook.      80 

Hand  up  the  chirper  !  ^  ripe  ale  winks  in  it ; 

Let's  have  comfort  and  be  at  peace. 
Once  a  stout  draught  made  me  light  as  a  linnet. 

Cheer  up !  the  Lord  must  have  his  lease. 
May  be  —  for  none  see  in  that  black  hollow  — 

It's  just  a  place  where  we're  held  in  pawn, 
And,  when  the  Great  Juggler   makes   as   to 
swallow. 

It's  just   the   sword-trick  —  I   ain't   quite 
gone.  88 

Yonder  came  smells  of  the  gorse,  so  nutty, 

Gold-like  and  warm  :  it's  the  prime  of  May. 
Better  than  mortar,  brick,  and  putty, 

Is  God's  house  on  a  blowing  day. 
Lean  me  more  up  the  mound ;  now  I  feel  it : 

All  the  old  heath-smells  !     Ain't  it  strange  ? 
There's  the  world  laughing,  as  if  to  conceal  it ! 

But  He's  by  us,  juggling  the  change.         96 

^  cheering  cup 


I  mind  it  well,  by  the  sea-beach  lying, 

Once  —  it's  long  gone  —  when  two  gulls  we 
beheld. 
Which,  as  the  moon  got  up,  were  flying 

Down  a  big  wave  that  sparked  and  swelled. 
Crack  went  a  gun  :   one  feU  :   the  second 

Wheeled  round  him  twice,  and  was  off  for 

new  luck:  102 

There  in  the  dark  her  white  wing  beckon 'd  :  — ■ 

Drop  me  a  kiss  —  I'm  the  bird  dead-struck ! 


BELLEROPHON! 

Maimed,  beggared,  grey;    seeking  an  alms; 

with  nod 
Of  palsy  doing  task  of  thanks  for  bread ; 

Upon  the  stature  of  a  god. 
He  whom  the  Gods  have  struck  bends  low  his 
head. 

Weak  words  he  has,  that  slip  the  nerveless 

tongue 
Deformed,  like  his  great  frame :  a  broken  arc : 

Once  radiant  as  the  javelin  flung 
Right  at  the  centre  breastplate  of  his  mark. 

Oft  pausing  on  his  white-eyed  inward  look, 
Some  undermountain  narrative  he  tells,        10 

As  gapped  by  Lykian  '^  heat  the  brook 
Cut  from  the  source  that  in  the  upland  swells. 

The  cottagers  who  dole  him  fruit  and  crust. 
With  patient  inattention  hear  him  prate : 

And  comes  the  snow,  and  comes  the  dust, 
Comes  the  old  wanderer,  more  bent  of  late. 

A  crazy  beggar  grateful  for  a  meal 
Has  ever  of  himself  a  world  to  say. 

For  them  he  is  an  ancient  wheel  19 

Spinning  a  knotted  thread  the  livelong  day. 

He  cannot,  nor  do  they,  the  tale  connect ; 
For  never  singer  in  the  land  has  been 

Who  him  for  theme  did  not  reject : 
Spurned  of  the  hoof  that  sprang  the  Hippo- 
crene.^ 

1  In  his  youth  he  bridled  and  rode  the  winged 
horse  Pegasus  and  slew  the  monster  Chimtera. 
He  was  reported  to  have  been  killed  in  attempting 
to  fly  to  heaven.  -  Lykia  (or  Lycia),  a  moun- 
tainous region  in  Asia  Minor  where  Bellerophon 
killed  Chimsera  ^  the  fountain  struck  out  on 
Mt.  Helicon  by  the  hoof  of  Pegasus 


650 


CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI 


Albeit  a  theme  of  flame  to  bring  them  straight 
The   snorting   white-winged   brother   of   the 
wave/ 
Tfiey  hear  him  as  a  thing  by  fate 
Cursed  in  unholy  babble  to  his  grave. 

As  men  that  spied  the  wings,  that  heard  the 

snort, 
Their  sires  have  told ;  and  of  a  martial  prince 
Bestriding  him;   and  old  report  31 

Speaks  of  a  monster  slain  by  one  long  since. 

There  is  that  story  of  the  golden  bit 

By  Goddess  2  given  to  tame  the  lightning  steed : 

A  mortal  who  could  mount,  and  sit 
Flying,  and  up  Olympus  midway  speed. 

He  rose  like  the  loosed  fountain's  utmost  leap  ; 

He  played  the  star  at  span  of  heaven  right  o'er 

Men's  heads ;   they  saw  the  snowy  steep. 

Saw  the  winged  shoulders :   him  they  saw  not 

more.  40 

He  fell :  and  says  the  shattered  man,  "I  fell"  : 
And  sweeps  an  arm  the  height  an  eagle  wins ; 

And  in  his  breast  a  mouthless  well 
Heaves  the  worn  patches  of  his  coat  of  skins. 

Lo,  this  is  he  in  whom  the  surgent  springs 
Of  recollections  richer  than  our  skies 

To  feed  the  flow  of  tuneful  strings, 
Show  but  a  pool  of  scum  for  shooting  flies.  48 

LUCIFER  IN   STARLIGHT 

On  a  starred  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose. 
Tired  of  his  dark  dominion,  swung  the  fiend 
Above  the  rolling  ball  in  cloud  part  screened, 
Where  sinners'  hugged  their  spectre  of  repose. 
Poor  prey  "to  his  hot  fit  of  pride  were  those. 
And  now  upon  his  western  wing  he  leaned. 
Now  his  huge  bulk  o'er  Afric's  sands  careened, 
Now  the  black  planet  shadowed  Arctic  snows. 
Soaring  through  wider  zones  that  pricked  his 

scars 
With  memory  of  the  old  revolt  from  Awe,      10 
He  reached  a  middle  height,  and  at  the  stars, 
Which  are  the  brain  of  heaven,  he  looked,  and 

sank. 
Around  the  ancient  track  marched,  rank  on 

rank. 
The  array  of  unalterable  law. 

'  The  horse  was  a  gift  to  mortals  from  Neptune, 
god  of  the  sea.     ^  Minerva 


ASK,  IS  LOVE  DIVINE 

Ask,  is  Love  divine, 

Voices  all  are.  Ay. 
Questioja  for  the  sign. 

There's  a  common  sigh. 

Would  we  through  our  years 

Love  forego. 
Quit  of  scars  and  tears? 

Ah,  but  no,  no,  no ! 

SONG  OF   THE   SONGLESS 

They  have  no  song,  the  sedges  dry, 

And  still  they  sing. 

It  is  within  my  breast  they  sing, 

As  I  pass  by. 

Within  my  breast  they  touch  a  spring, 

They  wake  a  sigh. 

There  is  but  sound  of  sedges  dry ; 

In  me  they  sing. 

DIRGE  IN  WOODS 

A  wind  sways  the  pines, 

And  belov\^ 
Not  a  breath  of  v/ild  air ; 
Still  as  the  mosses  that  glow 
On  the  flooring  and  over  the  lines 
Of  the  roots  here  and  there. 
The  pine-tree  drops  its  dead ; 
They  are  quiet  as  under  the  sea. 
Overhead,  overhead 
Rushes  life  in  a  race. 
As  the  clouds  the  clouds  chase : 

And  we  go. 
And  we  drop  like  the  fruits  of  the  tree, 

Even  we. 

Even  so. 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 

(1830-1894) 

THE   BRIDE-SONG 
From  THE  PRINCE'S  PROGRESS 

Too  late  for  love,  too  late  for  joy ! 

Too  late  !  too  late  ! 
You  loitered  on  the  road  too  long. 

You  trifled  at  the  gate  : 
The  enchanted  dove  upon  her  branch 

Died  without  a  mate ; 


THE    FIRST    DAY 


6^1 


The  enchanted  princess  in  her  tower 

Slept,  died,  behind  the  grate; 
Her  heart  was  starving  all  this  while 

You  made  it  wait.  lo 

Ten  years  ago,  five  years  ago, 

One  year  ago,  — 
Even  then  you  had  arrived  in  time, 

Though  somewhat  slow ; 
Then  you  had  knowTi  her  living  face. 

Which  now  you  cannot  know  : 
The  frozen  fountain  would  have  leaped, 

The  buds  gone  on  to  blow. 
The  warm  south  wind  would  have  awaked 

To  melt  the  snow.  20 

Is  she  fair  now  as  she  Ues? 

Once  she  was  fair ; 
jSIeet  queen  for  any  kingly  king. 

With  gold-dust  on  her  hair. 
Now  these  are  poppies  in  her  locks, 

White  poppies  she  must  wear  ; 
Must  wear  a  veil  to  shroud  her  face 

And  the  want  graven  there : 
Or  is  the  hunger  fed  at  length, 

Cast  off  the  care?  30 

We  never  saw  her  with  a  smile 

Or  with  a  frown ; 
Her  bed  seemed  never  soft  to  her, 

Though  tossed  of  down  ; 
She  little  heeded  what  she  wore, 

Kirtle,  or  wreath,  or  gown  ; 
We  think  her  white  brows  often  ached 

Beneath  her  crown, 
Till  silvery  hairs  showed  in  her  locks 

That  used  to  be  so  brown.  40 

We  never  heard  her  speak  in  haste : 

Her  tones  were  sweet, 
And  modulated  just  so  much 

As  it  was  meet : 
Her  heart  sat  silent  through  the  noise 

And  concourse  of  the  street. 
There  was  no  hurry  in  her  hands, 

No  hurry  in  her  feet ; 
There  was  no  bliss  drew  nigh  to  her, 

That  she  might  run  to  greet.  50 

You  should  have  wept  her  yesterday. 

Wasting  upon  her  bed  : 
But  wherefore  should  you  weep  to-day 

That  she  is  dead  ? 
Lo,  we  who  love  weep  not  to-day, 

But  crown  her  royal  head. 


Let  be  these  poppies  that  we  strew, 

Your  roses  are  too  red  : 
Let  be  these  poppies,  not  for  you 

Cut  down  and  spread.  60 

A  BIRTHDAY 

^ly  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird 

Whose  nest  is  in  a  watered  shoot ; 
Aly  heart  is  like  an  apple-tree 

Whose  boughs  are  bent  with  thick-set  fruit ; 
ISIy  heart  is  like  a  rainbow  shell 

That  paddles  in  a  halcyon  sea ; 
My  heart  is  gladder  than  aU  these 

Because  my  love  is  come  to  me.  8 


Raise  me  a  dais  of  silk  and  down ; 

Hang  it  with  vair  ^  and  purple  dyes ; 
Carve  it  in  doves  and  pomegranates, 

And  peacocks  with  a  hundred  eyes ; 
Work  it  in  gold  and  silver  grapes. 

In  leaves  and  silver  fleur-de-lys ; 
Because  the  birthday  of  my  life 

Is  come,  my  love  is  come  to  me. 


16 


SONG 

WTien  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress-tree : 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet ; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember. 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows; 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain ; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain : 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set. 
Haply  I  jnay  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget. 

THE   FIRST  DAY     . 


I  wish  I  could  remember  that  first  day, 
First   hour,   first  moment   of   your   meeting 
me. 
If  bright  or  dim  the  season,  it  might  be 

^  a  fur  much  esteemed  in  ancient  times 


16 


652 


JAMES   THOMSON 


Summer  or  Winter  for  aught  I  can  say ; 

So  unrecorded  did  it  slip  away, 

So  blind  was  I  to  see  and  to  foresee, 
So  dull  to  mark  the  budding  of  my  tree 

That  would  not  blossom  yet    for   many  a 
May. 

If  only  I  could  recollect  it,  such 

A  day  of  days !     I  let  it  feome  and  go        10 
As  traceless  as  a  thaw  of  bygone  snow ; 

It  seemed  to  mean  so  little,  meant  so  much  ; 

If  only  now  I  could  recall  that  touch, 

First  touch  of  hand  in  hand  —  Did  one  but 
know! 

REMEMBER 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away. 
Gone  far  away  into  the  silent  land ; 
When  you  can  no  more  hold  me  by  the 
hand. 

Nor  I  half  turn  to  go,  yet  turning  stay. 

Remember  me  when  no  more,  day  by  day. 
You  tell  me  of  our  future  that  you  planned : 
Only  remember  me ;   you  understand 

It  will  be  late  to  counsel  then  or  pray. 

Yet  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a  while  9 

And  afterwards  remember,  do  not  grieve : 
For  if  the  darkness  and  corruption  leave 
A  vestige  of  the  thoughts  that  once  I  had, 

Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and  smile 
Than  that  you  should  remember  and  be  sad. 


REST 

0  Earth,  lie  heavily  upon  her  eyes; 

Seal  her   sweet   eyes  weary   of   watching. 

Earth ; 
Lie  close  around  her ;    leave  no  room  for 
mirth 
With  its  harsh  laughter,  nor    for  sound   of 

sighs. 
She  hath  no  questions,  she  hath  no  replies, 
Hushed  in  and  curtained  with  a  blessed 

dearth  ' 

Of  all  that  irked  her  from  the  hour  of  birth  ; 
With  stillness  that  is  almost  Paradise. 
Darkness  more  clear  than  noonday  holdeth 
her, 
Silence  more  musical  than  any  song ;         10 
Even  her  very  heart  has  ceased  to  stir : 
Until  the  morning  of  Eternity 
Her  rest  shall  not  begin  nor  end,  but  be  ; 
And  when  she  wakes  she  will  not  think  it 
long. 


THE  LOWEST  PLACE 

Give  me  the  lowest  place :  not  that  I  dare 
Ask  for  that  lowest  place,  but  Thou  hast 
died 

That  I  might  live  and  share 

Thy  glory  by  Thy  side.  4 

Give  me  the  lowest  place :  or  if  for  me 

That  lowest  place  too  high,  make  one  more 
low 

Where  I  may  sit  and  see 
My  God  and  love  Thee  so.  8 

JAMES   THOMSON    (1834-1882) 
From  THE  CITY  OF  DREADFUL  NIGHT     '^ 

As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was, 
As  I  came  through  the  desert :   All  was  black, 
In  heaven  no  single  star,  on  earth  no  track ; 
A  brooding  hush  without  a  stir  or  note. 
The  air  so  thick  it  clotted  in  my  throat ; 
And  thus  for  hours ;  then  some  enormous  things 
Swooped  past  with  savage  cries  and  clanking 
wings : 

But  I  strode  on  austere ; 

No  hope  could  have  no  fear.     176 

As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was. 
As  I  came  through  the  desert :   Eyes  of  fire 
Glared  at  me  throbbing  with  a  starved  desire  ; 
The  hoarse  and  heavy  and  carnivorous  breath 
Was  hot  upon  me  from  deep  jaws  of  death  ; 
Sharp  claws,  swift  talons,  fleshless  fingers  cold 
Plucked  at  me  from  the  bushes,  tried  to  hold : 

But  I  strode  on  austere  ; 

No  hope  could  have  no  ifear.     185 

As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was. 
As  I  came  through  the  desert :  Lo  you,  there, 
That  hillock  burning  with  a  brazen  glare ; 
Those  myriad  dusky  flames  with  points  a-glow 
Which  writhed  and  hissed  and  darted  to  and 

fro; 
A  Sabbath  of  the  Serpents,  heaped  pell-mell 
For  Devil's  roll-call  and  some  fete  of  Hell : 

Yet  I  strode  on  austere  ; 

No  hope  could  have  no  fear.     194 

As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was. 
As  I  came  through  the  desert :   Meteors  ran 
And  crossed  their  javelins  on  the  black  sky- 
span; 


SUNDAY    UP    THE    RIVER 


653 


The  zenith  opened  to  a  gulf  of  flame. 

The  dreadful  thunderbolts  jarred  earth's  fixed 

frame ; 
The  ground  aU  heaved  in  waves  of  fire  that 

surged 
And   weltered  rovmd   me   sole   there   unsub- 
merged : 

Yet  I  strode  on  austere  ; 

No  hope  could  have  no  fear.     203 

As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was, 
As  I  came  through  the  desert :  Air  once  more, 
And  I  was  close  upon  a  wild  sea-shore ; 
Enormous  cliffs  arose  on  either  hand, 
The  deep  tide  thundered  up  a  league-broad 

strand ; 
White  foambelts  seethed   there,   wan   spray 

swept  and  flew ; 
The  sky  broke,  moon  and  stars  and  clouds  and 

blue: 

And  I  strode  on  austere  ; 

No  hope  could  have  no  fear.     212 

As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was, 
As  I  came  through  the  desert :  On  the  left 
The  sun  arose  and  crowned  a  broad  crag-cleft ; 
There  stopped  and  burned  out  black,  except  a 

rim, 
A  bleeding  eyeless  socket,  red  and  dim  ; 
Whereon  the  moon  fell  suddenly  south-west. 
And  stood  above  the  right-hand  cliffs  at  rest : 
Still  I  strode  on  austere ; 
No  hope  could  have  no  fear.     221 

As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was. 
As  I  came  through  the  desert :     From  the 

right 
A  shape  came  slowly  with  a  ruddy  light ; 
A  w^oman  with  a  red  lamp  in  her  hand. 
Bareheaded  and  barefooted  on  that  strand ; 
O  desolation  moving  with  such  grace  ! 
O  anguish  with  such  beauty  in  thy  face ! 

I  feU  as  on  my  bier, 

Hope  travailed  with  such  fear.   230 

As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was. 
As  I  came  through  the  desert:   I  was  twain, 
Two  selves  distinct  that  cannot  join  again  ; 
One  stood  apart  and  knew  but  could  not  stir. 
And  watched  the  other  stark  in  swoon  and 

her; 
And  she  came  on,  and  never  turned  aside, 
Between  such  sun  and  moon  and  roaring  tide : 
And  as  she  came  more  near 
My  soul  grew  mad  with  fear.     239 


As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was. 
As  I  came  through  the  desert :   Hell  is  mild 
And  piteous  matched  with  that  accursed  wild ; 
A  large  blaek  sign  was  on  her  breast  that 

bowed, 
A  broad  black  band  ran  down  her  snow-white 

shroud ;  , 

That  lamp-  she  held  was  her  own   burning 

heart, 
Whose    blood-drops    trickled    step    by    step 

apart : 

The  mystery  was  clear ; 

Mad  rage  had  swallowed  fear.   248 

As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was, 
As  I  came  through  the  desert :   By  the  sea 
She  knelt  and  bent  above  that  senseless  me ; 
Those  lamp-drops  feU  upon  my  white  brow 

there. 
She  tried  to  cleanse  them  with  her  tears  and 

hair; 
She  murmured  words  of  pity,  love,  and  woe. 
She  heeded  not  the  level  rushing  flow : 
And  mad  with  rage  and  fear, 
I  stood  stonebound  so  near.       257 

As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was. 
As  I  came  through  the  desert :  When  the  tide 
Swept  up  to  her  there  kneeling  by  my  side. 
She  clasped   that   corpse-like  me,   and  they 

were  borne 
Away,  and  this  vile  me  was  left  forlorn ; 
I  know  the  whole  sea  cannot  quench  that 

heart, 
Or   cleanse   that   brow,   or   wash  those   two 
apart : 

They  love ;   their  doom  is  drear. 

Yet  they  nor  hope  nor  fear ; 

But  I,  what  do  I  here?  267 


From   SUNDAY  UP  THE   RIVER 
XV 

Give  a  man  a  horse  he  can  ride,    • 

Give  a  man  a  boat  he  can  sail ; 
And  his  rank  and  wealth,  his  strength  and 
health. 

On  sea  nor  shore  shall  fail.  4 

Give  a  man  a  pipe  he  can  smoke. 
Give  a  man  a  book  he  can  read ; 

And  his  home  is  bright  with  a  calm  delight, 
Though  the  room  be  poor  indeed.  8 


6S4 


WALTER    PATER 


Give  a  man  a  girl  he  can  love. 

As  I,  O  my  Love,  love  thee  ; 
And  his  heart  is  great  with  the  pulse  of  Fate, 

At  home,  on  land,  on  sea.        -  12 

ART 
II 

If  you  have  a  carrier-dove 

That  can  fly  over  land  and  sea ; 

And  a  message  for  your  Love, 

''Lady,  I  love  but  thee!"  *       4 

And  this  dove  will  never  stir 

But  straight  from  her  to  you, 
And  straight  from  you  to  her ; 

As  you  know  and  she  knows  too.  8 

Will  you  first  ensure,  O  sage. 

Your  dove  that  never  tires 
With  your  message  in  a  cage. 

Though  a  cage  of  golden  wires?  12 

Or  will  you  fling  your  dove : 

"Fly,  darling,  without  rest, 
Over  land  and  sea  to  my  Love, 

And  fold  your  wings  in  her  breast?"     16 


WALTER   PATER    (1839-1894) 


From   STYLE 


What,  then,  did  Flaubert  ^  understand  by 
beauty,  in  the  art  he  pursued  with  so  much 
fervour,  with  so  much  self-command  ?  Let  us 
hear  a  sympathetic  commentator  :  — 

"Possessed  of  an  absolute  belief  that  there 
exists  but  one  way  of  expressing  one  thing,  one 
word  to  call  it  by,  one  adjective  to  qualify, 
one  verb  to  animate  it,  he  gave  himself  to 
superhuman  labour  for  the  discovery,  in  every 
phrase,  of  that  word,  that  verb,  that  epithet. 
In  this  way,  he  believed  in  some  mysterious 
harmony  of  expression,  and  when  a  true  word 
seemed  to  him  to  lack  eiiphony  still  went  on 
seeking  another,  with  invincible  patience,  cer- 
tain that  he  had  not  yet  got  hold  of  the  unique 
word.  ...     A      thousand      preoccupations 

^  Gustave  Flaubert  (1821-80),  a  French  nov- 
elist, noted  for  his  ideas  on  the  art  of  writing. 


would  beset  him  at  the  same  moment,  always 
with  this  desperate  certitude  fixed  in  his  spirit : 
Among  all  the  expressions  in  the  world,  all 
forms  and  turns  of  expression,  there  is  but  one 
—  one  form,  one  mode  —  to  express  what  I 
want  to  say." 

The  one  word  for  the  one  thing,  the  one 
thought,  amid  the  multitude  of  words,  terms, 
that  might  just  do :  the  problem  of  style  was 
there  !  —  the  unique  word,  phrase,  sentence, 
paragraph,  essay,  or  song,  absolutely  proper 
to  the  single  mental  presentation  or  vision 
within.  In  that  perfect  justice,  over  and 
above  the  many  contingent  and  removable 
beauties  with  which  beautiful  style  may 
charm  us,  but  which  it  can  exist  without, 
independent  of  them  yet  dexterously  availing 
itself  of  them,  omnipresent  in  good  work,  in 
function  at  every  point,  from  single  epithets 
to  the  rhythm  of  a  whole  book,  lay  the 
specific,  indispensable,  very  intellectual, 
beauty  of  literature,  the  possibility  of  which 
constitutes  it  a  fine  art. 

One  seems  to  detect  the  influence  of  a  philo- 
sophic idea  there,  the  idea  of  a  natural  econ- 
omy, of  some  preexistent  adaptation,  between 
a  relative,  somewhere  in  the  world  of  thought, 
and  its  correlative,  somewhere  in  the  world  of 
language  —  both  alike,  rather,  somewhere  in 
the  mind  of  the  artist,  desiderative,  expectant, 
inventive  —  meeting  each  other  with  the  readi- 
ness of  "soul  and  body  reunited,"  in  Blake's^ 
rapturous  design ;  and,  in  fact,  Flaubert  was 
fond  of  giving  his  theory  philosophical  expres' 
sion. 

"There  are  no  beautiful  thoughts,"  he 
would  say,  "without  beautiful  forms,  and 
conversely.  As  it  is  impossible  to  extract 
from  a  physical  body  the  qualities  which 
really  constitute  it  —  colour,  extension,  and 
the  like  —  without  reducing  it  to  a  hollow 
abstraction,  in  a  word,  without  destroying  it ; 
just  so  it  is  impossible  to  detach  the  form, 
from  the  idea,  for  the  idea  only  exists  by 
virtue  of  the  form." 

All  the  recognised  flowers,  the  removable 
ornaments  of  literature  (including  harjnony 
and  ease  in  reading  aloud,  very  carefully  con- 
sidered by  him)  counted  certainly ;  for  these 
too  are  part  of  the  actual  value  of  what  one 
says.  But  still,  after  all,  with  Flaubert,  the 
search,  the  unwearied  research,  v/as  not  for 
the  smooth,  or  winsome,  or  forcible  word,  as 

^  William  Blake,  poet  and  engraver 


STYLE 


655 


such,  as  with  false  Ciceronians,^  but  quite 
simply  and  honestly  for  the  word's  adjustment 
to  its  meaning.  The  first  condition  of  this 
must  be,  of  course,  to  know  yourself,  to  have 
ascertained  your  own  sense  exactly.  Then, 
if  we  suppose  an  artist,  he  says  to  the  reader, 
—  I  want  you  to  see  precisely  what  I  see. 
Into  the  mind  sensitive  to  "form,"  a  flood  of 
random  sounds,  colours,  incidents,  is  ever 
penetrating  from  the  world  without,  to  be- 
come, by  sympathetic  selection,  a  part  of  its 
very  structiire,  and,  in  turn,  the  visible 
vesture  and  expression  of  that  other  world  it 
sees  so  steadily  within,  nay,  already  with  a 
partial  conformity  thereto,  to  be  refined, 
enlarged,  corrected,  at  a  hundred  points ;  and 
it  is  just  there,  just  at  those  doubtful  points 
that  the  function  of  style,  as  tact  or  taste, 
intervenes.  The  imique  term  will  come  more 
quickly  to  one  than  another,  at  one  time  than 
another,  according  also  to  the  kind  of  matter 
in  question.  Quickness  and  slowness,  ease 
and  closeness  alike,  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  artistic  character  of  the  true  word  found 
at  last.  As  there  is  a  charm  of  ease,  so  there  is 
also  a  special  charm  in  the  signs  of  discovery, 
of  effort  and  contention  towards  a  due  end, 
as  so  often  with  Flaubert  himself  —  in  the 
style  which  has  been  pliant,  as  only  obstinate, 
durable  metal  can  be,  to  the  inherent  per- 
plexities and  recusancy  of  a  certain  difiicult 
thought. 

If  Flaubert  had  not  told  us,  perhaps  we 
should  never  have  guessed  how  tardy  and 
painful  his  own  procedure  really  was,  and 
after  reading  his  confession  may  think  that 
his  almost  endless  hesitation  had  much  to  do 
with  diseased  nerves.  Often,  perhaps,  the 
felicity  supposed  will  be  the  product  of  a 
happier,  a  more  exuberant  nature  than  Flau- 
bert's. Aggravated,  certainly,  by  a  morbid 
physical  condition,  that  anxiety  in  "seeking 
the  phrase,",  which  gathered  all  the  other 
small  ennuis  of  a  really  quiet  existence  into  a 
kind  of  battle,  was  connected  with  his  life- 
long contention  against  facile  poetry,  facile 
art  —  art,  facile  and  flimsy;  and  what  con- 
stitutes the  true  artist  is  not  the  slowness  or 
quickness  of  the  process,  but  the  absolute 
success  of  the  result. 


^  those  who  regard  Cicero's   style  as  the  only 
correct  model 


Coming  slowly  or  quickly,  when  it  comes,  as 
it  came  with  so  much  labour  of  mind,  but  also 
with  so  much  lustre,  to  Gustave  Flaubert, 
this  discovery  of  the  word  will  be,  like  all 
artistic  success  and  fehcity,  incapable  of  strict 
analysis:  effect  of  an  intuitive  condition  of 
mind,  it  must  be  recognised  by  like  intuition 
on  the  part  of  the  reader,  and  "a  sort  of  im- 
mediate sense.  In  every  one  of  those  mas- 
terly sentences  of  Flaubert  there  was,  below 
all  mere  contrivance,  shaping  and  after- 
thought, by  some  happy  instantaneous  con- 
course of  the  various  faculties  of  the  mind  with 
each  other,  the  exact  apprehension  of  what 
was  needed  to  carry  the  meaning.  And  that 
it  fits  with  absolute  justice  will  be  a  judgment 
of  immediate  sense  in  the  appreciative  reader. 
We  all  feel  this  in  what  may  be  called  inspired 
translation.  Well !  all  language  involves 
translation  from  inward  to  outward.  In  liter- 
ature, as  in  all  forms  of  art,  there  are  the 
absolute  and  the  merely  relative  or  accessory 
beauties ;  and  precisely  in  that  exact  propor- 
tion of  the  term  to  its  purpose  is  the  absolute 
beauty  of  style,  prose  or  verse.  All  the  good 
qualities,  the  beauties,  of  verse  also,  are  such, 
only  as  precise  expression. 

In  the  highest  as  in  the  lowliest  literature, 
then,  the  one  indispensable  beauty  is,  after  all, 
truth :  —  truth  to  bare  fact  in  the  latter,  as  to 
some  personal  sense  of  fact,  diverted  some- 
what from  men's  ordinary  sense  of  it,  in  the 
former ;  truth  there  as  accuracy,  truth  here  as 
expression,  that  finest  and  most  intimate  form, 
of  truth,  the  vraie  veriie.  And  what  an 
eclectic  principle  this  really  is  !  employing  for 
its  one  sole  purpose  ^ — that  absolute  accord- 
ance of  expression  to  idea  —  all  other  liter- 
ary beauties  and  excellences  whatever :  how 
many  kinds  of  style  it  covers,  explains, 
justifies,  and  at  the  same  time  safeguards ! 
Scott's  facility,  Flaubert's  deeply  pondered 
evocation  of  "the  phrase,"  are  equally  good 
art.  Say  what  you  have  to  say,  what  you 
have  a  will  to  say,  in  the  simplest,  the  most 
direct  and  exact  manner  possible,  with  no 
surplusage  :  —  there,  is  the  justification  of 
the  sentence  so  fortunately  born,  "entire, 
smooth,  and  round,"  that  it  needs  no  punctua- 
tion, and  also  (that  is  the  point!)  of  the  most 
elaborate  period,  if  it  be  right  in  its  elabora- 
tion. Here  is  the  office  of  ornament :  here 
also  the  purpose  of  restraint  in  ornament. 
As  the  exponent  of  truth,  that  austerity  (the 
beauty,  the  function,  of  W'hich  in  literature 


656 


WALTER    PATER 


Flaubert  understood  so  well)  becomes  not 
the  correctness  or  purism  of  the  mere  scholar, 
but  a  security  against  the  otiose,  a  jealous 
exclusion  of  what  does  not  really  tell  towards 
the  pursuit  of  relief,  of  life  and  vigour  in 
the  portraiture  of  one's  sense.  License  again, 
the  making  free  with  rule,  if  it  be  indeed,  as 
people  fancy~  a  habit  of  genius,  flinging  aside 
or  transforming  all  that  opposes  the  liberty  of 
beautiful  production,  will  be  but  faith  to  one's 
own  meaning.  The  seeming  baldness  of 
Le  Rouge  et  Le  Noir  ^  is  nothing  in  itself ;  the 
wild  ornament  of  Les  Misenibles^  is  nothing 
in  itself ;  and  the  restraint  of  Flaubert,  amid  a 
real  natural  opulence,  only  redoubled  beauty 
—  the  phrase  so  large  and  so  precise  at  the 
same  time,  hard  as  bronze,  in  service  to  the 
more  perfect  adaptation  of  words  to  their 
matter.  Afterthoughts,  retouchings,  finish, 
will  be  of  profit  only  so  far  as  they  too  really 
serve  to  bring  out  the  original,  initiative, 
generative,  sense  in  them. 

In  this  way,  according  to  the  well-known 
saying,^  "The  style  is  the  man,"  complex  or 
simple,  in  his  individuality,  his  plenary  sense 
of  what  he  really  has  to  say,  his  sense  of  the 
world;  all  cautions  regarding  style  arising 
out  of  so  many  natural  scruples  as  to  the 
medium  through  which  alone  he  can  expose 
that  inward  sense  of  things,  the  purity  of  this 
medium,  its  laws  or  tricks  of  refraction: 
nothing  is  to  be  left  there  which  might  give 
conveyance  to  any  matter  save  that.  Style 
in  all  its  varieties,  reserved  or  opulent,  terse, 
abundant,  musical,  stimulant,  academic,  so 
long  as  each  is  really  characteristic  or  expres- 
sive, finds  thus  its  justification,  the  sumptu- 
ous good  taste  of  Cicero  being  as  truly  the 
man  himself,  and  not  another,  justified,  yet 
insured  inalienably  to  him,  thereby,  as  would 
have  been  his  portrait  by  Raffaelle,^  in  full 
consular  splendour,  on  his  ivory  chair. 

A  relegation,  you  may  say  perhaps  —  a 
relegation  of  style,  to  the  subjectivity,  the 
mere  caprice,  of  the  individual,  which  must 
soon  transform  it  into  mannerism.  Not  so  ! 
since  there  is,  under  the  conditions  supposed, 
for  those  elements  of  the  man,  for  every  linea- 
ment of  the  vision  within,  the  one  word,  the 

^  a  famous  novel  by  Stendhal  (Henri  Beyle, 
1 783-1842),  whom  Flaubert  greatly  admired 
^  by  Victor  Hugo  (1802-85)  ^  by  the  celebrated 
French  naturalist,  Buff  on  (1707-88)  ^  cf .  note 
on  Browning's  One  Word  More,  1.  5 


one  acceptable  word,  recognisable  by  the 
sensitive,  by  others  "who  have  intelligence" 
in  the  matter,  as  absolutely  as  ever  anything 
can  be  in  the  evanescent  and  delicate  region 
of  human  language.  The  style,  the  manner, 
would  be  the  man,  not  in  his  unreasoned  and 
really  uncharacteristic  caprices,  involuntary 
or  affected,  but  in  absolutely  sincere  appre- 
hension of  what  is  most  real  to  him.  But 
let  us  hear  our  French  guide  again.  — 

"Styles,"  says  Flaubert's  commentator, 
'^Styles,  as  so  many  peculiar  moulds,  each  of 
which  bears  the  mark  of  a  particular  writer, 
who  is  to  pour  into  it  the  whole  content  of  his 
ideas,  were  no. part  of  his  theory.  What  he 
believed  in  was  Style:  that  is  to  say,  a  certain 
absolute  and  unique  manner  of  expressing  a 
thing,  in  all  its  intensity  and  colour.  For 
him  the  form  was  the  work  itself.  As  in 
living  creatures,  the  blood,  nourishing  the 
body,  determines  its  very  contour  and  external 
aspect,  just  so,  to  his  mind,  the  matter,  the  basis, 
in  a  work  of  art,  imposed,  necessarily,  the 
unique,  the  just  expression,  the  measure,  the 
rhythm  — •  the  form  in  all  its  characteristics." 

If  the  style  be  the  man,  in  all  the  colour  and 
intensity  of  a  veritable  apprehension,  it  will 
be  in  a  real  sense  "impersonal." 

I  said,  thinking  of  books  like  Victor  Hugo's 
Les  Miserables,  that  prose  literature  was  the 
characteristic  art  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
as  others,  thinking  of  its  triumphs  since  the 
youth  of  Bach,^  have  assigned  that  place  to 
music.  Music  and  prose  literature  are,  in 
one  sense,  the  opposite  terms  of  art ;  the  art 
of  literature  presenting  to  the  imagination, 
through  the  intelligence,  a  range  of  interests, 
as  free  and  various  as  those  which  music 
presents  to  it  through  sense.  And  certainly 
the  tendency  of  what  has  been  here  said  is 
to  bring  literature  too  under  those  condi- 
tions, by  conformity  to  which  music  takes 
rank  as  the  typically  perfect  art.  If  music 
be  the  ideal  of  all  art  whatever,  precisely 
because  in  music  it  is  impossible  to  dis- 
tinguish the  form  from  the  substance  or 
matter,  the  subject  from  the  expression, 
then,  literature,  by  finding  its  specific  ex- 
cellence in  the  absolute  correspondence  of 
the  term  to  its  import,  will  be  but  fulfilling 
the  condition  of  all  artistic  quality  in  things 
everywhere,  of  all  good  art. 

1  Johann  Sebastian  Bach  (1685-1750),  one  of 
the  greatest  of  modern  composers  of  music 


THE    CHILD    IN    THE    HOUSE 


657 


Good  art,  but  not  necessarily  great  art ; 
the  distinction  between  great  art  and  good 
art  depending  immediately,  as  regards  litera- 
ture at  all  events,  not  on  its  form,  but  on  the 
matter.  Thackeray's  Esmond,  surely,  is 
greater  art  than  Vanity  Fair,  by  the  greater 
dignity  of  its  interests.  It  is  on  the  quality 
of  the  matter  it  informs  or  controls,  its  com- 
pass, its  variety,  its  alliance  to  great  ends, 
or  the  depth  of  the  note  of  revolt,  or  the 
largeness  of  hope  in  it,  that  the  greatness  of 
literary  art  depends,  as  The  Divine  Comedy, 
Paradise  Lost,  Les  Miserables,  The  English 
Bible,  are  -great  art.  Given  the  conditions 
I  have  tried  to  explain  as  constituting  good 
art ;  —  then,  if  it  be  devoted  further  to  the 
increase  of  men's  happiness,  to  the  redemp- 
tion of  the  oppressed,  or  the  enlargement 
of  our  sympathies  with  each  other,  or  to 
such  presentment  of  new  or  old  truth  about 
ourselves  and  our  relation  to  the  world  as 
may  ennoble  and  fortify  us  in  our  sojourn 
here,  or  immediately,  as  with  Dante,  to  the 
glory  of  God,  it  will  be  also  great  art ;  if, 
over  and  above  those  qualities  I  summed  up 
as  mind  and  soul  —  that  colour  and  mystic 
perfume,  and  that  reasonable  structure,  it 
has  something  of  the  soul  of  humanity  in  it, 
and  finds  its  logical,  its  architectural  place, 
in  the  great  structure  of  human  life. 


From  THE  CHILD  IN  THE  HOUSE 

As  Florian  Deleal  walked,  one  hot  after- 
noon, he  overtook  by  the  wayside  a  poor 
aged  man,  and,  as  he  seemed  weary  with 
the  road,  helped  him  on  with  the  burden 
which  he  carried,  a  certain  distance.  And 
as  the  man  told  his  story,  it  chanced  that 
he  named  the  place,  a  little  place  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  a  great  city,  where  Florian 
had  passed  his  earliest  years,  but  which  he 
had  never  since  seen,  and,  the  story  told, 
went  forward  on  his  journey  comforted. 
And  that  night,  like  a  reward  for  his  pity, 
a  dream  of  that  place  came  to  Florian,  a 
dream  which  did  for  him  the  othce  of  the 
finer  sort  of  memory,  bringing  its  object  to 
mind  with  a  great  clearness,  yet,  as  some- 
times happens  in  dreams,  raised  a  little  above 
itself,  and  above  ordinary  retrospect.  The 
true  aspect  of  the  place,  especiall)^  of  the 
house  there  in  which  he  had  lived  as  a  child, 
the  fashion  of  its  doors,  its  hearths,  its  win- 


dows, the  very  scent  upon  the  air  of  it.  was 
with  him  in  sleep  for  a  season ;  only,  with 
tints  more  musically  blent  on  wall  and  floor, 
and  some  finer  light  and  shadow  running  in 
and  out  along  its  curves  and  angles,  and  with 
all  its  little  carvings  daintier.  He  awoke 
with  a  sigh  at  the  thought  of  almost  thirty 
years  which  lay  between  him  and  that  place, 
yet  with  a  flutter  of  pleasure  still  within  him 
at  the  fair  light,  as  if  it  were  a  smile,  upon 
it.  And  it  happened  that  this  accident  of 
his  dream  was  just  the  thing  needed  for  the 
beginning  of  a  certain  design  he  then  had  in 
view,  the  noting,  namely,  of  some  things  in 
the  story  of  his  spirit  —  in  that  process  of 
brain-building  by  which  we  are,  each  one  of 
us,  what  we  are.  With  the  image  of  the 
place  so  clear  and  favourable  upon  him,  he 
fell  to  thinking  of  himself  therein,  and  how 
his  thoughts  had  grown  up  to  him.  In  that 
half-spiritualised  house  he  could  watch  the 
better,  over  again,  the  gradual  expansion 
of  the  soul  which  had  come  to  be  there  —  of 
which  indeed,  through  the  law  which  makes 
the  material  objects  about  them  so  large  an 
element  in  children's  lives,  it  had  actually 
become  a  part ;  inward  and  outward  being 
woven  through  and  through  each  other  into 
one  inextricable  texture  —  half,  tint  and  trace 
and  accident  of  homely  colour  and  form,  from 
the  wood  and  the  bricks ;  half,  mere  soul- 
stufl',  floated  thither  from  who  knows  how 
far.  In  the  house  and  garden  of  his  dream 
he  saw  a  child  moving,  and  could  divide  the 
main  streams  at  least  of  the  winds  that  had 
played  on  him,  and  study  so  the  first  stage  in 
that  mental  journey. 

The  old  house,  as  when  Florian  talked  of  it 
afterwards  he  always  called  it  (as  all  children 
do,  who  can  recollect  a  change  of  home,  soon 
enough  but  not  too  soon  to  mark  a  period  in 
their  lives) ,  really  was  an  old  house ;  and  an 
element  of  French  descent  in  its  inmates  — 
descent  from  Watteau,^  the  old  court-painter, 
one  of  whose  gallant  pieces  still  hung  in  one 
of  the  rooms  —  might  explain,  together  with 
some  other  things,  a  noticeable  trimness  and 
comely  whiteness  about  everything  there  — 
the  curtains,  the  couches,  the  paint  on  the 
waUs  with  which  the  light  and  shadow  played 

1  Jean  Antoine  Watteau  (1684-1721),  a  cel- 
ebrated French  painter  of  elegant  and  graceful 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses  (courtiers  in  dis- 
guise) 


658 


WALTER    PATER 


so  delicately ;  might  explain  also  the  tolerance 
of  the  great  poplar  in  the  garden,  a  tree  most 
often  despised  by  English  people,  but  which 
French  people  love,  having  observed  a  certain 
fresh  way  its  leaves  have  of  dealing  with  the 
wind,  making  it  sound,  in  never  so  slight  a 
stirring  of  the  air,  like  running  water. 

The  old-fashioned,  low  wainscoting  went 
round  the  rooms,  and  up  the  staircase  with 
carved  balusters  and  shadowy  angles,  landing 
half-way  up  at  a  broad  window,  with  a 
swallow's  nest  below  the  sill,  and  the  blossom 
of  an  old  pear-tree  showing  across  it  in  late 
April,  against  the  blue,  below  which  the  per- 
fumed juice  of  the  find  of  fallen  fruit  in  autumn 
was  so  fresh.  At  the  next  turning  came  the 
closet  which  held  on  its  deep  shelves  the  best 
china.  Little  angel  faces  and  reedy  flutings 
stood  out  round  the  fireplace  of  the  children's 
room.  And  on  the  top  of  the  house,  above 
the  large  attic,  where  the  white  mice  ran  in 
the  twilight  —  an  infinite,  unexplored  won- 
derland of  childish  treasures,  glass  beads, 
empty  scent-bottles  still  sweet,  thrums^  of 
coloured  silks,  among  its  lumber  —  a  flat 
space  of  roof,  railed  round,  gave  a  view  of 
the  neighbouring  steeples ;  for  the  house, 
as  I  said,  stood  near  a  great  city,  which  sent 
up  heavenwards,  over  the  twisting  weather- 
vanes,  not  seldom,  its  beds  of  rolUng  cloud 
and  smoke,  touched  with  storm  or  sunshine. 
But  the  child  of  whom  I  am  writing  did  not 
hate  the  fog,  because  of  the  crimson  lights 
which  fell  from  it  sometimes  upon  the  chim- 
neys, and  the  whites  which  gleamed  through 
its  openings,  on  summer  mornings,  on  turret 
or  pavement.  For  it  is  false  to  suppose  that 
a  child's  sense  of  beauty  is  dependent  on 
any  choiceness  or  special  fineness,  in  the 
objects  which  present  themselves  to  it, 
though  this  indeed  comes  to  be  the  rule  with 
most  of  us  in  later  life ;  earlier,  in  some  de- 
gree, we  see  inwardly ;  and  the  child  finds 
for  itself,  and  with  unstinted  delight,  a  difl'er- 
ence  for  the  sense,  in.  those  whites  and  reds 
through  the  smoke  on  very  homely  buildings, 
and  in  the  gold  of  the  dandelions  at  the  road- 
side, just  beyond  the  houses,  where  not  a 
handful  of  earth  is  virgin  and  untouched,  in 
the  lack  of  better  ministries  to  its  desire  of 
beauty. 

This  house  then  stood  not  far  beyond  the 
gloom  and  rumours  of  the  town,  among  high 

^  short  lengths 


garden-walls,   bright   all   summer-time  with 
Golden-rod,     and     brown-and-golden     Wall- 
flower —  Flos     Farietis,     as     the     children's 
Latin-reading  father  taught  them  to  call  it, 
while  he  was  with  them.     Tracing  back  the 
threads   of   his   complex   spiritual   habit,    as 
he  was  used  in  after  years  to  do,   Florian 
found  that  he  owed  to  the  place  many  tones 
of  sentiment  afterwards  customary  with  him, 
certain    inward    lights    under    which    things     — 
most  naturally  presented  themselves  to  him.    ■} 
The  coming  and  going  of  travellers  to  the      •' 
town    along    the    way,    the    shadow    of    the 
streets,  the  sudden  breath  of  the  neighbour- 
ing gardens,  the  singular  brightness  of  bright 
weather  there,  its  singular  darknesses  which 
linked    themselves    in    his   mind    to    certain 
engraved  illustrations  in  the  old  big  Bible     — 
at  home,  the  coolness  of  the  dark,  cavernous  'S 
shops  round  the  great  church,  with  its  giddy    ' 
winding  stair  up  to  the  pigeons  and  the  bells 
—  a  citadel   of   peace  in   the   heart   of    the 
trouble  —  all  this  acted  on  his  childish  fancy, 
so  that  ever  afterwards  the  like  aspects  and     — 
incidents  never  failed  to  throw  him  into  a     M 
well-recognized  imaginative  mood,   seeming,      ' 
actually  to  have  become  a  part  of  the  texture 
of  his  mind.     Also,  Florian  could  trace  home 
to  this  point  a  pervading  preference  in  him- 
self for  a  kind  of  com.eliness  and  dignity,  an 
urbanity  literally,  in  modes  of  life,  which  he 
connected  with  the  pale  people  of  towns,  and      ■ 
which  made  him  susceptible  to  a  kind  of  ex-     ■ 
quisite  satisfaction  in  the  trimness  and  well-      ■ 
considered  grace  of  certain  things  and  per- 
sons he  afterwards  met  with,  here  and  there, 
in  his  way  through  the  world. 

So  the  child  of  whom  I  am  writing  lived  on 
there  quietly ;  things  without  thus  minister- 
ing to  him,  as  he  sat  daily  at  the  wdndow 
with  the  birdcage  hanging  below  it,  and  his 
mother  taught  him  to  read,  wondering  at 
the  ease  with  which  he  learned,  and  at  the 
quickness  of  his  memory.  The  perfume  of 
the  little  flowers  of  the  lime-tree  fell  through 
the  air  upon  them  like  rain;  while  tune 
seemed  to  move  ever  more  slowly  to  the 
murmur  of  the  bees  in  it,  till  it  almost  stood 
still  on  June  afternoons.  How  insignificant, 
at  the  moment,  seem  the  influences  of  the 
sensible  things  which  are  tossed  and  fall 
and  lie  about  us,  so,  or  so,  in  the  environ- 
ment of  early  childhood.  How  indelibly,  as 
we  afterwards  discover,  they  affect  us ;  with 
what  capricious  attractions  and  associations 


THE    CHILD    IN   THE    HOUSE 


^59 


they  figure  themselves  on  the  white  paper, ^ 
the  smooth  wax,  of  our  ingenuous  souls,  as 
"with  lead  in  the  rock  forever,"-  giving  form 
and  feature,  and  as  it  were  assigned  house- 
room  in  ovir  memory,  to  early  experiences  of 
feeling  and  thought,  which  abide  with  us 
ever  afterwards,  thus,  and  not  otherwise. 
The  realities  and  passions,  the  rumours  of  the 
greater  world  without,  steal  in  upon  us,  each 
by  its  own  special  little  passage-way,  through 
the  wall  of  custom  about  us ;  and  never  after- 
wards quite  detach  themselves  from  this  or 
that  accident,  or  trick,  in  the  mode  of  their 
first  entrance  to  us.  Our  susceptibilities,  the 
discovery  of  our  powers,  manifold  experiences 
—  our  various  experiences  of  the  coming  and 
going  of  bodily  pain,  for  mstance  —  belong  to 
this  or  the  other  well-remembered  place  in  the 
material  habitation  —  that  little  white  room 
with  the  window  across  which  the  heavy 
blossoms  could  beat  so  peevishly  in  the  wind, 
with  just  that  particular  catch  or  throb,  such 
a  sense  of  teasing  in  it,  on  gusty  mornings; 
and  the  early  habitation  thus  gradually  be- 
comes a  sort  di  material  shrine  or  sanctuary 
of  sentiment ;  a  system  of  visible  symbohsm 
interweaves  itself  through  all  our  thoughts  and 
passions ;  and  irresistibly,  httle  shapes,  voices^ 
accidents  —  the  angle  at  which  the  sun  in  the 
morning  fell  on  the  pillow  — ■  become  parts  of 
the  great  chain  wherewith  we  are  bound. 

Thus  far,  for  Florian,  what  aU  this  had 
determined  was  a  peculiarly  strong  sense  of 
home  —  so  forcible  a  motive  with  aU  of  us  — 
prompting  to  us  our  customary  love  of  the 
earth,  and  the  larger  part  of  our  fear  of  death, 
that  revulsion  we  have  from  it,  as  from  some- 
thing strange,  imtried,  unfriendly;  though 
lifelong  imprisonment,  they  tell  you,  and  final 
banishment  from  home  is  a  thing  bitterer  still ; 
the  looking  forward  to  but  a  short  space,  a 
mere  childish  gouter^  and  dessert  of  it,  before 
the  end,  being  so  great  a  resource  of  effort 
to  pilgrims  and  wayfarers,  and  the  soldier  in 
distant  quarters,  and  lending,  m  lack  of  that, 
some  power  of  solace  to  the  thought  of  sleep 
m  the  home  churchyard,  at  least  —  dead  • 
cheek  by  dead  cheek,  and  with  the  rain  soak- 
ing in  upon  one  from  abdve. 

^  The  comparison  of  the  infant  mind  to  a  sheet 
of  blank  paper  ready  to  be  written  upon,  orig- 
inated with  the  philosopher  John  Locke;  it  is 
practically  the  same  as  Aristotle's  figure  of  a 
smooth  wax  tablet.     -  cf.  Job,  xix  :  24     ^  taste 


So  powerful  is  this  instinct,  and  yet  acci- 
dents like  those  I  have  been  speaking  of  so 
mechanically  determine  it ;  its  essence  being 
indeed  the  early  familiar,  as  constituting  our 
ideal,  or  typical  conception,  of  rest  and  secu- 
rity. Out  of  so  many  possible  conditions, 
just  this  for  you  and  that  for  me,  brings  ever 
the  unmistakable  realisation  of  the  delightful 
chez  soi;^  this  for  the  EngHshman,  for  me  and 
you,  wdth  the  closely-drawn  white  curtain  and 
the  shaded  lamp;  that,  quite  other,  for  the 
wandering  Arab,  who  folds  his  tent  every 
morning,  and  makes  his  sleeping-place  among 
haunted  ruins,  or  in  old  tombs. 

With  Florian  then  the  sense  of  home  be- 
came singularly  intense,  his  good  fortune  being 
that  the  special  character  of  his  home  was  in 
itself  so  essentially  home-like.  As  after  many- 
wanderings  I  have  come  to  fancy  that  some 
parts  of  Surrey  and  Kent  are,  for  Englishmen, 
the  true  landscape,  true  home-countries,  by 
right,  partly,  of  a  certain  earthy  warmth  in 
the  yellow  of  the  sand  below  their  gorse- 
bushes,  and  of  a  certain  gray-blue  mist  after 
rain,  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills  there,  welcome 
to  fatigued  eyes,  and  never  seen  farther  south  ; 
so  I  think  that  the  sort  of  house  I  have  de- 
scribed, with  precisely  those  proportions  of 
red-brick  and  green,  and  with  a  just  per- 
ceptible monotony  in  the  subdued  order  of  it, 
for  its  distinguishing  note,  is  for  Englishmen 
at  least  typically  home-like.  And  so  for 
Florian  that  general  human  instinct  was  rein- 
forced by  this  special  home-likeness  in  the 
place  his  wandering  soul  had  happened  to 
light  on,  as,  in  the  second  degree,  its  body 
and  earthly  tabernacle  ;  the  sense  of  harmony 
between  his  soul  and  its  physical  environment 
became,  for  a  time  at  least,  like  perfectly 
played  music,  and  the  life  led  there  singularly 
tranqiul  and  filled  with  a  curious  sense  of 
self-possession.  The  love  of  security,  of  an 
habitually  undisputed  standing-gromid  or 
sleeping-place,  came  to  coimt  for  much  in  the 
generation  and  correcting  of  his  thoughts,  and 
afterwards  as  a  salutary  principle  of  restraint 
in  all  his  wanderings  of  spirit.  The  wistful 
yearning  towards  home,  in  absence  from  it, 
as  the  shadows  of  evening  deepened,  and  he 
followed  in  thought  •  what  was  doing  there 
from  hour  to  hour,  interpreted  to  him  much 
of  a  yearning  and  regret  he  experienced  af- 
terwards, towards  he  knew  not  what,  out  of 

^  "homey-ness  " 


66o 


WALTER    PATER 


strange  ways  of  feeling  and  thought  in  which, 
from  time  to  time,  his  spirit  found  itself  alone ; 
and  in  the  tears  shed  in  such  absences  there 
seemed  always  to  be  some  soul-subduing  fore- 
taste of  what  his  last  tears  might  be. 
And  the  sense  of  security  could  hardly  have 
been  deeper,  the  quiet  of  the  child's  soul  being 
one  with  the  quiet  of  its  home,  a  place  "en- 
closed" and  "sealed."  But  upon  this  assured 
place,  upon  the  child's  assured  soul  which 
resembled  it,  there  came  floating  in  from  the 
larger  world  without,  as  at  windows  left  ajar 
unknowingly,  or  over  the  high  garden  walls, 
two  streams  of  impressions,  the  sentiments  of 
beauty  and  pain  —  recognitions  of  the  visible, 
tangible,  audible,  loveliness  of  things,  as  a  very 
real  and  somewhat  tyrannous  element  in  them 
—  and  of  the  sorrow  of  the  world,  of  grown 
people  and  children  and  animals,  as  a  thing 
not  to  be  put  by  in  them.  From  this  point 
he  could  trace  two  predominant  processes  of 
mental  change  in  him  —  the  growth  of  an 
almost  diseased  sensibility  to  the  spectacle  of 
suffering,  and,  parallel  with  this,  the  rapid 
growth  of  a  certain  capacity  of  fascination  by 
bright  colour  and  choice  form' —  the  sweet 
curvings,  for  instance,  of  the  lips  of  those 
who  seemed  to  him  comely  persons,  modu- 
lated in  such  delicate  unisons  to  the  things 
they  said  or  sang,  —  marking  early  the  ac- 
tivity in  him  of  a  more  than  customary  sen- 
suousness,  "the  lust  of  the  eye,"i  as  the 
Preacher  says,  which  might  lead  him,  one  day, 
how  far !  Could  he  have  foreseen  the  weari- 
ness of  the  way !  In  music  sometimes  the 
two  sorts  of  impressions  came  together,  and 
he  would  weep,  to  the  surprise  of  older  people. 
Tears  of  joy  too  the  child  knew,  also  to  older 
people's  surprise ;  real  tears,  once,  of  relief 
from  long-strung,  childish  expectation,  when 
he  found  returned  at  evening,  with  new  roses 
in  her  cheeks,  the  little  sister  who  had  been  to 
a  place  where  there  was  a  wood,  and  brought 
back  for  him  a  treasure  of  fallen  acorns,  and 
black  crow's  feathers,  and  his  peace  at  find- 
ing her  again  near  him  mingled  all  night  with 
some  intimate  sense  of  the  distant  forest,  the 
rumour  of  its  breezes,  with  the  glossy  black- 
birds aslant  and  the  branches  lifted  in  them, 
and  of  the  perfect  nicety  of  the  little  cups 
that  fell.  So  those  two  elementary  appre- 
hensions of  the  tenderness  and  of  the  colour 
in  things  grew  apace  in  him,  and  were  seen 

^  cf.  /  John,  ii :  i6 


by  him  afterwards  to  send  their  roots  back 
into  the  beginnings  of  life. 

Let  me  note  first  some  of  the  occasions  of 
his  recognition  of  the  element  of  pain  in 
things  —  incidents,  now  and  again,  which 
seemed  suddenly  to  awake  in  him  the  whole 
force  of  that  sentiment  which  Goethe  has 
called  the  Weltschmerz,^  and  in  which  the  con- 
centrated sorrow  of  the  world  seemed  suddenly 
to  lie  heavy  upon  him.  A  book  lay  in  an  old 
book-case,  of  which  he  cared  to  remember  one 
picture  —  a  woman  sitting,  with  hands  bound 
behind  her,  the  dress,  the  cap,  the  hair,  folded 
with  a  simplicity  which  touched  him  strangely, 
as  if  not  by  her  own  hands,  but  with  some 
ambiguous  care  at  the  hands  of  others  — 
Queen  Marie  Antoinette,  on  her  way  to  exe- 
cution — -  we  all  remember  David's  '^  drawing, 
meant  merely  to  make  her  ridiculous.  The 
face  that  had  been  so  high  had  learned  to  be 
mute  and  resistless  ;  but  out  of  its  very  resist- 
lessness,  seemed,  now  to  call  on  men  to  have 
pity,  and  forbear;  and  he  took  note  of  that, 
as  he  closed  the  book,  as  a  thing  to  look  at 
again,  if  he  should  at  any  tirrte  find  himself 
tempted  to  be  cruel.  Again  he  would  never 
quite  forget  the  appeal  in  the  small  sister's 
face,  in  the  garden  under  the  lilacs,  terrified  at 
a  spider  lighted  on  her  sleeve.  He  could  trace 
back  to  the  look  then  noted  a  certain  mercy 
conceived  always  for  people  in  fear,  even 
of  little  things,  which  seemed  to  make  him, 
though  but  for  a  moment,  capable  of  almost 
any  sacrifice  of  himself.  Impressible,  sus- 
ceptible persons,  indeed,  who  had  had  their 
sorrows,  lived  about  him  ;  and  this  sensibility 
was  due  in  part  to  the  tacit  influence  of  their 
presence,  enforcing  upon  him  habitually  the 
fact  that  there  are  those  who  pass  their  days, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  in  a  sort  of  "going 
quietly."  Most  poignantly  of  all  he  could  re- 
call, in  unfading  minutest  circumstance,  the 
cry  on  the  stair,  sounding  bitterly  through  the 
house,  and  struck  into  his  soul  forever,  of  an 
aged  woman,  his  father's  sister,  come  now  to 
announce  his  death  in  distant  India ;  how  it 
seemed  to  make  the  aged  woman  like  a  child 
again ;  and,  he  knew  not  why,  but  this  fancy 
was  full  of  pity  to  him.  There  were  the  little 
sorrows  of  the  dumb  animals  too  —  of  the 
white  angora,  with  a  dark  tail  like  an  ermine's, 
and  a  face  like  a  flower,  who  fell  into  a  linger- 

^  world-sorrow  ^  Jacques  Louis  David  (1748- 
1825),  a  French  historical  painter 


THE    CHILD    IN   THE    HOUSE 


66i 


ing  sickness,  and  became  quite  delicately  hu- 
man in  its  valetudinarianism,  and  came  to 
have  a  hvmdred  different  expressions  of  voice 
—  how  it  grew  worse  and  worse,  till  it  began 
to  feel  the  light  too  much  for  it,  and  at  last, 
after  one  wild  morning  of  pain,  the  little  soul 
flickered  away  from  the  body,  quite  worn  to 
death  already,  and  now  but  feebly  retaining  it. 

So  he  wanted  another  pet ;  and  as  there 
were  starlings  about  the  place,  which  could  be 
taught  to  speak,  one  of  them  was  caught,  and 
he  meant  to  treat  it  kindly ;  but  in  the  night 
its  young  ones  could  be  heard  crying  after 
it,  and  the  responsive  cry  of  the  mother-bird 
towards  them ;  and  at  last,  with  the  first 
light,  though  not  till  after  some  debate  with 
himself,  he  went  down  and  opened  the  cage, 
and  saw  a  sharp  bound  of  the  prisoner  up  to 
her  nestlings ;  and  therewith  came  the  sense  of 
remorse,  —  that  he  too  was  become  an  accom- 
plice in  moving,  to  the  limit  of  his  small 
power,  the  springs  and  handles  of  that  great 
machine  in  things,  constructed  so  ingeniously 
to  play  pain-fugues^  on  the  delicate  nerve- 
work  of  living  creatures. 

I  have  remarked  how,  in  the  process  of  our 
brain-building,  as  the  house  of  thought  in 
which  we  live  gets  itself  together,  like  some 
airy  bird's-nest  of  floating  thistle-down  and 
chance  straws,  compact  at  last,  little  accidents 
have  their  consequence ;  and  thus  it  happened 
that,  as  he  walked  one  evening,  a  garden  gate, 
usually  closed,  stood  open ;  and  lo  !  within,  a 
great  red  hawthorn  in  full  flower,  embossing 
heavily  the  bleached  and  twisted  trunk  and 
branches,  so  aged  that  there  were  but  few 
green  leaves  thereon  —  a  plumage  of  tender, 
crimson  fire  out  of  the  heart  of  the  dry  wood. 
The  perfume  of  the  tree  had  now  and  again 
reached  him,  in  the  currents  of  the  wind,  over 
the  wall,  and  he  had  wondered  what  might  be 
behind  it,  and  was  uovn'  allowed  to  fill  his  arms 
with  the  flowers. —  flowers  enough  for  all  the 
old  blue-china  pots  along  the  chimney-piece, 
making  fete  -  in  the  children's  room.  Was  it 
some  periodic  moment  in  the  expansion  of  soul 
within  him,  or  mere  trick  of  heat  in  the  heavily- 
laden  summer  air?  But  the  beauty  of  the 
thing  struck  home  to  him  feverishly ;  and  in 
dreams  all  night  he  loitered  along  a  magic 
roadway  of  crimson  flowers,  which  seemed  to 
open  ruddily  in  thick,  fresh  masses  about  his 

^  elaborately  interwoven  compositions  of  pain 
^  festival 


feet,  and  fill  softly  all  the  little  hollows  in  the 
banks  on  either  side.  Always  afterwards, 
summer  by  summer,  as  the  flowers  came  on, 
the  blossom  of  the  red  hawthorn  still  seemed 
to  him  absolutely  the  reddest  of  all  things; 
and  the  goodly  crimson,  still  alive  in  the  works 
of  old  Venetian  masters  or  old  Flemish  tapes- 
tries, called  out  always  from  afar  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  flame  in  those  perishing  little  petals, 
as  it  pulsed  gradually  out  of  them,  kept  long 
in  the  drawers  of  an  old  cabinet.  Also  then, 
for  the  first  time,  he  seemed  to  experience  a 
passionateness  in  his  relation  to  fair  outward 
objects,  an  inexplicable  excitement  in  their 
presence,  which  disturbed  him,  and  from 
which  he  half  longed  to  be  free.  A  touch  of 
regret  or  desire  m.ingled  aU  night  with  the 
remembered  presence  of  the  red  flowers,  and 
their  perfume  in  the  darkness  about  him ;  and 
the  longing  for  som.e  undivined,  entire  posses- 
sion of  them  was  the  beginning  of  a  revelation 
to  him,  growing  ever  clearer,  with  the  coming 
of  the  gracious  summer  guise  of  fields  and  trees 
and  persons  in  each  succeeding  year,  of  a  cer- 
tain, at  times  seemingly  exclusive,  predomi- 
nance in  his  interests,  of  beautiful  physical 
things,  a  kind  of  tyranny  of  the  sense  over 
him. 

In  later  years  he  came  upon  philosophies 
v.hich  occupied  him  much  in  the  estimate  of 
the  proportion  of  the  sensuous  and  the  ideal 
elements,  in  human  knowledge,  the  relative 
parts  they  bear  in  it ;  and,  in  his  intellectual 
scheme,  was  led  to  assign  very  little  to  the 
abstract  thought,  and  much  to  its  sensible 
vehicle  or  occasion.  Such  metaphj'sical  spec- 
vilation  did  but  reinforce  what  was  instinctive 
in  his  way  of  receiving  the  world,  and  for  him, 
everywhere,  that  sensible  vehicle  or  occasion 
became,  perhaps  only  too  surely,  the  necessary 
concomitant  of  any  perception  of  things,  real 
enough  to  be  of  any  weight  or  reckoning,  in 
his  house  of  thought.  There  v.ere  times  when 
he  could  think  of  the  necessity  he  was  under 
of  associating  all  thoughts  to  touch  and  sight, 
as  a  sympathetic  link  between  himself  and 
actual,  feeling,  living  objects;  a  protest  in 
favour  of  real  men  and  women  against  mere 
gray,  unreal  abstractions ;  and  he  remem- 
bered gratefully  how  the  Christian  rehgion, 
hardly  less  than  the  religion  of  the  ancient 
Greeks,  translating  so  much  of  its  spiritual 
verity  into  things  that  may  be  seen,  conde- 
scends in  part  to  sanction  this  infirmity,  if  so 
it  be,  of  our  human  existence,  wherein  the 


662 


ROBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON 


world  of  sense  is  so  much  with  us,  and  wel- 
comed this  thought  as  a  kind  of  keeper  and 
sentinel  over  his  soul  therein.  But  certainly, 
he  came  more  and  more  to  be  unable  to  care 
for,  or  think  of  soul  but  as  in  an  actual  body, 
or  of  any  world  but  that  wherein  are  water 
and  trees,  and  where  men  and  women  look, 
so  or  so,  and  press  actual  hands.  It  was  the 
trick  even  his  pity  learned,  fastening  those 
who  suffered  in  anywise  to  his  affections  by 
a  kind  of  sensible  attachments.  He  would 
think  of  Julian,  fallen  into  incurable  sickness, 
as  spoiled  in  the  sweet  blossom  of  his  skin  hke 
pale  amber,  and  his  honey-like  hair ;  of  Cecil, 
early  dead,  as  cut  off  from  the  lilies,  from 
golden  summer  days,  from  women's  voices; 
and  then  what  comforted  him  a  little  was  the 
thought  of  the  turning  of  the  child's  flesh  to 
violets  in  the  turf  above  him.  And  thinking 
of  the  very  poor,  it  was  not  the  things  which 
most  men  care  most  for  that  he  yearned  to 
give  them ;  but  fairer  roses,  perhaps,  and 
power  to  taste  quite  as  they  will,  at  their 
ease  and  not  task-burdened,  a  certain  desir- 
able, clear  light  in  the  new  morning,  through 
which  sometimes  he  had  noticed  them,  quite 
unconscious  of  it,  on  their  way  to  their  early 
toil. 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 
(1850-1894) 

FRANCOIS  VILLON,  STUDENT,  POET, 
'  AND   HOUSEBREAKER 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  curious  revolutions 
in  literary  history  is  the  sudden  bull's-eye  light 
cast  by  31.  Longnon  on  the  obscure  existence 
of  Frangois  Villon.  His  book  is  not  remark- 
able merely  as  a  chapter  of  biography  exhumed 
after  four  centuries.  To  readers  of  the  poet  it 
will  recall,  with  a  flavour  of  satire,  that  char- 
acteristic passage  in  which  he  bequeaths  his 
spectacles  —  with  a  humorous  reservation  of 
the  case  —  to  the  hospital  for  blind  paupers 
known  as  the  Fifteen-Score.  Thus  equipped, 
let  the  blind  paupers  go  and  separate  the  good 
from  the  bad  in  the  cemetery  of  the  Innocents  ! 
For  his  own  part  the  poet  can  see  no  distinc- 
tion. Much  have  the  dead  people  made  of 
their  advantages.  What  does  it  matter  now 
that  they  have  lain  in  state  beds  and  nour- 


ished portly  bodies  upon  cakes  and  cream  ! 
Here  they  all  lie,  to  be  trodden  in  the  mud ; 
the  large  estate  and  the  small,  sounding  virtue 
and  adroit  or  powerful  vice,  in  very  much  the 
same  condition ;  and  a  bishop  not  to  be  dis- 
tinguished from  a  lamplighter  with  even  the 
strongest  spectacles. 

Such  was  Villon's  cynical  philosophy.. 
Four  hundred  years  after  his  death,  when 
surely  all  danger  might  be  considered  at  an 
end,  a  pair  of  critical  spectacles  have  been 
applied  to  his  own  remains ;  and  though  he 
left  behind  him  a  sufficiently  ragged  reputa- 
tion from  the  first,  it  is  only  after  these  four 
hundred  years  that  his  delinquencies  have 
been  finally  tracked  home,  and  we  can  assign 
him  to  his  proper  place  among  the  good  or 
wicked.  It  is  a  staggering  thought,  and  one 
that  affords  a  fine  figure  of  the  imperisha- 
bility of  men's  acts,  that  the  stealth  of  the 
private  inquiry  office  can  be  carried  so  far 
back  into  the  dead  and  dusty  past.  We  are 
not  so  soon  quit  of  our  concerns  as  Villon 
fancied.  In  the  extreme  of  dissolution,  when 
not  so  much  as  a  man's  name  is  remembered, 
when  his  dust  is  scattered  to  the  four  winds, 
and  perhaps  the  very  grave  and  the  very 
graveyard  where  he  was  laid  to  rest  have 
been  forgotten,  desecrated,  and  buried  under 
populous  towns,  —  even  m  this  extreme  let 
an  antiquary  fall  across  a  sheet  of  manu- 
script, and  the  name  wiU  be  recalled,  the  old 
infamy  will  pop  out  into  daylight  like  a  toad 
out  of  a  fissure  in  the  rock,  and  the  shadow 
of  the  shade  of  what  was  once  a  man  will  be 
heartily  pilloried  by  his  descendants.  A  Uttle 
while  ago  and  Villon,  was  almost  totally  for- 
gotten ;  then  he  was  revived  for  the  sake  of 
his  verses ;  and  now  he  is  being  revived  with  a 
vengeance  in  the  detection  of  his  misdemean- 
ours. How  unsubstantial  is  this  projection  of 
a  man's  existence,  which  can  lie  in  abeyance 
for  centuries  and  then  be  brushed  up  again 
and  set  forth  for  the  consideration  of  posterity 
by  a  few  dips  in  an  antiquary's  inkpot ! 
This  precarious  tenure  of  fame  goes  a  long 
way  to  justify  those  (and  they  are  fiot  few) 
who  prefer  cakes  and  cream  in  the  immediate 
present. 

A  Wild  Youth 

Francois  de  Montcorbier,  alias  Frangois  des 
Loges,  alias  Frangois  Villon,  alias  Alichel 
Mouton,  Master  of  Arts  in  the  University  Df 
Paris,  was  born  in  that  city  in  the  summ.er  of 


FRANCOIS   VILLON 


663 


1431.  It  was  a  memorable  year  for  France 
on  other  and  higher  considerations.  A  great- 
hearted girl  and  a  poor-hearted  boy  made, 
the  one  her  last,  the  other  his  first  appearance 
on  the  public  stage  of  that  unhappy  country. 
On  the  30th  of  May  the  ashes  of  Joan  of  Arc 
were  thrown  into  the  Seine,  and  on  the  2d  of 
December  our  Henry  Sixth  made  his  Joyous 
Entry  dismally  enough  into  disaffected  and 
depopulating  Paris.  Sword  and  fire  still 
ravaged  the  open  country.  On  a  single  April 
Saturday  twelve  hundred  persons,  besides 
children,  made  their  escape  out  of  the  starv- 
ing capital.  The  hangman,  as  is  not  unin- 
teresting to  note  in  connection  with  Master 
Francis,  was  kept  hard  at  work  in  143 1 ;  on 
the  last  of  April  and  on  the  4th  of  May  alone, 
sixty-two  bancUts  swung  from  Paris  gibbets. 
A  more  confused  or  troublous  time  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  select  for  a  start  in  hfe. 
Not  even  a  man's  nationaUty  was  certain ;  for 
the  people  of  Paris  there  was  no  such  thing 
as  a  Frenchman.  The  English  were  the  Eng- 
lish indeed,  but  the  French  were  only  the 
Armagnacs,  whom,  with  Joan  of  Arc  at  their 
head,  they  had  beaten  back  from  under  their 
ramparts  not  two  years  before.  Such  public 
sentiment  as  they  had  centred  about  their 
dear  Duke  of  Burgundy,  and  the  dear  Duke 
had  no  more  urgent  business  than  to  keep  out 
of  their  neighbourhood.  ...  At  least,  and 
whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  our  disreputable 
troubadour  was  tubbed  and  swaddled  as  a  sub- 
ject of  the  English  crown. 

We  hear  nothmg  of  Mllon's  father  except 
that  he  was  poor  and  of  mean  extraction.  His 
mother  was  given  piously,^  which  does  not 
imply  very  much  in  an  old  Frenchwoman, 
and  quite  uneducated.  He  had  an  micle,  a 
monk  in  an  abbey  at  Angers,  who  must  have 
prospered  beyond  the  family  average,  and  was 
reported  to  be  worth  five  or  sLx  himdred 
cro\\Tis.  Of  this  uncle  and  his  money-box 
the  reader  will  hear  once  more.  In  144S 
Francis  became  a  student  of  the  University  of 
Paris  ;  in  1450  he  took  the  degree  of  Bachelor, 
and  in  1452  that  of  Master  of  Arts.  His 
bourse,  or  the  sum  paid  weekly  for  his  board, 
was  of  the  amount  of  two  sous.  Now  two 
sous  was  about  the  price  of  a  pound  of  salt 
butter  in  the  bad  times  of  141 7;  it  was  the 
price  of  half-a-pound  in  the  worse  times  of 
1419 ;  and  in  1444,  just  four  years  before  VU- 


lon  joined  the  University,  it  seems  to  have 
been  taken  as  the  average  wage  for  a  day's 
manual  labour.  In  short,  it  cannot  have 
been  a  very  profuse  allowance  to  keep  a 
sharp-set  lad  in  breakfast  and  supper  for 
seven  mortal  days ;  and  Villon's  share  of  the 
cakes  and  pastry  and  general  good  cheer,  to 
which  he  is  never  weary  of  referring,  must 
have  been  slender  from  the  first. 

The  educational  arrangements  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Paris  were,  to  our  way  of  thinking, 
somewhat  incomplete.  Worldly  and  monkish 
elements  were  presented,  in  a  curious  con- 
fusion, which  the  youth  might  disentangle 
for  himself.  If  he  had  an  opportunity,  on 
the  one  hand,  of  acquiring  much  hair-drawn 
divinity  and  a  taste  for  formal  disputation, 
he  was  put  in  the  way  of  much  gross  and 
flaunting  vice  upon  the  other.  The  lecture 
room  of  a  scholastic  doctor  was  sometimes 
under  the  same  roof  with  establishments  of 
a  very  different  and  peculiarly  vmedifjdng 
order.  The  students  had  extraordinary  priv^- 
ileges,  which  by  all  accounts  they  abused  ex- 
traordinarily. And  while  some  condemned 
themselves  to  an  almost  sepulchral  regularity 
and  seclusion,  others  fled  the  schools,  swag- 
gered in  the  street  "with  their  thumbs  in 
their  girdle,"  passed  the  night  in  riot,  and 
behaved  themselves  as  the  worthy  fore- 
runners of  Jehan  FroUo  in  the  romance  of 
Notre  Dame  de  Paris}  \'illon  tells  us  himself 
that  he  was  among  the  truants,  but  we  hardly 
needed  his  avowal.  The  burlesque  erudition 
in  which  he  sometimes  indulged  implies  no 
more  than  the  merest  smattering  of  knowl- 
edge; whereas  his  acquaintance  with  black- 
guard haunts  and  industries  could  only  have 
been  acquired  by  early  and  consistent  im- 
_piety  and  idleness.  He  passed  his  degrees, 
it  is  true ;  but  some  of  us  who  have  been  to 
modern  universities  will  make  their  own 
reflections  on  the  value  of  the  test.  As  for 
his  three  pupils,  Colin  Laurent,  Girard 
Gpssouyn,  and  Jehan  Marceau  —  if  they 
were  really  his  pupils  in  any  serious  sense  — 
what  can  we  say  but  God  help  them!  And 
sure  enough,  by  his  own  description,  they 
turned  out  as  ragged,  rowdy,  and  ignorant 
as  was  to  be  looked  for  from  the  views  and 
manners  of  their  rare  preceptor. 

At  some  time  or  other,  before  or  during  his 
university  career,  the  poet  was  adopted  by 


^  of  pious  tendencies 


^  by  A'ictor  Hugo 


664 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


Master  Guillaume  de  Villon,  chaplain  of  Saint 
Benoit-le-Betourne  near  the  Sorbonne.  From 
him  he  borrowed  the  surname  by  which  he  is 
known  to  posterity.  It  was  most  likely  from 
his  house,  called  the  Porte  Rouge, ^  and  situated 
in  a  garden  in  the  cloister  of  Saint  Benoit, 
that  Master  Francis  heard  the  bell  of  the  Sor- 
bonne^ ring  out  the  Angelus'*  while  he  was 
finishing  his  Small  Testament  at  Christmastide 
in  1456.  Toward  this  benefactor  he  usually 
gets  credit  for  a  respectable  display  of  grati- 
tude. But  with  his  trap  and  pitfall  style  of 
writing,  it  is  easy  to  make  too  sure.  His 
sentiments  are  about  as  much  to  be  relied  on 
as  those  of  a  professional  beggar  ;  and  in  this, 
as  in  so  many  other  matters,  he  comes  toward 
us  whining  and  piping  the  eye,'*  and  goes  off 
again  with  a  whoop  and  his  finger  to  his  nose. 
Thus,  he  calls  Guillaume  de  Villon  his  "more 
than  father,"  thanks  him  with  a  great  show  of 
sincerity  for  having  helped  him  out  of  many 
scrapes,  and  bequeaths  him  his  portion  of 
renown.  But  the  portion  of  renown  which 
belonged  to  a  young  thief,  distinguished  (if, 
at  the  period  when  he  wrote  this  legacy,  he 
was  distinguished  at  all)  for  having  written 
some  more  or  less  obscene  and  scurrilous 
ballads,  must  have  been  little  fitted  to  gratify 
the  self-respect  or  increase  the  reputation  of 
a  benevolent  ecclesiastic.  The  same  remark 
applies  to  a  subsequent  legacy  of  the  poet's 
library,  with  specification  of  one  work  which 
was  plainly  neither  decent  nor  devout.  We 
are  thus  left  on  the  horns  of  a  dilemma.  If 
the  chaplain  was  a  godly,  philanthropic  per- 
sonage, who  had  tried  to  graft  good  principles 
and  good  behaviour  on  this  wild  slip  of  an 
adopted  son,  these  jesting  legacies  would 
obviously  cut  him  to  the  heart.  The  position 
of  an  adopted  son  toward  his  adoptive  father^ 
is  one  full  of  delicacy ;  where  a  man  lends  his 
name  he  looks  for  great  consideration.  And 
this  legacy  of  Villon's  portion  of  renown  may 
be  taken  as  the  mere  fling  of  an  unregenerate 
scapegrace  who  has  wit  enough  to  recognise 
in  his  ov/n  shame  the  readiest  weapon  of 
offence  against  a  prosy  benefactor's  feelings. 
The  gratitude  of  Master  Francis  figures,  on 
this  reading,  as  a  frightful  minus  quantity. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  those  jests  were  given 
and  taken  in  good  humour,  the  whole  relation 

^  Red  Door  ^  a  college  of  the  University  ^  a 
summons  to  a  devotional  service  ^  pretending  to 
weep 


between  the  pair  degenerates  into  the  un- 
edifying  complicity  of  a  debauched  old  chap- 
lain and  a  witty  and  dissolute  young  scholar. 
At  this  rate  the  house  with  the  red  door  may 
have  rung  with  the  most  mundane  minstrelsy  ; 
and  it  may  have  been  below  its  roof  that 
Villon,  through  a  hole  in  the  plaster,  studied, 
as  he  tells  us,  the  leisures  of  a  rich  ecclesiastic. 

It  was,  perhaps,  of  some  moment  in  the 
poet's  life  that  he  should  have  inhabited  the 
cloister  of  Saint  Benoit.  Three  of  the  most 
remarkable  among  his  early  acquaintances  are 
Catherine  de  VauseUes,  for  whom  he  enter- 
tained a  short-lived  affection  and  an  endur- 
ing and  most  unmanly  resentment ;  Regnier 
de  Montigny,  a  young  blackguard  of  good 
birth ;  and  Colin  de  Cayeux,  a  fellow  with  a 
marked  aptitude  for  picking  locks.  Now  we 
are  on  a  foundation  of  mere  conjecture,  but 
it  is  at  least  curious  to  find  that  two  of  the 
canons  of  Saint  Benoit  answered  respectively 
to  the  names  of  Pierre  de  Vaucel  and  Etienne 
de  Montigny,  and  that  there  was  a  householder 
called  Nicolas  de  Cayeux  in  a  street  —  the 
Rue  des  Poirees  —  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  cloister.  M.  Longnon  is 
almost  ready  to  identify  Catherine  as  the 
niece  of  Pierre;  Regnier  as  the  nephew  of 
Etienne,  and  Colin  as  the  son  of  Nicolas. 
Vv^ithout  going  so  far,  it  must  be  owned  that 
the  approximation  of  names  is  significant.  As 
we  go  on  to  see  the  part  played  by  each  of 
these  persons  in  the  sordid  melodrama  of  the 
poet's  life,  we  shall  come  to  regard  it  as  even 
more  notable.  Is  it  not  Clough  who  has  re- 
marked that,  after  all,  everything  lies  in  jux- 
taposition ?  ^  Many  a  man's  destiny  has  been 
settled  by  nothing  apparently  more  grave  than 
a  pretty  face  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street 
and  a  couple  of  bad  companions  round  the 
corner. 

Catherine  de  Vauselles  (or  de  Vaucel  —  the 
change  is  within  the  limits  of  Villon's  license) 
had  plainly  delighted  in  the  poet's  conversa- 
tion ;  near  neighbours  or  not,  they  were  much 
together ;  and  Villon  made  no  secret  of  his 
court,  and  suffered  himself  to  believe  that  his 
feeling  was  repaid  in  kind.  This  may  have 
been  an  error  from  the  first,  or  he  may  have 
estranged  her  by  subsequent  misconduct  or 
temerity.  One  can  easily  imagine  Villon  an 
impatient  wooer.  One  thing,  at  least,  is  sure : 
that  the  aiJair  terminated  in  a  manner  bitterly 

^  of.  his  Amours  de  Voyage 


FRANgOIS   VILLON 


665 


humiliating  to  Master  Francis.  In  presence 
of  his  lady-love,  perhaps  under  her  window 
and  certainly  with  her  connivance,  he  was  un- 
mercifully thrashed  by  one  Noe  le  Joly  — 
beaten,  as  he  says  himself,  hke  dirty  linen  on 
the  washing-board.  It  is  characteristic  that 
his  malice  had  notably  increased  between  the 
time  when  he  wrote  the  Small  Testament  im- 
mediately on  the  back  of  the  occurrence,  and 
the  time  when  he  wrote  the  Large  Testament 
five  years  after.  On  the  latter  occasion  noth- 
ing is  too  bad  for  his  "damsel  with  the  twisted 
nose,"  as  he  calls  her.  She  is  spared  neither 
hint  nor  accusation,  and  he  telis  his  messenger 
to  accost  her  with  the  vilest  insults.  Villon, 
it  is  thought,  was  out  of  Paris  when  these 
amenities  escaped  his  pen;  or  perhaps  the 
strong  arm  of  Noe  le  Joly  would  have  been 
again  in  requisition.  So  ends  the  love  story, 
if  love  story  it  may  properly  be  called.  Poets 
are  not  necessarily  fortunate  in  love  ;  but  they 
usually  fall  among  more  romantic  circum- 
stances and  bear  their  disappointment  with  a 
better  grace. 

The  neighbourhood  of  Regnier  de  Montigny 
and  Colin  de  Cayeux  was  probably  more  in- 
fluential on  his  after  life  than  the  contempt  of 
Catherine.  For  a  man  who  is  greedy  of  all 
pleasures,  and  provided  with  little  money  and 
less  dignity  of  character,  we  may  prophesy  a 
safe  and  speedy  voyage  downward.  Humble 
or  even  truckling  virtue  may  walk  unspotted 
in  this  life.  But  only  those  who  despise  the 
pleasures  can  afford  to  despise  the  opinion  of 
the  world.  A  man  of  a  strong,  heady  tem- 
perament, like  Villon,  is  very  differently 
tempted.  His  eyes  lay  hold  on  all  provoca- 
tions greedily,  and  his  heart  flames  up  at  a 
look  into  imperious  desire ;  he  is  snared  and 
broached  to  by  anything  and  everything,  from 
a  pretty  face  to  a  piece  of  pastry  in  a  cook- 
shop  window  ;  he  will  drink  the  rinsing  of  the 
wine  cup,  stay  the  latest  at  the  tavern  party ; 
tap  at  the  lit  windows,  follow  the  sound  of 
singing,  and  beat  the  whole  neighbourhood  for 
another  reveller,  as  he  goes  reluctantly  home- 
ward :  and  grudge  himself  every  hour  of  sleep 
as  a  black  empty  period  in  which  he  cannot 
follow  after  pleasure.  Such  a  person  is  lost 
if  he  have  not  dignity,  or,  failing  that,  at  least 
pride,  which  is  its  shadow  and  in  many  ways 
its  substitute.  Master  Francis,  I  fancy,  would 
follow  his  own  eager  instincts  without  much 
spiritual  struggle.  And  we  soon  find  him 
fallen  among  thieves  in  sober,  literal  earnest, 


and  counting  as  acquaintances  the  most  dis- 
reputable people  he  could  lay*  his  hands  on : 
fellows  who  stole  ducks  in  Paris  Moat ;  ser- 
geants of  the  criminal  court,  and  archers  of 
the  watch ;  blackguards  who  slept  at  night 
under  the  butchers'  stalls,  and  for  whom  the 
aforesaid  archers  peered  about  carefully  with 
lanterns ;  Regnier  de  ^Montigny,  Colin  de 
Cayeux,  and  their  crew,  all  bound  on  a  favour- 
ing breeze  toward  the  gallows  ;  the  disorderly 
abbess  of  Port  Royal,  who  went  about  at  fair 
time  with  soldiers  and  thieves,  and  conducted 
her  abbey  on  the  queerest  principles ;  and 
most  likely  Perette  Mauger,  the  great  Paris 
receiver  of  stolen  goods,  not  yet  dreaming, 
poor  woman !  of  the  last  scene  of  her  career 
when  Henry  Cousin,  executor  of  the  high 
justice,  shall  bury  her,  alive  and  most  reluc- 
tant, in  front  of  the  new  Montigny  gibbet. 
Nay,  our  friend  soon  began  to  take  a  foremost 
rank  in  this  society.  He  could  string  off 
verses,  which  is  always  an  agreeable  talent; 
and  he  could  make  himself  useful  in  many 
other  ways.  The  whole  ragged  army  of  Bo- 
hemia, and  whosoever  loved  good  cheer  with- 
out at  all  loving  to  work  and  pay  for  it,  are 
addressed  in  contemporary  verses  as  the  "  Sub- 
jects of  Franfois  Villon."  He  was  a  good 
genius  to  all  hungry  and  unscrupulous  persons; 
and  became  the  hero  of  a  whole  legendary 
cycle  of  tavern  tricks  and  cheateries.  At 
best,  these  were  doubtful  levities,  rather  too 
thievish  for  a  scho.olboy,  rather  too  gamesome 
for  a  thief.  But  he  would  not  linger  long  in 
this  equivocal  border  land.  He  must  soon 
have  complied  with  his  surroundings.  He 
was  one  who  would  go  where  the  cannikin 
clinked,  not  caring  who  should  pay ;  and  from 
supping  in  the  wolves'  den,  there  is  but  a  step 
to  hunting  with  the  pack.  And  here,  as  I  am 
on  the  chapter  of  his  degradation,  I  shall  sa}' 
all  I  mean  to  say  about  its  darkest  expression, 
and  be  done  with  it  for  good.  Some  charit- 
able critics  see  no  more  than  z.jcH  d' esprit,  a 
graceful  and  trifling  exercise  of  the  imagina- 
tion, in  the  grimy  ballad  of  Fat  Peg  (Grossc 
Mar  got).  I  am  not  able  to  follow  these  gentle- 
men to  this  polite  extreme.  Out  of  all  Villon's 
works  that  ballad  stands  forth  in  flaring 
reality,  gross  and  ghastly,  as  a  thing  written 
in  a  contraction  of  disgust.  j\I.  Longnon 
shows  us  more  and  more  clearly  at  every  page 
that  we  are  to  read  our  poet  literally,  that  his 
names  are  the  names  of  real  persons,  and  the 
events  he  chronicles  were  actual  events.     But 


666 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


even  if  the  tendency  of  criticism  had  run  the 
other  way,  this  ballad  would  have  gone  far 
to  prove  itself.  I  can  well  understand  the 
reluctance  of  worthy  persons  in  this  matter; 
for  of  course  it  is  unpleasant  to  think  of  a  man 
of  genius  as  one  who  held,  in  the  words  of 
Marina  to  Boult  — 

"A  place,  for  which  the  pained'st  fiend 
Of  hell  would  not  in  reputation  change."  ^ 

But  beyond  this  natural  unwillingness,  the 
whole  difficulty  of  the  case  springs  from  a 
highly  virtuous  ignorance  of  life.  Paris  now 
is  not  so  different  ^om  the  Paris  of  then; 
and  the  whole  of  the  doings  of  Bohemia  are 
not  written  in  the  sugar-candy  pastorals  of 
Murger.2  xt  is  really  not  at  all  surprising  that 
a  young  man  of  the  fifteenth  century,  with  a 
knack  of  making  verses,  should  accept  his 
bread  upon  disgraceful  terms.  The  race  of 
those  who  do  is  not  extinct ;  and  some  of  them 
to  this  day  write  the  prettiest  verses  imagi- 
nable. .  .  .  After  this,  it  were  impossible  for 
Master  Francis  to  fall  lower :  to  go  and  steal 
for  himself  would  be  an  admirable  advance 
from  every  point  of  view,  divine  or  human. 

And  yet  it  is  not  as  a  thief,  but  as  a  homi- 
cide, that  he  makes  his  first  appearance  before 
angry  justice.  On  June  5,  1455,  when  he  was 
about  twenty-four,  and  had  been  Master  of 
Arts  for  a  matter  of  three  years,  we  behold 
.him  for  the  first  time  quite  definitely.  Angry 
justice  had,  as  it  were,  photographed  him  in 
the  act  of  his  homicide ;  and  M.  Longnon, 
rummaging  among  old  deeds,  has  turned  up 
the  negative  and  printed  it  off  for  our  instruc- 
tion. Villon  had  been  supping  —  copiously 
we  may  believe  —  and  sat  on  a  stone  bench 
in  front  of  the  Church  of  Saint  Benoit,  in 
company  with  a  priest  called  Gilles  and  a 
woman  of  the  name  of  Isabeau.  It  was  nine 
o'clock,  a  mighty  late  hour  for  the  period,  and 
evidently  a  fine  summer's  night.  Master 
Francis  carried  a  mantle,  like  a  prudent  man, 
to  keep  him  from  the  dews  {serain) ,  and  had  a 
sword  below  it  dangling  from  his  girdle.  So 
these  three  dallied  in  front  of  St.  Benoit,  tak- 
ing their  pleasure  {pour  soy  esbatre).  Sud- 
denly there  arrived  upon  the  scene  a  priest, 
Philippe  Chermoye  or  Sermaise,  also  with 
sword  and  cloak,  and  accompanied  by  one 

^  Pericles,  IV,  vi,  173-4  ^  Henri  Mur.i^er  (1822- 
1861),  who  celebrated  the  Bohemian  life  of  Paris 
in  Scenes  de  la  vie  de  Boheme 


Master  Jehan  le  Mardi.  Sermaise,  according 
to  Villon's  account,  which  is  all  we  have  to 
go  upon,  came  up  blustering  and  denying 
God ;  as  \'illon  rose  to  make  room  for  him 
upon  the  bench,  thrust  him'  rudely  back  into 
his  place ;  and  finally  drew  his  sword  and 
cut  open  his  lower  lip,  by  wiiat  I  should ' 
imagine  was  a  very  clumsy  stroke.  Up  to 
this  point,  Villon  professes  to  have  been  a 
model  of  courtesy,  even  of  feebleness;  and 
the  brawl,  in  his  version,  reads  like  the  fable 
of  the  wolf  and  the  lamb.  But  now  the 
lamb  was  roused ;  he  drew  his  sword,  stabbed 
Sermaise  in  the  groin,  knocked  him  on  the 
head  with  a  big  stone,  and  then,  leaving  him 
to  his  fate,  went  away  to  have  his  own  lip 
doctored  by  a  barber '  of  the  name  of  Fouquet. 
In  one  version,  he  says  that  Gilles,  Isabeau, 
and  Le  Mardi  ran  away  at  the  first  high 
words,  and  that  he  and  Sermaise  had  it  out 
alone ;  in  another,  Le  Mardi  is  represented 
as  returning  and  wresting  Villon's  sword  from 
him:  the  reader  may  please  himself.  Ser- 
maise was  picked  up,  lay  all  that  night  in  the 
prison  of  Saint  Benoit,  where  he  was  examined 
by  an  official  of  the  Chatelet  ^  and  expressly 
pardoned  Villon,  and  died  on  the  following 
Saturday  in  the  Hotel  Dieu.^ 

This,  as  I  have  said,  was  in  June.  Not 
before  January  of  the  next  year  could  Villon 
extracfa  pardon  from  the  king ;  but  while  his 
hand  was  in,  he  got  two.  One  is  for  "Fran- 
cois des  Loges,  alias  (anterment  dit)  de  Villon  "  ; 
and  the  other  runs  in  the  name  of  Francois 
de  Montcorbier.  Nay,  it  appears  there  was  a 
further  complication ;  for  in  the  narrative  of 
the  first  of  these  documents,  it  is  mentioned 
that  he  passed  himself  off  upon  Fouquet,  the 
barber-surgeon,  as  one  Michel  Mouton.  M. 
Longnon  has  a  theory  that  this  unhappy  acci- 
dent with  Sermaise  was  the  cause  of  MUon's 
subsequent  irregularities  ;  and  that  up  to  that 
moment  he  had  been  the  pink  of  good  be- 
haviour. But  the  matter  has  to  my  eyes  a 
more  dubious  air.  A  pardon  necessary  for 
Des  Loges  and  another  for  Montcorbier  ?  and 
these  two  the  same  person  ?  and  one  or  both 
of  them  known  by  the  alias  of  Villon,  how- 
ever honestly  come  by  ?  and  lastly,  in  the  heat 
of  the  moment,  a  fourth  name  thrown  out 
with  an  assured  countenance?  A  ship  is  not 
to  be  trusted  that  sails  imder.  so  many  colours. 

^  In  those  days  barbers  were  surgeons  for  minor 
operations.     -  the  city  prison   ^  a  hospital 


FRANgOIS    VILLON 


667 


This  is  not  the  simple  bearing  of  innocence. 
No  —  the  young  master  was  already  treading 
crooked  paths ;  already,  he  would  start  and 
blench  at  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  with  the 
look  we  know  so  well  in  the  face  of  Hogarth's 
Idle  Apprentice ;  ^  already,  in  the  bluov  devils,^ 
he  would  see  Henry  Cousin,  the  executor  of 
high  justice,  going  in  dolorous  procession 
toward  Montfaucon,  and  hear  the  wind  and 
the  birds  crying  around  Paris  gibbet. 

A  Gang  of  Thieves 

In  spite  of  the  prodigious  number  of  people 
who  managed  to  get  hanged,  the  fifteenth 
century  was  by  no  means  a  bad  time  for  crim- 
inals. A  great  confusion  of  parties  and  great 
dust  of  fighting  favoured  the  escape  of  private 
housebreakers  and  quiet  fellows  who  stole 
ducks  in  Paris  Moat.  Prisons  were  leaky; 
and  as  we  shall  see,  a  man  with  a  few  crowns 
in  his  pocket  and  perhaps  some  acquaintance 
among  the  officials,  could  easily  slip  out  and 
become  once  more  a  free  marauder.  There 
was  no  want  of  a  sanctuary  where  he  might 
harbour  until  troubles  blew  by;  and  accom- 
plices helped  each  other  with  more  or  less 
good  faith.  Clerks,^  above  all,  had  remark- 
able facilities  for  a  criminal  way  of  life;  for 
they  were  pri\dleged,  except  m  cases  of  noto- 
rious incorrigibihty,  to  be  plucked  from  the 
hands  of  rude  secular  justice  and  tried  by  a 
tribunal  of  their  own.  In  1402,  a  couple  of 
thieves,  both  clerks  of  the  University,  were 
condemned  to  death  b}'  the  Provost  of  Paris. 
As  they  were  taken  to  I\Iontfaucon,  they  kept 
crying  "high  and  clearly"  for  their  benefit  of 
clergy,^  but  were  none  the  less  pitilessly  hanged 
and  gibbeted.  Indignant  Alma  Mater  inter- 
fered before  the  king ;  and  the  Provost  was 
deprived  of  aU  royal  offices,  and  condemned 
to  return  the  bodies  and  erect  a  great  stone 
cross,  on  the  road  from  Paris  to  the  gibbet, 
graven  with  the  effigies  of  these  two  holy 
martyrs.  We  shall  hear  more  of  the  benefit 
of  clergy ;  for  after  this  the  reader  will  not 
be  surprised  to  meet  with  thieves  in  the  shape 
of  tonsured  clerks,  or  even  priests  and  monks. 

^  The  Industrious  and  the  Idle  Apprentice  are 
shown  in  a  series  of  pictures  by  William  Hogarth 
(1697-1764),  a  great  English  caricaturist  and 
satirist.  ^  when  in  low  spirits  ^  men  of  education 
^  the  right  of  demanding  a  trial  before  an  ecclesi- 
astical court  instead  of  a  secular  court 


To  a  knot  of  such  learned  pilferers  our  poet 
certainly  belonged ;  and  by  turning  over  a 
few  more  of  M.  Longnon's  negatives,  we  shall 
get  a  clear  idea  of  their  character  and  doings. 
JMontigny  and  De  Cayeux  are  names  already 
known ;  Guy  Tabary,  Petit-Jehan,  Dom  Nico- 
las, little  Thibault,  who  was  both  clerk  and 
goldsmith,  and  who  made  picklocks  and 
melted  plate  for  himself  and  his  companions 
—  \vith  these  the  reader  has  still  to  become 
acquainted.  Petit-Jehan^  and  De  Cayeux 
were  handy  fellows  and  enjoyed  a  usefid  pre- 
eminence in  honour  of  their  doings  with  the 
picklock.  "Diet us  des  Cahyeus  est  fortis 
operator  crochetoriim,"  says  Tabary's  inter- 
rogation, "sed  dictiis  Petit-Jehan,  ejus  socius, 
est  forcius  operator.''"^  But  the  flower  of  the 
flock  was  little  Thibault ;  it  was  reported 
that  no  lock  could  stand  before  him ;  he  had 
a  persuasive  hand;  let  us  salute  capacity 
wherever  we  may  find  it.  Perhaps  the  term 
gang  is  not  quite  properly  appHed  to  the  per- 
sons whose  fortimes  we  are  now  about  to 
foUow;  rather  they  were  independent  male- 
factors, socially  intimate,  and  occasionally 
joining  together  for  some  serious  operation, 
just  as  modern  stock  jobbers  form  a  syndicate 
for  an  important  loan.  Nor  were  they  at  all 
particular  to  any  branch  of  misdoing.  They 
did  not  scrupulously  confine  themselves  to  a 
smgle  sort  of  theft,  as  I  hear  is  common 
among  modern  thieves.  They  were  ready 
for  anything,  from  pitch-and-toss  ^  to  man- 
slaughter. IMontingy,  for  mstance,  had  neg- 
lected neither  of  these  extremes,  and  we  find 
him  accused  of  cheating  at  games  of  hazard  ^ 
on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  of  the 
murder  of  one  Thevenin  Pensete  in  a  house  by 
the  Cemetery  of  St.  John.  If  time  had  only 
spared  us  some  particulars,  might  not  this 
last  have  furnished  us  with  the  matter  of  a 
grisly  winter's  tale? 

At  Christmas-time  in  1456,  readers  of  Villon 
will  remember  that  he  was  engaged  on  the 
Small  Testament.^  About  the  same  period, 
circa  festum  nativitatis  Domini,^  he  took  part 
in  a  memorable  supper  at  the  Mtile  Tavern, 
in   front   of   the    Church   of   St.    Mathurin. 

^  Little- John  ^  The  said  des  Cahyeus  is  a 
great  artist  with  picklocks,  but  the  said  Petit- 
Jehan,  his  *  pal,'  is  a  greater.  ^  a  game  like 
matching  pennies  ^  craps  ^  The  '  testament,' 
or  'will,'  was  a  popular  form  of  literary  com- 
position    ®  about  Christmas 


668 


ROBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON 


Tabary,  who  seems  to  have  been  very  much 
Villon's  creature,  had  ordered  the  supper  in 
the  course  of  the  afternoon.  He  was  a  man 
who  had  had  troubles  in  his  time  and  lan- 
guished in  the  Bishop  of  Paris's  prisons  on  a 
suspicion  of  picking  locks;  confiding,  con- 
vivial, not  very  astute  —  who  had  copied  out 
a  whole  improper  romance  with  his  own  right 
hand.  This  supper-party  was  to  be  his  first 
introduction  to  De  Cayeux  and  Petit-Jehan, 
which  was  probably  a  matter  of  some  concern 
to  the  poor  man's  muddy  wits ;  in  the  sequel, 
at  least,  he  speaks  of  both  with  an  undisguised 
respect,  based  on  professional  inferiority  in  the 
matter  of  picklocks.  Dom  Nicolas,  a  Picardy 
monk,  was  the  fifth  and  last  at  table.  When 
supper  had  been  despatched  and  fairly  washed 
down,  we  may  suppose,  with  white  Baigneux 
or  red  Beaune,  which  were  favourite  wines 
among  the  fellowship,  Tabary  was  solemnly 
sworn  over  to  secrecy  on  the  night's  perform- 
ances ;  and  the  party  left  the  Mule  and  pro- 
ceeded to  an  mioccupied  house  belonging  to 
Robert  de  Saint-Simon.  This,  over  a  low 
wall,  they  entered  without  difiiculty.  All  but 
Tabary  took  off  their  upper  garments;  a 
ladder  was  found  and  applied  to  the  high 
wall  which  separated  Saint-Simon's  house 
from  the  court  of  the  College  of  Navarre; 
the  four  fellows  in  their  shirt  sleeves  (as  we 
might  say)  clambered  over  in  a  twinkling; 
and  Master  Guy  Tabary  remained  alone  be- 
side the  overcoats.  From  the  court  the  bur- 
glars made  their  way  into  the  vestry  of  the 
chapel,  where  they  found  a  large  chest, 
strengthened  with  iron  bands  and  closed  with 
four  locks.  One  of  these  locks  they  picked, 
and  then,  by  levering  up  the  corner,  forced 
the  other  three.  Inside  was  a  small  coffer,  of 
walnut  wood,  also  barred  with  iron,  but 
fastened  with  only  three  locks,  which  were  all 
comfortably  picked  by  way  of  the  keyhole. 
In  the  walnut  coffer  —  a  joyous  sight  by  our 
thieves'  lantern  —  were  five  hmidred  crowns 
of  gold.  There  was  some  talk  of  opening  the 
aumries,^  where,  if  they  had  only  known,  a 
booty  eight  or  nine  times  greater  lay  ready 
to  their  hand ;  but  one  of  the  party  (I  have  a 
humorous  suspicion  it  was  Dom  Nicolas,  the 
Picardy  monk)  hurried  them  away.  It  was 
ten  o'clock  when  they  mounted  the  ladder ; 
it  was  about  midnight  before  Tabary  beheld 
them  coming  back.     To  him  they  gave  ten 


crowns,  and  promised  a  share  of  a  two-crown 
dinner  on  the  morrow ;  whereat  we  may  sup- 
pose his  mouth  watered.  In  course  of  time, 
he  got  wind  of  the  real  amount  of  their  booty 
and  understood  how  scurvily  he  had  been 
used ;  but  he  seems  to  have  borne  no  malice. 
How  could  he,  against  such  superb  operators 
as  Petit-Jehan  and  De  Cayeux ;  or  a  person 
like  Villon,  who  could  have  made  a  new  im- 
j^roper  romance  out  of  his  own  head,  instead 
of  merely  copying  an  old  one  with  mechanical 
right  hand? 

The  rest  of  the  winter  was  not  uneventful 
for  the  gang.  First  they  made  a  demonstra- 
tion against  the  Church  of  St.  Mathurin 
after  chalices,^  and  were  ignominiously  chased 
away  by  barking  dogs.  Then  Tabary  fell  out 
with  Casin  Chollet,  one  of  the  fellows  who 
stole  ducks  in  Paris  Moat,  who  subsequently 
became  a  sergeant  of  the  Chatelet  and  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  misconduct,  followed  by 
imprisonment  and  public  castigation,  during 
the  wars  of  Louis  Eleventh.  The  quarrel  was 
not  conducted  with  a  proper  regard  to  the 
king's  peace,  and  the  pair  publicly  belaboured 
each  other  until  the  police  stepped  in,  and 
Master  Tabary  was  cast  once  more  into  the 
prisons  of  the  Bishop.  While  he  still  lay  in 
durance,  another  job  was  cleverly  executed 
by  the  band  in  broad  daylight,  at  the  Augus- 
tine Monastery.  Brother  Guillaume  Coiftier 
was  beguiled  by  an  accomplice  to  St.  Mathurin 
to  say  mass ;  and  during  his  absence,  his 
chamber  was  entered  and  five  or  six  hundred 
crowns  in  money  and  some  silver  plate  suc- 
cessfully abstracted.  A  melancholy  man  was 
Coifiier  on  his  return !  Eight  crowns  from 
this  adventure  were  forwarded  by  little  Thi- 
bault  to  the  incarcerated  Tabary ;  and  with 
these  he  bribed  the  jailer  and  reappeared  in 
Paris  taverns.  Some  time  before  or  shortly 
after  this,  Villon  set  out  for  Angers,  as  he  had 
promised  in  the  Small  Testament.  The  object 
of  this  excursion  was  not  merely  to  avoid  the 
presence  of  his  cruel  mistress  or  the  strong 
arm  of  Noe  le  Joly,  but  to  plan  a  deliberate 
robbery  on  his  uncle  the  monk.  As  soon  as 
he  had  properly  studied  the  ground,  the  others 
were  to  go  over  in  force  from  Paris  —  pick- 
locks and  all  —  and  away  with  my  uncle's 
strongbox !  This  throws  a  comical  sidelight 
on  his  own  accusation  against  his  relatives, 
that  they  had  "forgotten  natural  duty"  and 


closets 


^  cups  used  for  sacramental  wine 


FRANgOIS    VILLON 


669 


disowned  him  because  he  was  poor.  A  poor 
relation  is  a  distasteful  circumstance  at  the 
best,  but  a  poor  relation  who  plans  deliberate 
robberies  against  those  of  his  blood,  and 
trudges  hundreds  of  weary  leagues  to  put 
them  into  execution,  is  surely  a  little  on  the 
wrong  side  of  toleration.  The  imcle  at  Angers 
may  have  been  monstrously  undutiful ;  but 
the  nephew  from  Paris  was  upsides  with  him. 
On  the  23d  April,  that  venerable  and  dis- 
creet person.  Master  Pierre  Marchand,  Curate 
and  Prior  of  Paray-le-Monial,  in  the  diocese 
of  Chartres,  arrived  in  Paris  and  put  up  at  the 
sign  of  the  Three  Chandeliers,  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Huchette.  Next  day,  or  the  day  after,  as  he 
was  breakfasting  at  the  sign  of  the  Arm-chair, 
he  fell  into  talk  with  two  customers,  one  of 
whom  was  a  priest  and  the  other  our  friend 
Tabary.  The  idiotic  Tabary  became  mighty 
confidential  as  to  his  past  life.  Pierre  Mar- 
chand, who  was  an  acquaintance  of  Guillaume 
Coiffier's  and  had  sympathised  ^\ith  him  over 
his  loss,  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  mention  of 
picklocks,  and  led  on  the  transcriber  of  im- 
proper romances  from  one  thing  to  another, 
until  they  were  fast  friends.  For  picklocks 
the  Prior  of  Paray  professed  a  keen  curiosity ; 
but  Tabary,  upon  some  late  alarm,  had  thrown 
all  his  into  the  Seine.  Let  that  be  no  diffi- 
culty, however,  for  was  there  not  little  Thi- 
bault ,  who  could  make  them  of  all  shapes  and 
sizes,  and  to  whom  Tabary,  smeUing  an  accom- 
plice, would  be  only  too  glad  to  introduce  his 
new  acquaintance?  On  the  morrow,  accord- 
ingly, they  met ;  and  Tabary,  after  having 
first  wet  his  whistle  at  the  Prior's  expense, 
led  him  to  Notre  Dame  ^  and  presented  him  to 
four  or  five  "young  companions,"  who  were 
keeping  sanctuary  -  in  the  church.  They  were 
all  clerks,  recently  escaped,  like  Tabary  him- 
self, from  the  episcopal  prisons.  Among 
these  we  may  notice  Thibault,  the  operator, 
a  little  fellow  of  twenty-six,  wearing  long  hair 
behind.  The  Prior  expressed,  through  Ta- 
bary, his  anxiety  to  become  their  accomplice 
and  altogether  such  as  they  were  {de  leur  sorte 
et  de  leurs  complices).  jMighty  polite  they 
showed  themselves,  and  made  him  many  fine 
speeches  in  return.  But  for  all  that,  perhaps 
because  they  had  longer  heads  than  Tabary, 
perhaps  because  it  is  less  easy  to  wheedle  men 
in  a  body,  they  kept  obstinately  ta  generah- 

^  the  cathedral    -  staying  in  the  church,  where 
they  could  not  be  arrested 


ties  and  gave  him  no  information  as  to  their 
exploits,  past,  present,  or  to  come.  I  sup- 
pose Tabary  groaned  under  this  reserve ;  for 
no  sooner  were  he  and  the  Prior  out  of  the 
church  than  he  fairly  emptied  his  heart  to  him, 
gave  him  full  details  of  many  hanging  matters 
in  the  past,  and  explained  the  future  intentions 
of  the  band.  The  scheme  of  the  hour  was  to 
rob  aiiother  Augustine  monk,  Robert  de  la 
Porte,  and  in  this  the  Prior  agreed  to  take  a 
hand,  with  simulated  greed.  Thus,  in  the 
course  of  two  days,  he  had  turned  this  wine- 
skin of  a  Tabary  inside  out.  For  a  while 
longer  the  farce  was  carried  on ;  the  Prior 
was  introduced  to  Petit-Jehan,  whom  he 
describes  as  a  little,  very  smart  man  of  tUrty, 
with  a  black  beard  and  a  short  jacket ;  an 
appointment  was  made  and  broken  in  the  de 
la  Porte  affair ;  Tabary  had  some  breakfast 
at  the  Prior's  charge  and  leaked  out  more 
secrets  under  the  influence  of  wine  and  friend- 
ship ;  and  then  all  of  a  sudden,  on  the  17th  of 
May,  an  alarm  sprang  up,  the  Prior  picked 
up  his  skirts  and  walked  quietly  over  to  the 
Chatelet  to  make  a  deposition,  and  the  whole 
band  took  to  their  heels  and  vanished  out  of 
Paris  and  the  sight  of  the  police. 

\^anish  as, they  like,  they  all  go  with  a  clog 
about  their  feet.  Sooner  or  later,  here  or 
there,  they  will  be  caught  in  the  fact,  and  igno- 
miniously  sent  home.  From  our  vantage  of 
four  centuries  afterward,  it  is  odd  and  pitiful 
to  watch  the  order  in  which  the  fugitives  are 
captured  and  dragged  in. 

Alontigny  was  the  first.  In  August  of  that 
same  year,  he  was  laid  by  the  heels  on  many 
grievous  counts ;  sacrilegious  robberies,  frauds, 
incorrigibility,  and  that  bad  business  about 
Thevenin  Pensete  in  the  house  by  the  Ceme- 
tery of  St.  John.  He  was  reclaimed  by  the 
ecclesiastical  authorities  as  a  clerk ;  but  the 
claim  was  rebutted  on  the  score  of  incorrigi- 
bility, and  ultimately  fell  to  the  ground  ;  and 
he  was  condemned  to  death  b}'  the  Provost  of 
Paris.  It  was  a  very  rude  hour  for  Montigny, 
but  hope  was  not  yet  over.  He  was  a  fellow 
of  some  birth ;  his  father  had  been  king's  pant- 
ler  ;  ^  his  sister,  probably  married  to  some  one 
about  the  Court,  was  in  the  family  way,  and 
her  health  would  be  endangered  if  the  execution 
was  proceeded  with.  So  down  comes  Charles 
the  Seventh  with  letters  of  mercy,  commuting 
the  penalty  to  a  year  in  a  dungeon  on  bread 

^  in  charge  of  the  pantry 


670 


ROBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON 


and  water,  and  a  pilgrimage  to  tlie  shrine  of 
St.  James  in  Galicia.  Alas !  the  document 
was  incomplete;  it  did  not  contain  the  full 
tale  of  Montigny's  enormities  ;  it  did  not  recite 
that  he  had  been  denied  benefit  of  clergy,  and 
it  said  nothing  about  Thevenin  Pensete. 
Montigny's  hour  was  at  hand.  Benefit  of 
clergy,  honourable  descent  from  king's  pant- 
ler,  sister  in  the  family  way,  royal  letters  of 
commutation  —  all  were  of  no  avail.  He  had 
been  in  prison  in  Rouen,  in  Tours,  in  Bordeaux, 
and  four  times  already  in  Paris ;  and  out  of 
all  these  he  had  come  scathless ;  but  now  he 
must  make  a  little  excursion  as  far  as  Mont- 
faucon  with  Henry  Cousin,  executor  of  high 
justtce.  There  let  him  swing  among  the 
carrion  crows. 

About  a  year  later,  in  July,  1458,  the  police 
laid  hands  on  Tabary.  Before  the  ecclesias- 
tical commissary  he  was  twice  examined,  and, 
on  the  latter  occasion,  put  to  the  question^ 
ordinary  and  extraordinary.  What  a  dismal 
change  from  pleasant  suppers  at  the  Mule, 
where  he  sat  in  triumph  with  expert  operators 
and  great  wits  !  He  is  at  the  lees  of  life,  poor 
rogue ;  and  those  fingers  which  once  tran- 
scribed improper  romances  are  now  agonis- 
ingly stretched  upon  the  rack.  We  have  no 
sure  knowledge,  but  we  may  have  a  shrewd 
guess  of  the  conclusion.  Tabary,  the  admirer, 
would  go  the  same  way  as  those  whom  he 
admired. 

The  last  we  hear  of  is  Colin  de  Cayeux. 
He  was  caught  in  autumn  1460,  in  the  great 
Church  of  St.  Leu  d'Esserens,  which  makes  so 
fine  a  figure  in  the  pleasant  Oise  valley  be- 
tween Creil  and  Beaumont.  He  was  re- 
claimed by  no  less  than  two  bishops ;  but 
the  Procureur^  for  the  Provost  held  fast  by 
incorrigible  Colin.  1460  was  an  ill-starred 
year :  for  justice  was  making  a  clean  sweep 
of  "poor  and  indigent  persons,  thieves,  cheats, 
and  lockpickers,"  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Paris ;  and  Colin  de  Cayeux,  with  many 
others,  was  condemned  to  death  and  hanged. 

Villon  and  the  Gallows 

Villon  was  still  absent  on  the  Angers  expedi- 
tion when  the  Prior  of  Paray  sent  such  a 
bomljshell  among  his  accomplices ;  and  the 
dates  of  his  return  and  arrest  remain  undis- 
coverable.     M.    Campaux   plausibly   enough 

^  put  through  'the  third  degree'    ^  deputy 


opined  for  the  autumn  of  1457,  which  woidd 
make  him  closely  follow  on  Montigny,  and 
the  first  of  those  denounced  by  the  Prior  to 
fall  into  the  toils.  We  may  suppose,  at  least, 
that  it  was  not  long  thereafter ;  we  may  sup- 
pose him  competed  for  between  lay  and 
clerical  Courts ;  and  we  may  suppose  him 
alternately  pert  and  impudent,  humble  and 
fawning,  in  his  defence.  But  at  the  end  of 
all  supposing,  we  come  upon  some  nuggets 
of  fact.  For  first,  he  was  put  to  the  question 
by  water.^  He  who  had  tossed  off  so  many 
cups  of  white  Baigneux  or  red  Beaune,  now 
drank  water  through  linen  folds,  until  his 
bowels  were  flooded  and  his  heart  stood  still. 
After  so  much  raising  of  the  elbow,  so  much 
outcry  of  fictitious  thirst,  here  at  last  was 
enough  drinking  for  a  lifetime.  Truly,  of  our 
pleasant  vices,  the  gods  make  whips  to  scourge 
us.^  And  secondly  he  was  condemned  to  be 
hanged.  A  man  may  have  been  expecting  a 
catastrophe  for  years,  and  yet  find  himself  un- 
prepared when  it  arrives.  Certainly,  Villon 
found,  in  this  legitimate  issue  of  his  career, 
a  very  staggering  and  grave  consideration. 
Every  beast,  as  he  says,  clings  bitterly  to  a 
whole  skin.  If  everything  is  lost,  and  even 
honour,  life  still  remains  ;  nay,  and  it  becomes, 
like  the  ewe  lamb  in  Nathan's  parable,''  as  dear 
as  all  the  rest.  "Do  you  fancy,"  he  asks,  in 
a  lively  ballad,  "that  I  had  not  enough  phi- 
losophy under  my  hood  to  cry  out :  '  I  ap- 
peal'? If  I  had  made  any  bones  about  the 
matter,  I  should  have  been  planted  upright 
in  the  fields,  by  the  St.  Denis  Road"— - 
Montfaucon  being  on  the  way  to  St.  Denis. 
An  appeal  to  Parliament,  as  we  saw  in  the 
case  of  Colin  de  Cayeux,  did  not  necessarily 
lead  to  an  acquittal  or  a  commutation ;  and 
while  the  matter  was  pending,  our  poet  had 
ample  opportunity  to  reflect  on  his  position. 
Hanging  is  a  sharp  argument,  and  to  swing 
with  many  others  on  the  gibbet  adds  a  horrible 
corollary  for  the  imagination.  With  the  as- 
pect of  Montfaucon  he  was  well  acquainted ; 
indeed,  as  the  neighbourhood  appears  to  have 
been  sacred  to  junketing  and  nocturnal  pic- 
nics of  wild  young  men  and  women,  he  had 
probably  studied  it  under  all  varieties  of  hour 
and  weather.  And  now,  as  he  la}''  in  prison 
waiting  the  mortal  push,  these  different  as- 
pects crowded  back  on  his  imagination  with  a 

'recently  called   'the   water-cure'     '  of.  King 
Lear,  V,  iii,  170-1     ^11  Samuel,  xii  :  3 


FRANCOIS    VILLON 


671 


new  and  startling  significance ;  and  he  wrote 
a  ballad,  by  way  of  epitaph  for  himself  and 
his  companions,  which  remains  unique  in  the 
annals  of  mankind.  It  is,  in  the  highest 
sense,  a  piece  of  his  biography :  — 

La  plu}-e  nous  a  debuez  et  lavez,^ 

Et  le  soleil  dessechez  et  noirciz ; 

Pies,  corbeauLx,  nous  ont  les  yeux  cavez, 

Et  arrachez  la  barbe  et  les  sourcilz. 

Jamais,  nul  temps,  nous  ne  sommes  rassis ; 

Puis  ga,  puis  la,  comme  le  vent  varie, 

A  son  plaisir  sans  cesser  nous  charie, 

Plus  becquetez  d'oiseaubc  que  dez  a  couldre. 

Ne  soyez  done  de  nostra  confrairie, 

]\Iais  priez  Dieu  que  tous  nous  vueille  absouldre. 

Here  is  some  genuine  thieves'  literature 
after  so  much  that  was  spurious  ;  sharp  as  an 
etching,  written  with  a  shuddering  soul. 
There  is  an  intensity  of  copsideration  in  the 
piece  that  shows  it  to  be  the  transcript  of 
famihar  thoughts.  It  is  the  quintessence  of 
many  a  doleful  nightmare  on  the  straw,  when 
he  felt  himself  swmg  helpless  in  the  wind,  and 
saw  the  birds  turn  about  him,  screaming  and 
menacing  his  eyes. 

And,  after  all,  the  Parliament  changed  his 
sentence  into  one  of  banishment ;  and  to 
Roussillon,  in  Dauphiny,  our  poet  must  carry 
his  woes  without  delay.  Travellers  between 
Lyons  and  Marseilles  may  remember  a  station 
on  the  line,  some  way  below  \'ienne,  where 
the  Rhone  fleets  seaward  between  vine-clad 
hills.  This  was  Villon's  Siberia.  It  would 
be  a  little  warm  in  surnmer  perhaps,  and  a 
little  cold  in  winter  in  that  draughty  valley 
between  two  great  mountain  fields  ;  but  what 
with  the  hills,  and  the  racing  river,  and  the 
fiery  Rhone  wanes,  he  was  little  to  be  pitied  on 

^  The   rain  hath   scoured  us  and  washed  us 

clean, 
And  the  sun  hath  blackened  and  scorched  us 

dry; 
Magpies  and  crows  at  our  eyes  have  been 
And  have  plucked  out  our  beards  and  the 

brows  from  the  eye ; 
Never  —  no  moment  —  at  rest  we  lie, 
But  sway  and  swing  as  the  wind  doth  blow, 
Unceasingly  driven  at  his  will  to  and  fro ; 
No  thimble  so  pecked  as  each  bird-pecked 

face. 
Be  not  of  our  brotherhood,  ye  below, 
But  pray  God  pardon  us  all,  of  his  grace ! 


the  conditions  of  his  exile.  Villon,  in  a  re- 
markably bad  ballad,  written  in  a  breath, 
heartily  thanked  and  fulsomely  belauded  the 
Parliament ;  the  envoi,^  like  the  proverbial 
postscript  of  a  lady's  letter,  containing  the 
pith  of  his  performance  in  a  request  for  three 
days'  delay  to  settle  his  affairs  and  bid  his 
friends  farewell.  He  was  probably  not  fol- 
lowed out  of  Paris,  like  Antoine  Fradtn,  the 
poptilar  preacher,  another  exile  of  a  few  years 
later,  by  weepmg  multitudes ;  but  I  dare 
say  one  or  two  rogues  of  his  acquaintance 
would  keep  him  company  for  a  mile  or  so  on  the 
south  road,  and  drink  a  bottle  with  him  be- 
fore they  ttu-ned.  For  banished  people,  in 
those  days,  seem  to  have  set  out  on  their  own 
responsibUity,  m  their  own  guard,  and  at 
their  own  expense.  It  was  no  joke  to  make 
one's  way  from  Paris  to  Roussillon  alone  and 
penniless  in  the  fifteenth  century.  Villon 
says  he  left  a  rag  of  his  tails  on  every  bush. 
Indeed,  he  must  have  had  many  a  weary 
tramp,  many  a  slender  meal,  and  many  a 
to-do  with  blustering  captains  of  the  Ordon- 
nance.  But  with  one  of  his  light  fingers,  we 
may  fancy  that  he  took  as  good  ias  he  gave ; 
for  every  rag  of  his  tad,  he  would  manage  to 
indemnify  himself  upon  the  population  in  the 
shape  of  food,  or  wine,  or  ringing  money ;  and 
his  route  would  be  traceable  across  France 
and  Burgundy  by  housewives  and  inn-keepers 
lamenting  over  petty  thefts,  like  the  track  of  a 
single  human  locust.  A  strange  figure  he 
must  have  cut  in  the  eyes  of  the  good  country 
people :  this  ragged,  blackguard  city  poet, 
witla  a  smack  of  the  Paris  student,  and  a 
smack  of  the  Paris  street  arab,  posting  along 
the  highways,  in  rain  or  sun,  among  the  green 
fields  and  vineyards.-  For  himself,  he  had  no 
taste  for  rural  loveUness ;  green  fields  and 
vineyards  would  be  mighty  indifferent  to  IMas- 
ter  Francis ;  but  he  would  often  have  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek  at  the  simplicity  of  rustic 
dupes,  and  often,  at  city  gates,  he  might  stop 
to  contemplate  the  gibbet  with  its  swinging 
bodies,  and  hug  himself  on  his  escape. 

How  long  he  stayed  at  Roussillon,  how  far  he 
became  the  protege  of  the  Bourbons,  to  whom 

^  the  short  stanza  (usually  of  foiu  lines)  ending 
a  ballade  and  containing  a  direct  address  to  the 
person  for  whom  it  was  written ;  see  Chaucer's 
ballades  or  Rossetti's  translation  from  Villon 
2  jMore  sombre  but  perhaps  not  less  tuneful  than 
Autolj'cus. 


672 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


that  town  belonged,  or  when  it  was  that  he 
took  part,  under  the  auspices  of  Charles  of 
Orleans,^  in  a  rhyming  tournament  to  be  re- 
ferred to  once  again  in  the  pages  of  the  present 
volume,  are  matters  that  still  remain  in  dark- 
ness, in  spite  of  M.  Longnon's  diligent  rum- 
maging among  archives.  When  we  next  find 
him,  in  summer  146 1,  alas!  he  is  once  more  in 
durance :  this  time  at  Meun-sur-Loire,  in  the 
prisons  of  Thibault  d'Aussigny,  Bishop  of 
Orleans.  He  had  been  lowered  in  a  basket 
into  a  noisome  pit,  where  he  lay,  all  summer, 
gnawing  hard  crusts  and  railing  upon  fate. 
His  teeth,  he  says,  were  like  the  teeth  of  a 
rake :  a  touch  of  haggard  portraiture  all  the 
more  real  for  being  excessive  and  burlesque, 
and  all  the  more  proper  to  the  man  for  being  a 
caricature  of  his  own  misery.  His  eyes  were 
"bandaged  with  thick  walls."  It  might  blow 
hurricanes  overhead  ;  the  lightning  might  leap 
in  high  heaven ;  but  no  word  of  all  this 
reached  him  in  his  noisome  pit.  "II  n'entre, 
ougist,  n'escler  ni  tourbillon."  ^  Above  all,  he 
was  fevered  with  envy  and  anger  at  the  free- 
dom of  others  ;  and  his  heart  flowed  over  into 
curses  as  he  thought  of  Thibault  d'Aussigny, 
walking  the  streets  in  God's  sunlight,  and  bless- 
ing people  with  extended  fingers.  So  much 
we  find  sharply  lined  in  his  own  poems.  Why 
he  was  cast  again  into  prison  —  how  he  had 
again  managed  to  shave  the  gallows  —  this 
we  know  not,  nor,  from  the  destruction  of 
authorities,  are  we  ever  likely  to  learn.  But 
on  October  2d,  146 1,  or  some  day  immediately 
preceding,  the  new  King,  Louis  Eleventh, 
made  his  joyous  entry  into  Meun.  Now  it 
was  a  part  of  the  formality  on  such  occasions 
for  the  new  King  to  liberate  certain  prisoners  ; 
and  so  the  basket  was  let  down  into  Villon's 
pit,  and  hastily  did  Master  Francis  scramble 
in,  and  was  most  joyfully  hauled  up,  and  shot 
out,  blinking  and  tottering,  but  once  more  a 
free  man ,  into  the  blessed  sun  and  wind.  Now 
or  never  is  the  time  for  verses!  Such  a  happy 
revolution  would  turn  the  head  of  a  stocking- 
weaver,  and  set  him  jingling  rhymes.  And 
so  — •  after  a  voyage  to  Paris,  where  he  finds 
Montigny  and  De  Cayeux  clattering  their 
bones  upon  the  gibbet,  and  his  three  pupils 
roystcring  in  Paris  streets,  "with  their  thumbs 

^  a  prince  and  poet  who  had  been  a  prisoner 
in  England  from  1415  to  1440;  Stevenson  has 
an  essay  on  him  ^  There  enters  not,  where  he 
lies,  lightning-flash  nor  whirlwind. 


under  their  girdles,"  —  down  sits  Master 
Francis  to  write  his  Large  Testament,  and 
perpetuate  his  name  in  a  sort  of  glorious 
ignominy. 

The  Large  Testament 

Of  this  capital  achievement  and,  with  it, 
of  Villon's  style  in  general,  it  is  here  the  place 
to  speak.  The  Large  Testament  is  a  hurly- 
burly  of  cynical  and  sentimental  reflections 
about  life,  jesting  legacies  to  friends  and  en- 
emies, and,  interspersed  among  these  many 
admirable  ballades,  both  serious  and  absurd. 
With  so  free  a  design,  no  thought  that  occurred 
to  him  would  need  to  be  dismissed  without 
expression ;  and  he  could  draw  at  full  length 
the  portrait  of  his  own  bedevilled  soul,  and  of 
the  bleak  and  blackguardly  world  which  was 
the  theatre  of  his  exploits  and  sufferings. 
If  the  reader  can  Conceive  something  between 
the  slap-dash  inconsequence  of  Byron's  Don 
Juan  and  the  racy  humorous  gravity  and 
brief  noble  touches  that  distinguish  the  ver- 
nacular poems  of  Burns,  he  will  have  formed 
some  idea  of  Villon's  style.  To  the  latter 
writer  —  except  in  the  ballades,  which  are 
quite  his  own,  and  can  be  paralleled  from  no 
other  language  known  to  me  —  he  bears  a 
particular  resemblance.  In  common  with 
Burns,  he  has  a  certain  rugged  compression, 
a  brutal  vivacity  of  epithet,  a  homely  vigour, 
a  delight  in  local  personalities,  and  an  interest 
in  many  sides  of  life,  that  are  often  despised 
and  passed  over  by  more  eft'ete  and  cultured 
poets.  Both  also,  in  their  strong,  easy, 
colloquial  way,  tend  to  become  difficult  and 
obscure ;  the  obscurity  in  the  case  of  Villon 
passing  at  times  into  the  absolute  darkness  of 
cant  language.  They  are  perhaps  the  only 
two  great  masters  of  expression  who  keep 
sending  their  readers  to  a  glossary. 

"Shall  we  not  dare  to  say  of  a  thief,"  asks 
Montaigne,^  "that  he  has  a  handsome  leg"? 
It  is  a  far  more  serious  claim  that  we  have  to 
put  forward  in  behalf  of  Villon.  Beside  that 
of  his  contemporaries,  his  writing,  so  full  of 
colour,  so  eloquent,  so  picturesque,  stands  out 
in  an  almost  miraculous  isolation.  If  only 
one  or  two  of  the  chroniclers  could  have  taken 
a  leaf  out  of  his  book,  history  would  have 
been  a  pastime,  and  the  fifteenth  century  as 
present  to  our  minds  as  the  age  of  Charles 

^  a  delightful  French  essayist  (1533-1592) 


FRANgOIS    VILLON 


673 


Second.  This  gallows-bird  was  the  one  great 
writer  of  his  age  and  country,  and  initiated 
modern  literature  for  France.  Boileau,'  long 
ago,  in  the  period  of  perukes  and  snuii-boxes, 
recognised  him  as  the  first  articulate  poet  in 
the  language ;  and  if  we  measure  him,  not  by 
priority  of  merit,  but  living  duration  of  influ- 
ence, not  on  a  comparison  with  obscure  fore- 
runners, but  with  great  and  famous  succes- 
sors, we  shall  install  this  ragged  and  disrepu- 
table figure  m  a  far  higher  niche  in  glory's 
temple  than  was  ever  dreamed  of  by  the  critic. 
It  is,  in  itself,  a  memorable  fact  that,  before 
1542,  in  the  very  dawn  of  printing,  and  while 
modern  France  was  in  the  making,  the  works 
of  Villon  ran  through  seven  different  edi- 
tions. Out  of  him  flows  much  of  Rabelais ;  ^ 
and  through  Rabelais,  directly  and  indirectly, 
a  deep,  permanent,  and  growing  inspiration. 
Not  only  his  style,  but  his  callous  pertinent 
way  of  looking  upon  the  sordid  and  ugly 
sides  of  life,  becomes  every  day  a  more  specific 
feature  in  the  literature  of  France.  And 
only  the  other  year,  a  work  of  some  power 
appeared  in  Paris,  and  appeared  with  infinite 
scandal,  which  owed  its  whole  inner  signifi- 
cance and  much  of  its  outward  form  to  the 
study  of  our  rhyming  thief .^ 

The  world  to  which  he  introduces  us  is,  as 
before  said,  blackguardly  and  bleak.  Paris 
swarms  before  us,  full  of  famine,  shame,  and 
death ;  monks  and  the  servants  of  great  lords 
hold  high  wassail  upon  cakes  and  pastry ;  the 
poor  man  licks  his  lips  before  the  baker's  win- 
dow ;  people  with  patched  eyes  sprawl  all 
night  under  the  stall ;  chuckling  Tabary 
transcribes  an  improper  romance ;  bare- 
bosomed  lasses  and  ruffling  students  swagger 
in  the  streets ;  the  drunkard  goes  stumbling 
homeward ;  the  graveyard  is  full  of  bones ; 
and  away  on  Montfaucon,  Cohn  de  Cayeux 
and  Montigny  hang  draggled  in  the  rain.  Is 
there  nothing  better  to  be  seen  than  sordid 
misery  and  worthless  joys?  Only  where  the 
poor  old  mother  of  the  poet  kneels  in  church 
below  painted  windows,  and  makes  tremu- 
lous suppUcation  to  the  JVIother  of  God. 

In  our  mixed  world,  full  of  green  fields  and 
happy  lovers,  where  not  long  before,  Joan  of 

^  Nicholas  Boileau-Despreaux  (1636-1711),  the 
leading  critic  of  the  classical  age  in  France 
'^  Frangois  Rabelais  (i49o?-i553),  a  great  prose 
satirist  ^  Perhaps  Albert  Glatigny's  L'lllustre 
Brezacier  (1873). 


Arc  had  led  one  of  the  highest  and  noblest  lives 
in  the  whole  story  of  mankind,  this  was  all 
worth  chronicling  that  our  poet  could  per- 
ceive. His  eyes  were  indeed  sealed  with  his 
own  filth.  He  dwelt  all  his  life  m  a  pit  more 
noisome  than  the  dungeon  at  ]Meun.  In  the 
moral  world,  also,  there  are  large  phenomena 
not  recognisable  out  of  holes  and  corners. 
Loud  winds  blow,  speeding  home  deep-laden 
ships  and  sweeping  rubbish  from  the  earth; 
the  lightning  leaps  and  cleans  the  face  of 
heaven ;  high  purposes  and  brave  passions 
shake  and  sublimate  men's  spirits ;  and 
meanwhile,  in  the  narrow  dungeon  of  his 
soul,  \'nion  is  mumbling  crusts  and  picking 
vermin. 

Along  with  this  deadly  gloom  of  outlook,  we 
must  take  another  characteristic  of  his  work : 
its  unrivalled  insincerity.  I  can  give  no  better 
similitude  of  this  quality  than  I  have  given 
already :  that  he  comes  up  with  a  whine,  and 
runs  away  with  a  whoop  and  his  finger  to  his 
nose.  His  pathos  is  that  of  a  professional 
mendicant  who  should  happen  to  be  a  man  of 
genius ;  his  levity  that  of  a  bitter  street  arab, 
full  of  bread.  On  a  first  reading,  the  pathetic 
passages  preoccupy  the  reader,  and  he  is 
cheated  out  of  an  alms  in  the  shape  of  sym- 
pathy. But  when  the  thing  is  studied  the 
illusion  fades  away  :  in  the  transitions,  above 
all,  we  can  detect  the  evil,  ironical  temper  of 
the  man  ;  and  instead  of  a  flighty  work,  where 
many  crude  but  genuine  feelings  tumble  to- 
gether for  the  mastery  as  in  the  lists  of  tourna- 
ment, we  are  tempted  to  think  of  the  Large 
Testament  as  of  one  long-drawn  epical  grimace, 
pulled  by  a  merry-andrew,i  who  has  foimd  a 
certain  despicable  eminence  over  human  re- 
spect and  human  affections  by  perching  himself 
astride  upon  the  gaUows.  Between  these  two 
views,  at  best,  aU  temperate  judgments  will 
be  found  to  fall ;  and  rather,  as  I  imagine, 
toward  the  last. 

There  were  two  things  on  which  he  felt  with 
perfect  and,  in  one  case,  even  threatening 
sincerity. 

The  first  of  these  was  an  imdisguised  envy 
of  those  richer  than  himself.  He  was  forever 
drawing  a  parallel,  already  exemphfied  from 
his  own  words,  between  the  happy  life  of  the 
well-to-do  and  the  miseries  of  the  poor. 
Burns,  too  proud  and  honest  not  to  work, 
continued   through   aU   reverses   to   sing   of 

^  clown 


674 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


poverty  with  a  light,  defiant  note.  Beranger  ^ 
waited  till  he  was  himself  beyond  the  reach  of 
want,  before  writing  the  Old  Vagabond  or 
Jacques.  Samuel  Johnson,  although  he  was 
very  sorry  to  be  poor,  "was  a  great  arguer  for 
the  advantages  of  poverty"  in  his  ill  days.'^ 
Thus  it  is  that  brave  men  carry  their  crosses, 
and  smile  with  the  fox  burrowing  in  their 
vitals.^  But  Villon,  who  had  not  the  courage 
to  be  poor  with  honesty,  now  whiningly  im- 
plores our  sympathy,  now  shows  his  teeth 
upon  the  dung-heap  with  an  ugly  snarl.  He 
envies  bitterly,  envies  passionately.  Pov- 
erty, he  protests,  drives  men  to  steal,  as 
hunger  makes  the  wolf  sally  from  the  forest. 
The  poor,  he  goes  on,  will  always  have  a  carp- 
ing word  to  say,  or,  if  that  outlet  be  denied, 
nourish  rebellious  thoughts.  It  is  a  calumny 
on  the  noble  army  of  the  poor.  Thousands  in 
a  small  way  of  life,  ay,  and  even  in  the  smallest 
go  through  life  with  tenfold  as  much  honour 
and  dignity  and  peace  of  mind,  as  the  rich 
gluttons  whose  dainties  and  state-beds  awak- 
ened Villon's  covetous  temper.  And  every 
morning's  sun  sees  thousands  who  pass  whis- 
tling to  their  toil.  But  Villon  was  the  "mau- 
vais  pauvre  "  :  *  defined  by  Victor  Hugo,  and, 
in  its  English  expression,  so  admirably  stereo- 
typed by  Dickens.  He  was  the  first  wicked 
sans-culotte.^  He  is  the  man  of  genius  with 
the  mole-skin  cap.*^  He  is  mighty  pathetic 
and  beseeching  here  in  the  street,  but  I  would 
not  go  down  a  dark  road  with  him  for  a  large 
consideration. 

The  second  of  the  points  on  which  he  was 
genuine  and  emphatic  was  common  to-  the 
middle  ages ;  a  deep  and  somewhat  snivelling 
conviction  of  the  transitory  nature  of  this  life 
and  the  pity  and  horror  of  death.  Old  age 
and  the  grave,  with  some  dark  and  yet  half- 
sceptical  terror  of  an  after-world  —  these 
were  ideas  that  clung  about  his  bones  like  a 
disease.  An  old  ape,  as  he  says,  may  play  all 
the  tricks  in  its  repertory,  and  none  of  them 
will  tickle  an  audience  into  good  humour. 
"Tousjours  vicilsyngeest  desplaisant."^  It  is 
not  the  old  jester  who  receives  most  recogni- 
tion at  a  tavern  party,  but  the  young  fellow, 
fresh   and   handsome,   who   knows   the   new 

^  a  famous  French  song-writer  (1780-1857) 
^  cf .  p.  348  a,  above  ^  Like  the  Spartan  boy  in 
the  well-known  story.  *  vicious  pauper  ^  radical 
revolutionist  ^  Such  caps  are  common  in  the 
slums  of  London.    ^  An  old  ape  is  always  tiresome. 


slang,  and  carries  off  his  vice  with  a  certain 
air.  Of  this,  as  a  tavern  jester  himself,  he 
would  be  pointedly  conscious.  As  for  the 
women  with  whom  he  was  best  acquainted, 
his  reflections  on  their  old  age,  in  all  their 
harrowing  pathos,  shall  remain  in  the  original 
for  me.  Horace  ^  has  disgraced  himself  to 
something  the  same  tune ;  but  what  Horace 
throws  out  with  an  ill-favoured  laugh,  Villon 
dwells  on  with  an  almost  maudlin  whimper. 

It  is  in  death  that  he  finds  his  truest  inspira- 
tion ;  in  the  swift  and  sorrowful  change  that 
overtakes  beauty;  in  the  strange  revolution 
by  which  great  fortunes  and  renowns  are  di- 
minished to  a  handful  of  churchyard  dust ;  and 
in  the  utter  passing  away  of  what  was  once 
lovable  and  mighty.  It  is  in  this  that  the 
mixed  texture  of  his  thought  enables  him  to 
reach  such  poignant  and  terrible  effects,  and 
to  enhance  pity  with  ridicule,  like  a  man  cut- 
ting capers  to  a  funeral  march.  It  is  in  this, 
also,  that  he  rises  out  of  himself  into  the 
higher  spheres  of  art.  So,  in  the  ballade  by  ' 
which  he  is  best  known,  he  rings  the  changes 
on  names  that  once  stood  for  beautiful  and 
queenly  women,  and  are  now  no  more  than 
letters  and  a  legend.  "Where  are  the  snows 
of  yester  year  ?  "  runs  the  burden.^  And  so,  in 
another  not  so  famous,  he  passes  in  review 
the  different  degrees  of  bj'gone  men,  from  the 
holy  Apostles  and  the  golden  Emperor  of  the 
East,  down  to  the  heralds,  pursmvants,  and 
trumpeters,  who  also  bore  their  part  in  the 
world's  pageantries  and  ate  greedily  at  great 
folks'  tables :  all  this  to  the  refrain  of  "  So 
much  carry  the  winds  away!"  Probably, 
there  was  some  melancholy  in  his  mind  for  a 
yet  lower  grade,  and  IVIontigny  and  Colin  de 
Cayeux  clattering  their  bones  on  Paris  gibbet. 
Alas,  and  with  so  pitiful  an  experience  of  life, 
Villon  can  oft'er  us  nothing  but  terror  and 
lamentation  about  death !  No  one  has  ever 
more  skilfully  communicated  his  own  disen- 
chantment ;  no  one  ever  blowTi  a  more  ear- 
piercing  note  of  sadness.  This  unrepentant 
thief  can  attain  neither  to  Christian  confi- 
dence, nor  to  the  spirit  of  the  bright  Greek 
saying,  that  whom  the  gods  love  die  early. 
It  is  a  poor  heart,  and  a  poorer  age,  that  can- 
not accept  the  conditions  of  Hfe  with  some 
heroic  readiness. 


^  the  famous  Roman  satirist  (65-8  b.c.) 
p.  629,  above 


ct. 


FRANCOIS    VILLON 


67s 


The  date  of  the  Large  Tcstamciit  is  the  last 
date  in  the  poet's  biography.  After  having 
achieved  that  admirable  and  despicable  per- 
formance, he  chsappears  into  the  night  from 
whence  he  came.  How  or  when  he  died, 
whether  decently  in  bed  or  trussed  up  to  a 
gallows,  remains  a  riddle  for  foolhardy  com- 
mentators. It  appears  his  health  had  suffered 
in  the  pit  at  Meun  ;  he  was  thirty  years  of  age 
and  quite  bald ;  with  the  notch  in  his  under  lip 


where  Sermaise  had  struck  him  with  the  sword, 
and  what  wrinkles  the  reader  may  imagine. 
In  default  of  portraits,  this  is  all  I  have  been 
able  to  piece  together,  and  perhaps  even  the 
baldness  should  be  taken  as  a  figure  of  his 
destitution.  A  sinister  dog,  in  all  likelihood, 
but  with  a  look  in  his  eye,  and  the  loose  flexile 
mouth  that  goes  with  wit  and  an  overweening 
sensual  temperament.  Certainly  the  sorriest 
figure  on  the  rolls  of  fame. 


NOTES 


INTRODUCTORY 

That  there  is  little  literature  in  English  that  is 
of  high  quality  between  the  Norman  Conquest 
and  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century  is  not 
surprising  if  we  remember  the  social  conditions  of 
the  country.  Scholars  in  England,  as  in  the  rest 
of  Europe  at  that  time,  wrote  and  spoke  and 
read  Latin.  Most  books  of  learning,  there- 
fore, whether  sacred  or  profane,  —  histories, 
scientific,  philosophical,  religious,  and  literary 
treatises,  etc.,  —  were  written  in  Latin.  The 
language  of  the  upper  classes  was  French.  The 
French  literature  of  the  continent  was  accessible 
to  them,  and  many  of  the  most  interesting  literary 
works  in  Old  French  —  romances,  plays,  legends 
of  saints,  religious  songs,  love  songs,  and  political 
satires  —  were  written  in  England  by  persons 
whose  native  language  was  French.  This  con- 
tinued until  the  fourteenth  centur>',  when,  as  we 
learn  from  many  evidences,  the  upper  classes 
began  to  give  up  French ;  see  the  picturesque 
account  of  this  given  by  Trevisa,  p.  71  of  this 
book.  The  history-  of  literature  in  England  is 
therefore  in  this  period  a  ver>-  different  thing  from 
the  history  of  English  literature,  and  we  cannot 
judge  of  the  literary  abilitj',  tastes,  or  cidture  of 
Englishmen  from  1066  to  1350  without  taking 
into  account  what  they  read  and  wrote  in  Latin 
and  French  as  well  as  in  English. 

During  all  this  time  the  principal  works  written 
in  English  were  such  as  were  supposed  to  be  of 
practical  interest  to  those  who  could  not  read 
Latin  or  French :  sermons,  religious  treatises, 
poems  of  sacred  or  secular  history-,  didactic  poems, 
and  the  like.  Some  works  of  entertainment  were 
produced  for  those  who  understood  English  only, 
but  as  parchment  was  very  expensive,  few  of 

^  For  convenience  of  reference,  page  numbers  are 
given  throughout.  For  the  poetical  selections,  line 
numbers  are  also  given  ;  for  the  prose  selections,  a  or 
b  is  added  to  the  page  number,  when  necessary,  to 
indicate  whether  the  passage  discussed  is  in  the  first 
or  the  second  column. 

AE 


these  were  written  down,  the  usual  way  ot  pub- 
lishing them  being  to  recite  them. 

Another  fact  must  be  taken  into  consideration 
in  studying  the  literary  culture  of  England  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  Only  a  small  part  of  the  writings 
which  once  existed  have  come  down  to  us.  A 
large  portion  of  medieval  literature  has  perished 
by  the  ordinary  decay  and  accidents  natural  to  the 
passage  of  so  long  a  time ;  but  there  have  been 
also  some  special  agencies  of  destruction.  Chief 
among  them  was  the  disestablishment  of  the 
monasteries  in  England  by  Henry  VHI.  He  did 
not,  to  be  sure,  order  the  destruction  of  the  manu- 
scripts ;  but  no  care  was  taken  to  preserve  them, 
and  many  were  destroyed  by  ignorant  zealots, 
while  many  were  wantonly  used  for  the  vilest 
purposes.  What  happened  may  be  read  in  Dr. 
Gasquet's  Henry  the  VIII  and  the  English 
Monasteries  or  in  John  Bale's  Leyland's  New 
Year's  Gift  to  King  Henry  VIII.  Bale,  who  was 
a  learned  scholar  of  that  time,  saj'S  :  "  Never  had 
we  bene  offended  for  the  losse  of  our  lybraryes, 
beynge  so  many  in  nombre,  and  in  so  desolate 
places  for  the  more  parte,  yf  the  chiefe  monu- 
mentes  and  most  notable  workes  of  our  excellent 
wr>-ters  had  bene  reserved.  ...  But  to  de- 
stroye  all  without  consyderacyon  is,  and  wyll  be 
unto  England  for  ever,  a  moste  horryble  infamy 
amonge  the  grave  senyours  of  other  nacyons. 
A  greate  nombre  of  them  whych  purchased  those 
superstycyouse  mansyons  [i.e.,  the  monasteries] 
reserved  of  those  lybrarye  bokes  .  .  .  some  to 
scoure  the>T  candel-styckes  and  some  to  rubbe 
their  bootes.  Some  they  solde  to  the  grossers 
and  sope  sellers,  and  some  they  sent  over  see  to 
the  bokebynders,  not  in  small  nombre,  but  at 
times  whole  shyppes  full,  to  the  wonderjmge  of 
the  foren  nacyons.  ...  I  knowe  a  merchaunt 
man,  whych  shall  at  thys  tjTne  be  namelesse,  that 
boughte  the  contentes  of  two  noble  lybrar>'es  for  xl 
shyll>Tiges  pr>'ce,  a  shame  it  is  to  be  spoken. 
This  stuffe  hathe  he  occupyed  [i.e.,  used]  in  the 
stede  of  graye  paper  [wrapping  paper]  by  the 
space  of  more  than  X.  yeares,  and  yet  he  hath 
store  ynough  for  as  many  yeares  to  come." 


677 


678 


ENGLISH    PROSE    AND    POETRY 


THE    PRONUNCIATION    OF    MIDDLE 
ENGLISH 

Even  those  students  who  do  not  try  to  read 
the  original  text  of  the  Middle  English  selections 
should  try  to  pronounce  some  parts  of  the  poems, 
at  least,  in  order  to  obtain  a  sense  of  the  verse 
effects. 

The  pronunciation  of  Middle  English  changed 
considerably  between  the  beginning  and  the  end 
of  the  period  and  there  were  many  differences 
between  the  different  dialects  at  the  same  time. 
Besides  this,  we  assume  that  as  great  differences 
existed  then  between  different  individuals  as 
exist  now  in  the  pronunciation  of  Modern  Eng- 
lish. Therefore  only  very  rough  approximations 
to  the  actual  sounds  can  be  suggested ;  but  such 
a  conventional  system  will  enable  the  reader  to 
get  some  idea  of  the  fuller  tones  of  ancient  Eng- 
lish and  to  maintain  in  his  reading  a  uniform 
and  unbroken  poetic  feeling. 

The  following  sounds  are  commonly  given  for 
Chaucer's  English  and  may  be  used  for  Middle 
English  in  general : 

Vowels 

long  a  as  in/(j//;er. 

short  a  as  in  Florida. 

long  e  (or  ee,  ie)  as  in  fete,  or  fate. 

short  e  as  in  met. 

long  i  (or  y)  as  in  machine. 

long  0  (or  00)  as  in  note;  00  is  never  pronounced 
like  00  in  hoot. 

short  0  as  in  not. 

ou  as  00  in  hoot ;   but  occasionally  like  0  +  00. 

long  n  as  French  u  or  German  ii. 

short  u  the  same,  but  short. 

short  u  and  short  0  also  often  have  the  sound 
of  n  in  full;  this  is  in  words  which  have  in  modem 
English  the  vowel  sound  of  sun,  son,  but,  wonder, 
etc. ;    ii.  is  never  pronounced  like  u  in  but. 

Diphthongs 

ai,  ay  originally  like  i  in  pine;  in  Chaucer's 
lime  like  e  +  i  or  ey  in  they. 

ail,  aw  like  ou  in  house,  but  occasionally  like  au. 
in  fraud. 

ei,  ey  =  e  +  i  OT  ey  m.  they. 

eu,  ew  =  e  +  00  with  emphasis  on  the  e. 

oi,  oy  as  in  noise,  boy. 

Consonants 

As  in  modern  English,  with  the  following  ex- 
ceptions : 


ch  always  as  in  siich. 

/,  when  between  vowels,  like  v. 

gh  like  German  ch. 

r  was  trilled. 

There  were  no  silent  letters.  The  h  in  knoweth, 
the  /  in  folk,  the  g  in  gnawe  were  sounded.  Un- 
accented final  e  was  pronounced  like  e  in  German 
Gabe  or  meine;  but  in  verse  when  followed  by  a 
word  beginning  with  a  vowel  or  a  weak  h  (such  as 
his,  hire,  him,  hahbe,  have,  hadde,  honour,  hour)  it 
was  not  sounded  at  all. 

A  few  additional  letters  which  are  used  in  the 
early  texts  will  be  noticed  as  they  occur. 

EARLY   MIDDLE   ENGLISH 

THE  .\NGLO-SAXON   CHRONICLE 

Pages  1  f.  The  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle  belongs 
for  the  most  part,  of  course,  to  the  history  of 
English  literature  before  the  Norman  Conquest; 
but  the  later  records,  especially  those  of  the 
Peterborough  version,  from  which  our  selection 
is  taken,  are  of  great  importance  for  the  study 
of  modern  English  prose.  The  Chronicle  seems 
to  have  been  begun  in  the  reign  of  Alfred  the 
Great,  perhaps  in  consequence  of  his  efforts  for 
the  education  of  his  people.  It  exists  in  six 
versions,  differing  more  or  less  from  one  another 
both  as  to  the  events  recorded  and  the  period  of 
time  covered,  but  together  forming,  in  a  manner, 
a  single  work.  The  early  entries,  beginning  with 
60  B.C.,  were  compiled  from  various  sources  and 
are,  for  the  most  part,  very  meager  and  imin- 
teresting.  Here  are  the  complete  records  for 
two  years:  "An.  DCCLXXII.  Here  (that  is, 
in  this  year)  Bishop  Milred  died."  "An. 
DCCLXXIII.  Here  a  red  cross  appeared  in 
the  sky  after  sunset;  and  in  this  year  the  Mer- 
cians and  the  men  of  Kent  fought  at  Otford; 
and  wondrous  serpents  were  seen  in  the  land  of 
the  South-Saxons."  For  long,  weary  stretches 
of  years,  there  are,  with  the  notable  •  exception 
of  the  vivid  account  of  the  death  of  Cynewulf, 
few  more  exciting  entries  than  these.  Even 
when  great  events  are  recorded,  there  is  no  effort 
to  tell  how  or  why  they  occurred,  no  attempt  to 
produce  an  interesting  narrative.  In  the  time 
of  King  Alfred,  however,  a  change  appears,  and, 
though  the  records  still  have  the  character  of  an- 
nals rather  than  of  history,  the  narrative  is  often 
very  detailed  and  interesting,  especially  in  regard 
to  the  long  and  fierce  contest  with  the  Danes. 

After  the  Norman  Conquest,  one  version  of 


NOTES 


679 


the  Chronicle,  that  kept  by  the  monks  of  Peter- 
borough, contains  entries  of  the  greatest  im- 
portance both  for  the  history  of  the  times  and 
for  the  state  of  the  English  language  then.  The 
latest  of  these  entries  is  for  the  year  11 54,  when 
the  tiurbulent  reign  of  the  weak  Stephen  was 
followed  by  the  strong  and  peaceful  administration 
of  Henry  II.  The  selection  we  have  chosen  is 
from  the  entry  for  1137,  and  gives  a  startling 
picture  of  the  terrors  of  the  time.  But  although 
the  account  is  true,  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  infer 
from  it,  as  some  have  done,  that  civiUzation  had 
perished  in  England.  Not  only  were  the  monks 
of  Peterborough  at  this  very  time  rebuilding  their 
beautiful  monastery  and  other  men  erecting 
churches  and  cathedrals  of  wonderful  beauty  in 
other  parts  of  England,  it  was  in  these  verj'  years 
that  literature  flourished  with  extraordinary  vigor. 
The  great  stories  of  King  Arthur  and  Merlin  the 
Magician  first  appear  in  literature  in  King  Ste- 
phen's reign.  It  may  well  give  one  a  shock,  at  least 
of  surprise,  to  learn  that  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth, 
who  introduced  these  stories  into  literature,  dedi- 
cated one  of  his  books  to  the  ver>-  i\lexander, 
bishop  of  Lincoln,  mentioned  in  1.  12  and  the 
other  to  Robert  earl  of  Gloucester,  King  Stephen's 
half-brother  and  bitterest  enemy. 

The  most  notable  things  about  this  passage, 
considered  as  English  prose,  are  its  simplicity  and 
straightforwardness  and  its  strong  resemblance 
to  modern  English  in  sentence  structure  and  word 
order.  These  features  are  probably  to  be  ac- 
counted for  by  the  fact  that,  though  the  writer 
doubtless  understood  Latin,  he  did  not  feel  that 
he  was  producing  literature,  but  only  making  a 
plain  record  of  facts,  and  consequently  did  not 
attempt  the  clumsy  artificialities  so  often  pro- 
duced by  those  who  tried  to  imitate  Latin  prose  in 
English. 

Pronunciation.  In  addition  to  the  usual 
symbols  of  sounds  (see  p.  678),  the  following 
require  special  attention  in  this  selection : 

a  like  long  e  in  there:  gare,  p.  i,  1.  i,  under- 
gceton,  1.  16,  wczron,  1.  21,  aroric,  1.  22,  agcenes,  1.  23, 
dales,  p.  2, 1.  I,  uuaren,  1.  4,  ncBvre,  1.  4,  hcBved,  1.  10, 
gcede,  1.  II,  hcernes  1.  11. 

<z  like  short  a:  at,  p.  i,  1.  10. 

(B  like  long  a:  celle,  p.  i,  1.  14. 

au  like  aw  in  saw:  saule,  p.  i,  1.  8. 

eo  =  e  +  0:  earn,  p.  i,  1.  4,  heolden,  1.  20,  heom, 
p.  2, 11."  2,  6. 

c  and  cc  like  tch:  micel,  p.  i,  1.  6,  avric,  1.  22, 
rice,  1.  22  ;  uurecce,  1.  25,  wrecce,  p.  2, 1.  17. 

g  like  y:  gare,  p.  i,  1.  i,  get  (pr.  yet),  1.  5,  gcsde, 
p.  2, 1.  II. 


i  like  y:  iafen  (pr.  yaven),  p.  i,  1.  14. 

sc  like  sh:  sculde,  p.  1,  1.  3,  biscop,  1.  11. 

u  and  uu  like  w:  stakes,  p.  i,  1.  15,  suoren,  1.  19, 
stiencten,  1.  24,  suythe,  1.  25;  uuenden,  p.  i,  1.  3, 
uurecce,  1.  25,  uuaren,  1.  27,  uuceren,  p.  2,  1.  4, 
uurythen,  1.  10,  uuerse,  1.  19. 

POEMA  MORALE 

Pp.  2  ff.  This  is  the  first  important  English 
poem  after  the  Norman  Conquest.  It  consists 
of  a  large  number  (about  400  lines)  of  moral  and  , 
religious  precepts  embodying  the  author's  philos- 
ophy of  life,  and  was  evidently  written  for  the 
purpose  of  inculcating  right  living  in  all  who  read 
or  heard  it.  As  the  short  specimen  given  here 
shows,  the  questions  of  Ufe,  present  and  future, 
are  treated  in  a  spirit  of  selfish  prudence,  and  the 
sentiment  most  frequently  and  powerfully  ap- 
pealed to  is  that  of  self-preservation.  The  spirit 
of  the  author  is  a  sincere  but  hard  and  narrow 
Christianity,  untouched  by  the  tenderness  of 
personal  affection  for  Jesus  or  of  concern  for  one's 
friends  and  feUow-men  notable  in  the  best  work  of 
Richard  Rolle,  Thomas  de  Hales,  or  even  the 
dull  but  lovable  Orrm.  The  author  has,  however, 
much  skill  in  language  and  versification,  and  at_ 
times  the  vigor  and  vividness  of  his  work  is  unde- 
niable. The  poem  must  have  been  ver>'  popular  in 
its  day,  as  all  peoples  in  the  early  stages  of  de- 
velopment are  fond  of  proverbial  sayings  and 
similar  forms  of  practical  wisdom.  Several 
copies  of  it,  made  in  various  parts  of  England, 
have  come  do^Ti  to  us. 

The  verse  is  the  seven-stressed  line  known  as 
the  septenarius,  or  septenary.  The  rhythm  seems 
to  me  trochaic,  or  falling.  The  line  naturally 
falls  into  two  parts  rhythmically :  one  of  four 
stresses  and  one  of  three.  The  weak  final  e  is 
always  pronounced  except  before  a  vowel  sound. 
Every  line,  therefore,  ends  in  a  weak  syllable, 
and  an  extra  syllable  often  occurs  at  the  caesura 
{i.e.,  the  metrical  pause  within  the  line).  Many 
lines  also  have  a  weak  syllable  at  the  beginning 
before  the  first  stress  (see  11.  2,  3,  8;  10,  etc.). 

Pronunciation.  The  following  require  special 
notice : 

a  like  a  in  name:  fale,  1.  10. 

ce  like  long  e  in  there:  -wcdde,  1.  2,  i-lced,  1.  5,  cer, 
U.  13,  17,  cerwe,  1.  19,  ceie,  1.  20,  cech,  1.  27,  CBvrich, 
I.  32. 

(E  like  short  a:  am,  1.  i,  seal,  1.  21.  thanne, 
1.  22, 

ea  hke  short  a:   sceal,  11.  26,  35. 

ea  like  long  a  ia.  father:  eald,  1.  4. 


68o 


ENGLISH    PROSE    AND    POETRY 


eo  like  short  o:  com,  1. 4,  iveorde,  1.  3,  weorcke,  1. 1 1 . 

eo  like  long  c  in  fete:  i-beon,  11.  3,  28,  beo,  11.  4,  26, 
28,  beoih,  1.  19,  i-seon,  1.  18,  seowen,  1.  22,  heovene, 
1.  27,  seovene,  1.  28,  leovre,  1.  2g,freond,  1.  30. 

7(  like  M  or  short  i;  tiz/cJe,  1.  2,  unnut,  1.  5,  a-gult, 

I.  ir,  6«^/f,  1.  23,  for-yid,  1.  25,  Mt^e/e,  1.  26,  5m//, 

II.  29,  40,  sulfne,  1.  33,  wulleth,  1.  34,  ww/e,  1.  39. 
A  like  German  ch:   ah,  1.  2. 

5C  like  sh:  scceI,  1.  21,  sculen,  1.  22,  iceo^,  11,  26, 
35,  scolde,  1.  37. 

jc  like  s:  sclawen,  1.  37. 

ORRM 
The  Orrmulum 

Pp.  4  f.  The  Orrmulum  is  interesting  almost 
solely  because  the  author  was  a  theorist'  about 
English  spelling.  He  devised  a  system  of  his  own 
for  representing  the  pronunciation  as  exactly  as 
possible  and  carried  it  out  with  much  skill  and 
consistency  throughout  his  long  poem  of  20,000 
lines.  As  scholars  are  now  greatly  interested  in 
learning  how  English  was  pronounced  in  early 
ages,  Orrm's  work  is  of  the  highest  value.  As 
literature,  it  hardly  deserves  consideration.  It 
_  was  not  intended  to  be  a  poem  in  the  modern  sense. 
It  was  written  in  verse  because  verse  then  seemed 
the  proper  form  for  anything  that  aspired  to  be 
literature.  The  author  merely  wished  to  present 
to  his  countrymen  an  English  version  of  the  Gos- 
pels read  in  the  services  of  the  church  throughout 
the  year,  accompanied  by  explanations  which 
should  make  clear  their  whole  meaning,  figurative 
as  well  as  literal. 

It  is  perhaps  the  most  tedious  book  in  existence. 
This  arises  in  large  part  from  its  excessive  explicit- 
ness.  Orrm  is  not  content  to  express  an  idea 
simply  and  clearly  once  but  must  repeat  it  again 
and  again ;  and  in  his  anxiety  that  there  shall  be 
no  mistake  as  to  his  meaning,  instead  of  using 
pronouns  to  refer  to  matters  already  mentioned, 
he  repeats  at  each  recurrence  of  an  object  or  an 
idea  all  that  he  has  previously  said  about  it.  Al- 
though he  was  doubtless  by  nature  a  dull  man, 
this  peculiarity  of  his  style  seems  intentional  and 
due  to  his  belief  in  the  dulness  of  his  readers ;  for 
the  Dedication,  addressed  to  his  brother  Walter, 
is  free  from  this  repetition  and,  though  entirely 
lacking  in  charm,  is  simple  and  straightforward  in 
style.  His  poem  seems  not  to  have  been  alto- 
gether unprovoked,  for  it  was  written  at  the  re- 
quest of  his  brother  Walter;  but  there  is  no  evi- 
dence that  it  met  with  any  appreciation,  for  the 
single  copy  that  has  been  preserved  seems  to  be 


that  written  by  the  author  himself.  In  spite  of 
his  dulness,  however,  the  gentleness  and  amiabil- 
ity of  Orrm  and  his  real  love  of  God  and  his  fellow- 
men  are  manifest  in  all  his  work. 

In  his  time  the  old  system  of  spelling  English 
was  being  abandoned,  partly  because  the  language 
had  changed  so  greatly  that  the  spelling  no  longer 
fitted  the  pronunciation,  and  partly  because  most 
of  the  copyists  had  been  trained  in  spelling  French 
and  had  difiiculty  in  adapting  the  French  system 
to  English  words.  There  must  have  been  much 
discussion  of  spelling  and  more  than  one  phonetic 
system  was  probably  devised,  but  Orrm's  is  the 
only  one  of  any  individual  character  that  has  come 
down  to  us. 

The  verse  of  the  Orrmulum  is  the  septenarius, 
for  the  lines  as  printed  are  to  be  taken  in  pairs. 
It  differs  from  the  verse  of  the  Poema  Morale  in 
having  an  iambic,  or  rising,  rhythm  and  in  being  • 
monotonously  regular. 

11.  7-10.  Orrm  teUs  us  that  both  he  and  his 
brother  Walter  were  Augustinian  canons,  that  is, 
members  of  an  order  whose  function  it  was  to  read 
the  services  of  the  Church.  One  or  both  of  them 
may  have  been  attached  to  the  Cathedral  of 
Lincoln ;  at  any  rate,  the  language  of  Orrm  points 
to  that  district. 

Pronunciation.  In  the  Orrmulum  every  vowel 
followed  by  a  doubled  consonant  in  the  same 
syllable  is  short;  all  other  vowels  are  long; 
thus  the  first  vowel  in  broper,  1.  1,  jkeshess,  1.  2, 
lernenn,  1.  20,  is  long;  both  vowels  in  ajffterr,  1.  2, 
Ennglissh,  1.  19,  wirrkenn,  1.  24,  are  short.  In  a 
few  instances  there  is  a  mark  of  length  or  of  short- 
ness (see  11.  6,  7,  37,  44). 

The  symbol  "  p  "  has  the  sound  of  th  in  thin, 
thank.  The  symbol  "  5  "  may  be  pronounced 
like  y  in  yet,  but  it  should  be  made  rougher  and 
stronger  than  that  sound. 

LAYAMON 

The  Brut 

Pp.  5  ff.     Layamon,  the  author  of  The  Brut,     M 

was  a  man  of  much  greater  abiUty  than  Orrm.  ^ 
His  work  is  a  versified  chronicle  or  history  of  Brit- 
ain from  the  destruction  of  Troy  to  689  a.d. 
It  is  based  mainly  upon  a  similar  French  poem, 
the  Roman  de  Brut,  by  Wace ;  but  Layamon  added 
much  from  oral  traditions  known  to  him.,  especially 
about  King  Arthur.  The  merits  of  the  poem 
at  its  best  are  those  of  a  lively  and  picturesque 
narrative,  rapid,  simple,  and  vigorous,  with  much 
of  the  spirit  of  the  older  English  epic.     The  versi- 


NOTES 


68i 


fication  also,  though  not  precisely  that  of  the  older 
epic,  is  thoroughly  national.  Rhyme  occurs  now 
and  then,  and  may  be  due  to  French  influence; 
but,  as  it  is  used,  it  gives  rather  the  effect  of  the 
occasional  rhymes  in  the  later  old  Enghsh  heroic 
poems,  like  the  Battle  of  Maldon,  and  is  probably 
a  native  development. 

To  us  of  the  present  day  the  most  interesting 
parts  of  Layamon  are  those  which  deal  with  the 
storj^  of  King  Lear,  the  coming  of  Hengist  and 
Horsa,  and,  above  all,  the  wars  and  death  of  King 
Arthur.  The  Brut  contains  about  30,000  hues 
and  exists  in  two  versions,  one  of  about  1200A.D., 
from  which  our  selection  is  taken,  and  another  of 
fifty  3'ears  later,  a  sort  of  modernization  made 
necessary  by  the  rapid  change  of  the  language 
in  those  days. 

Layamon's  name  is  traditionally  spelled  with  a 
y,  but  the  sound  originally  was  a  voiced  spirant 
guttural,  more  like  g  than  y.  Both  a's  are 
sounded  like  a  in  father.  As  the  voiced  spirant 
guttural  does  not  occur  in  modern  English,  the 
name  may  be  pronounced  either  "  La'-ga-mon  " 
or  "  La'ya-mon." 

Layamon  was  a  priest  who  lived  at  Arley  on 
the  Severn,  about  20  miles  west  and  a  little  south 
of  Birmingham.  Hib  dialect  was  therefore  very 
different  from  that  of  Orrm. 

The  battle  between  Arthur  and  his  traitorous 
son  Modred  is  perhaps  in  modern  times  the  most 
famous  episode  of  Arthurian  story.  The  exact 
location  of  this  legendary  battle  cannot  be  deter- 
mined. Layamon  says  it  occurred  in  Cornwall 
at  Camelford  on  the  river  Tamhre.  The  river 
Tamar  is  still  the  boundary  between  Cornwall  and 
Devonshire.  A  place  called  Camelford,  identified 
with  the  Camelot  of  other  forms  of  the  Arthurian 
legend,  still  exists,  but  it  is  twenty  miles  from  the 
river.  It  is,  however,  near  Tiutagel,  which  is 
famous  in  Arthurian  stor3^ 

Uther  (1.  28609)  is  Arthur's  father,  Uther  Pen- 
dragon.  Argante  is  not  mentioned  elsewhere. 
Some  other  versions  of  the  story  tell  of  three 
queens  who  received  Arthur ;  Malory  gives  their 
names. 

The  story  as  told  by  ilalorj^  (p.  85)  and  by 
Tennyson  (p.  5  2  8)  should  be  read  along  with 
this. 

Pronunciation.  See  the  general  notes  on 
pronunciation  and  the  special  remarks  on  Poema 
Morale.  Note  further  sceort  (pr.  short),  1.  28624, 
sceoven  (pr.  shoven),  1.  28625  ;  habbeoth  (pr.  hdveth), 
1.  28607;  sceone  (pr.  shayne),  1.  28613,  ^ovste  (pr. 
ayvste),  1.  28629;  seothe  (pr.  sUhthe),  1.,  28618; 
Willie  (pr.  wille),   1.    28610,   wun^e    (pr.   winne), 


1.  28621,  Bruttcs  (pr.  Brittes),  1.  28572,  Brulten 
(pr.  Britten),  1.  28620;  uthen  (pr.  to  rhyme  with 
Mod.  Eng.  heathen),  1.  28625. 

THE  ANCREN  RIWLE 

P.  8.  The  Ancren  Riwle,  as  its  name  indi- 
cates, is  a  treatise  for  the  guidance  and  instruction 
of  some  nuns.  We  learn  from  the  book  itself 
that  it  was  written,  at  their  special  request,  for 
three  young  women  of  gentle  birth,  —  "  daughters 
of  one  father  and  one  mother,"  who  had  forsaken 
the  world  for  the  Ufe  of  religious  contemplation 
and  meditation. 

There  has  been  some  discussion  as  to  the  author ; 
he  is  thought  by  some  to  have  been  Richard  Poore, 
or  Le  Poor,  bishop  successively  of  Chichester, 
Sahsbury,  and  Durham,  who  was  born  at  Tarrent, 
and  whose  heart  was  buried  there  after  his  death 
in  1237.  But  this  view  is  probably  incorrect,  as 
the  nunnery  at  Tarrent  was  a  large  one,  while 
the  women  for  whom  this  book  was  written  lived 
alone.  At  any  rate,  the  author  was  evidently 
a  man  in  whom  learning  and  no  little  knowledge 
of  the  world  were  combined  with  a  singularly  sweet 
simplicity,  which  has  often  been  taken  for  naivete. 
His  learning  appears  abundantly  in  his  familiar- 
ity with  the  writings  of  the  great  Church  Fathers 
and  the  classical  Latin  authors  who  were  known  in 
his  day ;  his  knowledge  of  the  world  appears  partly 
in  his  sagacious  counsels  as  to  the  more  serious 
temptations  of  a  nun's  life,  and  partly  in  his  ad- 
aptation of  courtly  romantic  motives  to  spiritual 
themes ;  while  the  sweet  simplicity  of  his  charac- 
ter is  constantly  and  lovably  revealed  in  the  tone 
of  all  that  he  says  —  even  in  its  sly  and  charming 
humor  —  and  in  his  solicitude  about  infinite 
petty  details,  which  are  individually  insignificant, 
to  be  sure,  but  mean  much  for  the  delicacy  and 
peace  of  life.  Of  the  eight  parts  or  books  into 
which  the  work  is  divided  only  two  are  devoted 
to  external,  material  matters,  the  other  six  to  the 
inner  life ;  and  this  proportion  is  a  true  indication 
of  the  comparative  values  which  the  good  coun- 
selor sets  upon  these  things.  The  style,  for  all 
the  learning  displayed,  is  simple  and  direct,  v.-ith 
few  traces  of  Latin  sentence  structure  or  word 
order  —  a  fact  due  perhaps  to  the  nature  and  des- 
tination of  the  book  no  less  than  to  the  character 
of  the  author. 

There  are  versions  in  French  and  Latin.  The 
French  seems  to  have  been  the  original,  and  the 
English  and  Latin  to  have  been  translated  from  it. 
The  impounding  of  stray  cattle  (1.  9)  is  still  prac- 
tised in  many  country  towns  and  villages. 


682 


ENGLISH    PROSE    AND    POETRY 


KING  HORN 

Pp.  9  ff.  This  is  one  of  the  earliest  and  best 
of  the  metrical  romances  —  a  kind  of  literature 
which  then  filled  the  place  now  occupied  by  the 
novel.  Ancient  romances,  like  early  novels,  usu- 
ally begin  at  the  beginning.  In  our  first  selection, 
this  part  of  his  subject  has  been  treated  with  artis- 
tic brevity  by  the  author  and  made  essential  to 
the  story  itself.  The  rest  of  the  story  tells  how 
Horn  and  his  companions  were  received  by  Ail- 
mar,  king  of  Westerness ;  how  the  king's  daughter 
Rymenhild  falls  in  love  with  Horn  and  woos  him ; 
how  their  love  is  betrayed  by  Fikenhild  and  Horn 
is  banished ;  how,  after  seven  years  of  adventure 
in  Ireland,  he  returns  just  in  time  to  rescue  Rymen- 
hild from  a  forced  marriage,  marries  her  himself, 
and  immediately  sets  out  for  his  own  country, 
where  he  rescues  his  mother  and  avenges  his 
father ;  how  during  this  absence  his  old  comrade 
Fikenhild  seizes  and  carries  off  Rymenhild ;  and 
how  Horn,  with  some  of  his  followers,  disguised 
as  minstrels,  enters  the  castle,  kills  the  traitor  and 
his  men,  and  rewards  his  faithful  followers. 

Our  second  selection  gives  a  part  of  the  story  of 
Rymenhild's  wooing  of  Horn,  whose  royal  descent 
is  unknown  to  her.  The  return  of  Horn  from 
Ireland  is  told  in  modified  form  in  the  ballad  of 
Hind  Horn  (p.  83). 

The  narrative  is  full  of  incident,  is  well  con- 
structed, thoroughly  motived,  and  told  with  ra- 
pidity and  directness.  The  poem  contains  1568 
lines  and,  judging  from  the  number  of  versions, 
was  very  popular. 

My  translation  of  this  poem  is  very  unsatis- 
factory. The  original  is  in  verses  of  three  or  four 
stresses ;  the  lines  of  three  stresses  usually  end  in 
a  weak  syllable.  It  is  very  difficult,  if  not  entirely 
impossible,  to  secure  this  effect  in  a  long  poem  in 
modern  English.  In  the  case  of  this  translation 
it  could  be  done  only  by  disregarding  the  matter 
and  tone  of  the  original  and  introducing  ideas  en- 
tirely aUen  to  the  simple  and  almost  bald  narrative. 
But  I  have  tried  to  retain  the  3-  or  4-stress  move- 
ment throughout.'  The  poem  was  not  intended 
for  reading  but  for  recitation  to  a  musical  accom- 
paniment. If  the  reader  will  kindly  recall  the 
manner  in  which  he  used  to  recite  in  sing-song 
with  strong  stresses, 

Lit'-tle  Tom'-my  Tuck'-er 
Sang'  for'  his  sup'-per, 

he  will  get  the  movement  of  the  original  and  will 
perhaps  be  able  to  produce  a  passable  rhythm 
in  the  lines  of  the  translation. 


NICHOLAS   DE   GUILDFORD   (?) 
The  Owl  and  the  Nightingale 

Pp.  14  fif.  The  Owl  and  the  Nightingale  is  a 
work  of  very  different  character  from  any  of  the 
preceding.  It  is  poetry  in  the  modern  sense  of  the 
term  and  deserves  a  very  high  rank  when  tested 
by  the  best  standards  of  modern  taste.  The  strife 
between  the  Owl  and  the  Nightingale  is  in  itself 
such  a  theme  as  existed  by  the  hundred  in  mediae- 
val literature.  Strifes  and  debates,  indeed, 
formed  a  special  literary  type,  found  in  every 
language  cultivated  in  Western  Europe.  There 
were  strifes  between  Summer  and  Winter,  between 
Youth  and  Age,  between  Water  and  Wine;  de- 
bates as  to  whether  a  soldier  or  a  scholar  is  the 
better  lover,  as  to  whether  women  are  an  evil  or 
a  good,  as  to  any  subject  having,  or  seeming  to 
have,  two  sides.  Only  a  few  of  them  rise  to  any 
considerable  dignity  or  beauty  or  force.  One, 
The  Debate  between  the  Body  and  the  Sotil,  is 
among  the  most  powerful  religious  poems  of  that 
age  and  is  almost  as  impressive  to-day  as  when  it 
was  first  written,  though  some  of  its  themes  have 
since  been  worn  threadbare.  What  especially 
distinguishes  The  Owl  and  the  Nightingale  is  the 
astonishing  dramatic  sympathy  of  the  author. 
The  grief  and  indignation  of  the  Owl  at  the  failure 
of  the  world  to  recognize  the  beauty  of  his  song 
are  set  forth  with  the  same  imaginative  simplicity 
and  candor  as  is  the  Nightingale's  confidence  in 
her  o^m  superiority.  Such  sympathetic  imagina- 
tive power,  such  psychological  subtlety,  and  such 
humor  as  are  shown  in  this  poem  and  in  Chaucer 
are  rare  even  in  these  daj's  when  machine-made 
sympathj-  and  subtlety  have  been  put  within  the 
reach  of  the  least  endowed.  The  author's  name 
is  unknown ;  it  has  been  supposed  to  be  Nicholas 
de  Guildford,  because  towards  the  end  of  the  poem 
the  birds  agree  to  leave  the  decision  of  the  strife 
between  them  to  Master  Nicholas  of  Guildford, 
who  is  described  as  very  skilful  in  music.  But 
obviously  Master  Nicholas  is  more  probabl}^  not 
the  author,  but  some  friend  of  his.  The  poem 
contains  1 794  lines. 

As  King  Alfred  was  famed  for  his  wisdom  it  was 
natural  that  many  proverbs  should  be  ascribed  to 
him.  A  collection  of  them  (709  lines)  is  preserved 
from  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
Most  of  them  are  very  good  and  some  are  pictur- 
esquely and  even  poetically  expressed.  They  are 
published  by  Dr.  R.  Morris  in  An  Old  English 
Miscellany  and  reprinted  in  part,  in  Morris  and 
Skeat'so  Specimens  of  Early  English,  Part  I. 
This    collection-  does  not  contain    the    proverb 


NOTES 


683 


quoted  in  11.   351-352,  but  there  may  have  been 
other  collections. 

CURSOR  MUNDI 

Pp.  17  f.  Cursor  Mundi  is  a  versified  ac- 
count of  biblical  history  from  the  Creation  to 
the  time  of  Solomon  and  from  the  birth  of  the 
Virgin  Mary  to  her  Assumption,  ending  with 
the  Final  Judgment.  In  subject-matter  and  in 
the  organization  of  it,  Cursor  Mundi  resembles  the 
great  dramatic  cycles  of  the  INliddle  Ages;  so 
much  so,  indeed,  that  it  has  been  supposed  to  be 
the  source  of  some  of  these  plays.  The  poem  is 
very  long,  about  25,000  lines,  and  seems  to  have 
been  very  widely  read.  The  specimen  gi\-en  here 
exhibits  its  merits  fairly  and  may  serve  to  show  us 
one  of  the  most  agreeable  forms  in  which  our 
ancestors  received  their  knowledge  of  Bible  his- 
tory. The  story  here  related  is,  of  course,  not 
from  any  of  the  canonical  books  of  the  Bible,  but 
from  the  apocrj'phal  gospel  of  Matthew. 

THOMAS   DE  HALES 

A  LuvE  Ron 

Pp.  19  f.  Thomas  de  Hales  was  a  Francis- 
can friar,  known  to  us  by  an  affectionate  message 
to  him  in  a  letter  from  the  famous  Adam  de  Ma- 
risco.  It  is  therefore  probable  that  the  date 
ascribed  to  his  poem  should  be  about  1250.  It  is 
certain  that  he  lived  before  the  order  of  friars  had 
been  corrupted  by  the  intrusion  of  designing  and 
unscrupulous  men,  and  while  it  still  retained  the 
purity  and  enthusiasm  of  its  great  founder. 
Thomas  was  a  man  of  great  learning,  but  the 
sweetness  and  passionate  simplicit}^  of  this  little 
poem  are  not  unworthy  of  the  fine  spirit  of  St. 
Francis  himself.  The  subject  of  the  poem  and  the 
circumstances  of  its  composition  as  given  in  the 
first  stanza,  it  may  be  noted,  indicate  the  near- 
ness of  the  friars  to  the  people,  —  that  familiar  and 
homely  interest  in  all  the  affairs  of  old  and  young 
which  gave  them  their  tremendous  opportunities 
for  good  and  for  evil  in  the  thirteenth  and  four- 
teenth centuries. 

In  the  title  of  the  poem,  "Ron"  (pronounced 
Roon)  means  a  "charm  or  incantation";  it  is 
derived  from  the  name,  riln,  given  to  ancient  Teu- 
tonic letters,  which  were  used  in  magic. 

The  poem  contains  25  stanzas.  Those  omitted 
are  as  good  as  those  given  here,  but  they  develop 
the  same  theme  and  contain  few  new  ideas. 

With  stanzas  9  and  10  compare  the  Ubi  sunt 


poem  (p.  23)  and  the  Latin  college  song  Ubi  sunt 
qui  ante  nos  In  numdo  fuere  ? 

Amadas  and  Idoyne  (1.  67)  were  a  pair  of 
lovers  almost  as  famous  in  the  Middle  Ages  as 
Tristram  and  Iseult. 

MIDDLE  ENGLISH  LYRICS 

Pp.  21  ff.  The  three  litde  Lyrics  brought  to- 
gether here  are  among  the  best  of  the  multitudi- 
nous lyrics  of  the  age.  Many  of  them  have  been 
preserved  for  us  in  manuscripts,  many  others  are 
alluded  to  or  quoted  in  snatches  by  chroniclers 
or  writers  of  narrative  poems,  and  many  more 
must  have  perished  entirel}^  either  tlu-ough  loss 
of  the  manuscripts  or  because  they  were  never 
written  do\^Ti.  Enough  remain  to  prove  that  the 
ancient  fame  of  "Merrie  England"  for  song  was 
well  deserved  and  to  show  that  the  poetical  gifts 
of  mediaeval  Englishmen  are  to  be  studied  not  in 
dull  didactic  poem  or  prosy  rh>Tned  chronicle,  but 
in  poems  written  in  the  spirit,  of  free  and  joyous 
artistry.  Better  known  than  any  of  those  given 
here  is  the  charming  Cuckoo-so7ig,  composed  about 
1250,  of  which  the  music  as  well  as  the  words  has 
come  down  to  us.  Of  our  selections  the  first  and 
second  are  songs  of  springtime  and  love,  and 
hardly  require  any  comment,  though  it  may  be 
interesting  to  compare  the  second  with  the  Earl  of 
Surrey's  treatment  of  the  same  theme  on  page  100. 
The  third  is  an  extract  from  a  longer  poem,  but 
is  a  vmit  in  itself  and  is  one  of  the  best  l>Tical  ex- 
pressions of  a  theme  made  famous  to  the  Middle 
Ages  by  St.  Bernard  of  Clairvaux  and  to  all  ages 
by  Frangois  Villon  (see  Rossetti's  translation  of 
Villon's  ballade,  p.  629). 


THE   AGE   OF   CHAUCER 


WILLIAM  LANGLAND    (?) 

Piers  the  Plowtian 

Pp.  24  fif.  The  poems  which  go  imder  the  name 
of  Langland  were,  I  think,  the  work  of  several 
distinct  and  very  different  men.  One  of  these 
men  wrote  the  Prologue  and  the  first  eight  passus, 
or  cantos,  of  the  A-text  (1800  hnes)  about  1362. 
The  poem  became  very  popular  and  was  continued 
by  another  man  who  carried  it  on  to  about  the 
middle  of  the  twelfth  passus  and  left  it  unfinished. 
A  certain  John  But  then  finished  it  by  a  hasty  and 
absurd  account  of  the  sudden  death  of  the  author. 
About  1377  another  writer,  equal  to  the  first  in 


684 


ENGLISH    PROSE    AND    POETRY 


picturesqueness  of  phrasing  and  vividness  of  de- 
tail, but  deficient  in  power  of  consecutive  thought 
and  constructive  ability,  revised  the  whole  poem 
composed  by  the  first  two  writers,  neglecting  the 
passus  containing  the  death  of  the  author.  His 
method  of  revision  was  to  leave  practically  un- 
changed what  he  found  written  but  to  make  nu- 
merous insertions,  expanding  suggestions  of  the 
original,  and  numerous  additions,  developing 
themes  untouched  by  the  earlier  writers.  The 
work  as  he  left  it  is  called  the  B-text.  Fifteen 
or  twenty  years  later  a  man  of  greater  learning 
than  any  of  the  others  and  of  a  more  orderly  and 
systematic  habit  of  mind  than  the  author  of  the 
B-text,  but  of  much  less  poetic  ability  —  a  pedant, 
in  fact  —  revised  the  B-text,  rearranging,  insert- 
ing, and  adding.  The  poem  as  he  left  it  is  called 
the  C-text.  The  moral  earnestness,  the  satirical 
power,  the  picturesque  phrasing  of  the  poem  have 
long  been  recognized,  but,  until  recently,  when  it 
was  suggested  that  it  was  not  all  the  work  of  one 
man,  the  poem  wag  charged  with  vagueness,  ob- 
scurity, formlessness.  Now  it  appears  that  we 
ought  to  read  and  criticise  the  difYerent  parts  sepa- 
rately; and  if  we  do  so,  we  find  that  the  work 
of  the  first  author  (the  first  half  of  the  A-text)  is 
as  clear  as  it  is  picturesque,  that  one  need  never 
be  at  a  loss  as  to  its  meaning  or  the  relation  of  its 
parts,  and  that  its  author  was  a  man  of  remark- 
able constructive  and  organizing  power.  Confu- 
sion and  uncertainty  do  not  enter  until  his  work 
has  received  the  well-meant  and  powerful  but 
inartistic  insertions  and  additions  of  others.  His 
work  may  be  seen  in  the  first  selection.  That  of 
the  writer  of  the  B-text  is  seen  at  its  very  best,  and 
free  from  its  usual  defects,  in  the  second  selection, 
which  constitutes  his  first  insertion  in  the  poem 
as  he  found  it. 

As  a  whole,  the  series  of  poems  is  divided  into 
two  main  sections :  the  first  called  the  Vision  of 
William  concerning  Piers  the  Plowman;  and  the 
second  called  Do-well,  Do-better,  and  Do-best. 
Each  section  contains  several  visions.  All  are 
devoted  to  satire  of  the  abuses  reigning  in  all 
classes  of  society.  The  authors  are  riot  reformers 
in  the  sense  of  wishing  to.  set  forth  new  ideas  or 
theories;  they  are  conservatives,  who  hold  that 
the  evils  of  their  time  arise  from  neglect  of  the 
good  ideals  of  the  past,  and  who  wish  to  restore  the 
good  conditions  that  existed  in  former  times. 
Even  the  warnings  addressed  to  the  king  betray 
no  sense  of  conscious  innovation.  The  figure  of 
Piers  the  Plowman  as  the  typical  honest  laborer  — 
the  only  aspect  in  which  he  appears  in  the  A-text 
—  made  a  great  impression  upon  the  minds  of  the 


discontented  peasants  and  their  leaders,  and  his 
name  and  those  of  Do-well,  Do-better,  and  Do- 
best  —  which  were  emphasized  later  —  became 
rallying  cries  for  the  Peasants'  Revolt  of  1381. 
In  the  sixteenth  century  Piers  the  Plowman  was 
much  read  by  the  religious  reformers  and  was  re- 
garded —  like  the  works  of  Chaucer  and  Wiclif  — 
as  anti-Catholic.  But  the  authors  of  the  poems 
did  not  intend  to  attack  the  Church  or  Society, 
but  only  the  abuses  that  had  grown  up  in  both. 

The  first  selection  (p.  24)  presents  a  vision  of  "a 
field  full  of  folk,"  representative  of  the  world  in 
general  with  its  diversified  interests  and  occupa- 
tions. It  will  be  observed  that  the  author  does 
not  depict  the  world  as  altogether  given  over  to 
evil  practices,  as  is  sometimes  stated.  He  sees 
not  only  wasters  but  honest  laborers,  and  not  only 
lying  and  worthless  palmers  and  pilgrims  but  also 
devout  nuns  and  hermits,  who  observe  the  rules 
of  religion  and  worship  God  sincerely. 

The  second  selection  (p.  28)  is  a  fable,  intro- 
duced into  the  Prologue  abruptly  and  without 
motivation  by  the  author  of  the  B-text.  As  the 
whole  thing  is  a  dream,  this  may  be  artistically 
justified.  At  any  rate,  it  is  one  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque and  effective  pieces  of  writing  in  the 
whole  group  of  poems.  It  is  supposed  to  have 
been  written  in  1377  when  the  old  king  Edward 
III,  who  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  evil  and  cor- 
rupt counsellors,  was  lying  ill,  and  his  successor 
to  the  throne  was  Richard,  the  eight-year  old 
son  of  the  Black  Prince.  The  conservatism  of  the 
author  is  shown  in  the  fact  that  although .  he 
shares  the  anger  and  disgust  with  which  the 
Commons  regard  their  once  beloved  and  admired 
monarch,  he  fears  the  change  that  wiU  come  when 
the  old  cat  dies  and  the  kitten  becomes  ruler.  It 
is  possible,  however,  that  the  poem  was  writteaj 
later,  after  the  death  of  Edward,  and  that  the  "olc 
cat"  is  John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  of  Lancaster,  who  was! 
in  actual  control  of  the  government  for  severalj 
years. 

The  verse  of  both  selections  is  the  Old  English* 
alliterative  verse,  modified  somewhat  by  the 
changes  which  the  language  had  undergone 
since  the  Conquest.  For  several  reasons,  it  seems 
probable  that  the  use  of  this  verse  in  the  fourteenth 
century  was  due,  not  to  a  revdval  of  the  old  form, 
but  to  a  continuation  of  it  throughout  the  cen- 
turies. It  is  very  unlikely  that  there  was  any  one 
in  the  fourteenth  centur}'  who  could  read  Old 
English  (Anglo-Saxon)  verse.  Popular  verse  of 
this  form  may  have  existed  in  the  north  and  west 
of  England  during  the  preceding  centuries  with 
very  little  chance  of  being  committed  to  writing 


I 


NOTES 


68s 


(see  p.  677,  above) :  the  period  of  its  reappear- 
ance in  written  literature  is  precisely  that  at  which 
the  upper  classes  were  abandoning  the  use  of  French 
(see  Trevisa,  p.  71,  above);  and  the  differences 
between  this  alliterative  verse  and  the  older  form 
are  just  such  as  might  be  expected  if  the  verse 
had  existed  continuously,  changing  as  the  lan- 
guage changed. 

The  structure  of  this  verse  is  simple.  Each 
line  is  divided  into  two  half-lines,  each  having 
two  principal  stresses.  The  half-lines  are  bound 
together  by  alliteration  of  the  stressed  syllables; 
that  is,  these  syUables  begin  with  similar  sounds. 
In  the  standard  line,  both  of  the  stressed  syllables 
in  the  first  half-line  and  the  first  stressed  syllable 
in  the  second  begin  alike;  but  all  sorts  of  varia- 
tions from  the  standard  occur. 


SIR  JOHN  MANDEVILLE    (?) 

The  Voiage  and  Travaile  of  Sir  John 
Maundevile,  Kt. 

Pp.  30  flf.  The  Voiage  and  Travaile  of  Sir  John 
Maundevile,  Kt.  is  one  of  the  greatest  and  most 
successful  literary  impostures  ever  perpetrated. 
It  seems  first  to  have  been  issued  about  13  71  in 
French,  from  which  it  was  very  soon  translated 
into  Latin,  English,  and  many  other  languages. 
Its  popularity  was  enormous,  as  is  attested  by  the 
immense  number  of  Mss.  which  have  come  douTi 
to  us,  and  by  the  frequency  with  which  it  has  been 
reprinted  ever  since  1475,  the  date  of  the  first 
printed  edition.  Incredible  as  are  many  of  the 
stories  it  contains,  the  apparent  simplicity  and 
candor  of  the.  author,  his  careful  distinction  be- 
tween what  he  himself  had  seen  and  what  he  re- 
ported only  on  hearsay,  his  effort  to  avoid  all  ex- 
aggeration even  in  his  most  absurd  statements, 
gained  ready  belief  for  his  preposterous  fabrica- 
tions, and  this  was  confirmed  by  the  fact  that 
some  of  the  statements  which  at  first  seemed  most 
incredible  —  such  as  the  roundness  of  the  earth  — • 
were  actually  true  and  were  proved  to  be  so  by 
the  discoveries  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth 
centuries. 

The  book  was  really  compiled  from  many  sources, 
principally  the  travels  of  William  of  Boldensele, 
a  German  traveler  of  the  previous  century,  and 
Friar  Odoric  of  Pordenone,  an  Italian  who  visited 
Asia  in  13 16-13  20,  the  Speculum  Historiale  of 
Vincent  of  Beauvais,  a  great  mediaeval  compila- 
tion of  history  and  legend,  and  Pliny's  Natural 
History,  that  great  storehouse  of  the  marvelous. 


As  to  the  identity  of  the  author,  he  is  now  believed 
to  have  been  one  Jean  de  Bourgogne,  an  English- 
man who  fled  from  England  after  the  execution 
of  his  lord,  John  baron  de  ]VIowbray,  in  1322,  but 
it  is  not  certainly  known  whether  ]Mandeville  or 
Bourgogne  was  his  real  name.  Two  witnesses  of 
the  sixteenth  century  record  having  seen  at  Liege 
a  tomb  to  the  memory  of  Dominus  Johannes  de 
Mandeville,  on  which  was  an  epitaph  giving  the 
date  of  his  death  as  Nov.  17, 137 1,  and  some  verses 
declaring  him  to  have  been  the  English  Ulysses. 
In  any  event,  the  book  is  one  of  the  most  fasci- 
nating books  of  marvels  ever  written,  and  the  Eng- 
lish version,  although  a  translation,  is  of  the  high- 
est importance  for  the  history  of  English  prose. 

The  story  told  in  Chapter  IV  is  the  source  of 
William  IMorris'  fine  poem.  The  Lady  of  the  Land 
(pp.  634  ff.).  Mandeville  merely  narrates  the 
legend,  Morris  vizualizes  the  scene  and  all  the 
occurrences,  and  transmits  his  vision  to  his  readers. 

JOHN   WICLIF 

The  Gospel  of  Mathew 

Pp.  34  ff.  Of  John  Wyclif  no  account  is  neces- 
sary here.  Whatever  may  have  been  his  own  part 
in  the  translations  of  the  Bible  which  go  under  his 
name,  these  translations  are  of  great  importance 
for  the  history  of  English  prose  style.  The  same 
selection  (the  fifth  chapter  of  St.  Matthew)  has 
therefore  been  gi\-en  from  both  the  earlier  and  the 
later  versions.  The  differences  between  them  are 
very  striking  and  instructive.  In  order  to  afford 
opportunity  for  further  study  of  the  gradual  de- 
velopment of  the  matchless  style  of  the  Authorized 
Version  of  the  English  Bible,  the  same  chapter 
is  given  from  Tyndale's  version  (p.  96).  Both 
the  Authorized  and  the  Revised  versions  are  so 
easily  accessible  that  it  seems  unnecessary  to 
print  the  same  chapter  from  them,  but  they 
should  not  be  neglected  in  the  comparison. 

SYR  GAWAYN  AND  THE  GRENE  KN^'GHT 

Pp.  37  flf.  The  author  of  Syr  Gatvayn  and  the 
Grene  Knyght  (p.  37)  and  Pearl  (p.  46)  —  if  these 
poems  are  really  by  the  same  author,  as  is  usually 
supposed  —  was  not  merely  a  writer  of  great  natural 
powers  but  a  careful  and  conscious  artist.  It  is 
supposed  that  Gawayn  was  written  while  the 
author  was  still  occupied  with  worldty  thoughts 
and  interests  and  that  Pearl  and  two  (or  three) 
other  religious  poems  were  composed  after  his 
conversion  to  a  serious  religious  life;  and  this  is 


686 


ENGLISH    PROSE    AND    POETRY 


a  very  reasonable  supposition  if  the  poems  be  the 
work  of  one  man. 

Gawayn  belongs  to  the  number  of  metrical 
romances  dealing  with  the  knights  of  the  Round 
Table  and  their  adventures,  but  in  one  important 
respect  it  is  very  different  from  most  of  them. 
They  are,  as  a  rule,  the  work  of  authors  who  had 
little  qualification  for  their  task  beyond  a  certain 
ease  in  narration  and  versification  and  a  retentive 
memory.  The  author  of  Gawayn,  however,  does 
not  merely  repeat  a  story  which  he  has  heard  or 
read ;  he  uses  the  materials  of  tradition  as  freely 
as  Tennyson  or  Arnold  or  Swinburne  or  any  other 
modern  artist,  and  displays  a  power  of  construc- 
tion, a  skill  in  climax,  a  sense  of  pictorial  effect, 
fairly  comparable  with  theirs.  All  this  can  be  seen 
in  the  brief  episode  here  given,  which  has  been 
chosen,  not  because  it  is  better  than  many  others, 
but  because  it  is  self-explanatory.  The  interest 
of  the  reader  is  maintained  unflaggingly  through- 
out the  2550  lines  of  the  poem. 

The  situation  presented  in  our  extract  is  as 
follows  :  K-ing  Arthur,  the  greatest  of  the  kings 
of  Britain,  with  the  knights  and  ladies  of  his 
court,  is  celebrating  the  Christmas  season.  It  is 
New  Year's  Day  and  all  have  attended  service  in 
the  royal  chapel  and  are  seated  in  the  banquet 
hall,  where  all  "dainties"  are  served  in  double 
portions.  The  others  ate;  but  Arthur,  who  was 
young  and  somewhat  "wild  of  mood,"  would  never 
eat  on  such  festival  days  until  he  had  either  wit- 
nessed some  adventure  or  heard  some  wonderful 
tale.  Suddenly  there  rode  in  at  the  haU-door  a 
gigantic  knight,  clothed  in  green  and  riding  a 
green  horse.  He  had  long  green  hair  and  a  green 
beard  as  big  as  a  bush.  All  the  trappings  of  his 
horse  were  green,  with  gold  ornaments.  He  wore 
no  armor  and  carried  no  shield  or  spear.  In  his 
right  hand  he  had  a  branch  of  holly  and  in  his  left 
a  huge  battle-axe.  The  axe  v/as  as  keen  as  a  razor ; 
the  shaft  was  bound  with  iron  and  wound  with  a 
green  lace  that  ended  in  tassels,  or  buttons,  of 
green.  He  saluted  no  one  but  looked  about  haught- 
ily and  cried:  "Where  is  the  head  of  this  com- 
pany? I  wish  to  see  him  and  speak  with  him." 
At  this  point  our  selection  begins.  It  contains 
the  whole  account  of  the  occurrences  in  Arthur's 
hall.  • 

The  rest  of  the  poem  tells  of  the  adventures  of 
Gawain  in  the  fulfilment  of  his  promise  :  his  search 
for  the  Green  Chapel,  his  entertainment  at  a 
great  castle,  where  his  loyalty  is  tested  thrice,  and 
his  meeting  with  the  Green  Knight  on  the  morning 
of  the  next  New  Year's  Day  at  the  mysterious 
chapel. 


The  story  is  clearly  derived  from  a  Celtic  tale  of 
the  Other-world,  and  it  possesses  in  no  small  degree 
that  power  of  natural  magic  which  Matthew  Arnold 
noted  as  the  most  eminent  characteristic  of  Celtic 
poetry.  Three  modern  English  versions  of  it 
are  accessible,  two  by  Miss  Jessie  L.  Weston:  a 
condensed  prose  version  in  Arthurian  Romances 
Unrepresented  in  Malory,  Vol.  I ;  and  one  in  verse 
in  Ro)nance,  Vision  and  Satire';  and  another  prose 
version  by  E.  J.  B.  Kirtlan. 

PEARL 

Pp.  46  £f.  Pearl  (121 2  lines),  though  entirely 
different  in  subject  and  tone  and  manner,  is  equally 
admirable.  It  seems  to  give  the  experience  of  a 
father  who  has  lost  a  beloved  little  daughter,  his 
"Pearl,"  and  who,  a  few  years  later,  falling  asleep 
in  his  arbor,  sees  her  in  a  vision,  not  as  the  help- 
less child  he  has  lost,  but  as  a  radiant  and  beauti- 
ful young  maiden,  the  Bride  of  the  Lamb,  and  talks 
with  her  about  the  joys  of  her  heavenly  abode. 
Recently  it  has  been  argued  with  great  learning 
and  ingenuitj'  that  the  poet  is  a  cleric  and  can  have 
had  no  child,  that  he  is  a  man  who,  being  inter- 
ested in  the  theological  doctrine  of  grace,  not 
works,  as  the  basis  of  rewards  in  heaven,  attempted 
to  illustrate  and  enforce  the  doctrine  by  an  imagi- 
nary case  of  a  baptized  child  dying  in  infancy  and 
receiving  in  heaven  rewards  equal  to  those  given 
to  the  greater  saints.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that, 
whether  cleric  or  not,  the  poet  was  deeply  versed 
in  theology  and  believed  ardently  in  tlie  doctrine 
of  grace,  but  no  sufficient  reason  has  been  adduced 
for  refusing  to  recognize  the  genuine  personal 
tone  of  the  poet's  grief  and  love.  That  the  child 
was  not  his  own  is  reasonably  clear  from  his  re- 
mark that  she  was  nearer  to  him  than  aunt  or 
niece  (line  233),  and  from  the  absence  of  the  terms 
father  and  daughter  in  their  conversation.  But 
many  a  man  has  loved  with  great  devotion  a  child 
not  his  own;  Swinburne's  charming  poems  (see 
p.  643  and  the  whole  series  entitled  A  Dark 
Month,  written  when  the  beloved  child  was 
away  on  a  visit)  may  serve  as  a  notable  instance. 
That  the  bereaved  heart  of  a  lonely  man  here 
found  consolation  in  the  new  and  blessed  doctrine 
of  grace  seems  more  likely  than  that  a  mere  theolo- 
gian devised  this  beautiful  poem  as  the  framework 
for  promulgating  a  favorite  dogma. 

The  technique  of  the  poem  is  extremely  elabo- 
rate. The  stanza-form  is  intricate  and  difficult, 
requiring  as  it  does  two  rhymes  on  one  sound,  four 
on  another,  and  six  on  another,  and  demanding 
alliteration  as  an  additional  ornament.     More-, 


NOTES 


687 


over,  the  stanzas  are  linked  together  by  the  repe- 
tition in  the  first  line  of  each  stanza  of  some 
phrase  or  word  from  the  last  line  of  the  preceding 
stanza;  and,  finally,  the  stanzas  are  bound  to- 
gether in  groups  of  five  by  the  possession  of  a  re- 
frain which  is  carried,  with  slight  \-ariations, 
throughout  the  group.  (By  some  oversight  or 
,error  the  fifteenth  group  contains  sLx  stanzas 
instead  of  five.) 

As  the  poem  is  too  long  to  be  presented  in  full, 
we  have  given  a  few  stanzas  outlining  the  story 
and  illustrating  the  writer's  power.  JNIodern  ver- 
sions of  the  whole  have  been  published  by  Dr.  S. 
Weir  Mitchell,  Miss  Sophie  Jewett,  and  Dr.  G.  H. 
Gerould. 

JOHN   GOWER 

CONFESSIO   AmANTIS 

Pp.  51  fif.  Gower  is  not  a  great  poet,  but 
through  being  contrasted  with  Chaucer  he  has  had 
less  than  his  due  of  recognition.  Mr.  Lowell,  one 
of  the  most  genial  of  critics,  sought  to  enhance 
his  praise  of  Chaucer  by  setting  him  off  against 
a  dark  background  and  playfully  celebrating  his 
contemporary  and  friend  Gower  as  superhumanly 
dull.  But  Chaucer  needs  no  such  setting ;  we  now 
know  his  age  to  have  been  one  of  extraordinary 
mental  activity  and  poetical  production,  and  he 
shines  with  imdiminished  brightness  above  aU  its 
light.  And  Gower,  though  no  artist  and  unde- 
niably monotonous,  is  not  altogether  lacking  in 
power  of  swift  narrative  and  picturesque  descrip- 
tion, as  the  storj'  of  Medea  and  Eson  clearly  proves. 

The  simple  fact  in  regard  to  Gower  would  seem 
to  be  that,  though  no  poet  in  the  high  sense  of  the 
term,  he  was  one  of  the  best  educated  and  taost 
learned  men  of  his  time  and  one  of  the  most 
thoughtful  and  inteUigent.  His  Latin  poems  on 
social  and  political  affairs  are  \agorous,  inteUigent 
and  original.  He  also  wrote  in  French  a  volume 
of  social  criticism  called  Le  Miroir  de  l' Homme 
(or,  as  it  was  called  in  Latin,  Speculum  Meditantis). 
But  education  and  general  intelligence  do  not 
make  a  man  a  poet;  and  Gower  remained  only 
a  well-trained  man  of  letters. 

In  the  fifteenth  century,  when  literary  taste  was 
not  exacting  and  men  cared  rather  for  material 
than  for  art,  Gower  was  ranked  as  high  as  Chaucer. 
Nowadays,  when  we  have  learned  that  the  sub- 
ject matter  of  story-tellers  is  universal  and  im- 
personal, we  value  only  those  writers  who  have  art, 
and  consequently  we  care  little  for  Gower. 

The  story  here  told  is  based  principally  on  0\-id's 
Metamorphoses,  VH,  164-293.     Gower,  however, 


tells  the  story  freely;  and  11.  4039-41 14,  which 
are  in  the  main  original,  or  at  least  not  derived 
from  Ovid,  are  by  no  means  the  least  picturesque. 
There  are  some  errors,  but  they  seem  due  in  large 
part  to  the  fact  that  Gower  had  an  incorrect  manu- 
script of  Ovid.  Thus  in  1.  3994,  Crete  is  due  to  the 
reading  Cretis  or  Creteis  instead  of  Threces  (1.  223) 
in  Ovid;  Eridian,  1.  4005,  for  Apidanus  (1.  228), 
is  doubtless  also  based  on  a  corrupt  form ;  as  is 
likewise  tJie  Rede  See,  1.  401 1  (cf.  Ovid,  1.  267  :  Et 
quasOceani  rejluum  mare  lavit  harenas). 

GEOFFREY   CH.\UCER 

Pp.  56  ff.  Many  of  the  writers  of  English 
verse  before  Chaucer  were  educated  and  well- 
trained  men.  They  had  studied  logic,  rhetoric, 
and  grammar  in  the  schools,  they  were  familiar 
with  good  examples  of  Latin  literature,  and  they 
set  a  high  value  on  accuracy  of  \-ersification  and  of 
rhyming,  as  their  verses  prove.  Such  loose  com- 
position, such  careless  rhymes,  such  impossible 
or  irregular  metres  as  we  now  see  daily  in  the 
verses  of  ignorant  versifiers  are  practically  un- 
known in  English  verse  before  1400.  It  is  a  great 
mistake  to  suppose  that  Chaucer  or  his  predeces- 
sors were  imtrained  men  who  wrote  without 
reflection  and  without  standards  of  composition. 
But  although  logical  structure  and  rhetorical 
skill  are  elements  in  works  of  art,  art  requires  also 
taste,  imagination,  creative  ability;  and  com- 
paratively few  of  the  predfecessors  of  Chaucer 
had  great  poetic  powers. 

Chaucer  was  not  only  a  well-trained  and  skilful 
man  of  letters,  but  also  a  great  poet.  Both  his 
creative  faculty  and  his  artistic  abUify,  however, 
seem  to  have  developed  comparatively  late. 
TJte-Book  of  tlte  Duchess,  written  when  he  was 
nearly  thirty,  is  a  pleasant  and  skilful  piece  of 
work,  but  it  is  imitative,  conventional,  and  lack- 
ing in  individuality;  and  so  far  as  we  know,  he 
produced  nothing  better  than  this  until  several 
years  later.  This  slowness  of  development  may 
have  been  due  in  part  to  his  being  too  fully  oc- 
cupied with  his  official  duties  in  these  early  years 
to  devote  much  time  to  composition  or  to  reflec- 
tion on  the  aims  and  methods  of  art.  We  know 
too  httle  of  the  details  of  his  life  to  be  able  to  say 
exactly  when  he  obtained  more  leisure  or  came 
into  contact  with  the  literary  world  which  gave 
him  a  new  conception  of  poetry,  but  apparently 
both  of  these  events  occurred  when  he  was  between 
thirty  and  forty  years  of  age. 

In  1373  and  1378  he  was  sent  on  official  business 
to  Italy.     Whether  he  had  any  knowledge  of  the 


688 


ENGLISH    PROSE    AND    POETRY 


language  or  literature  of  Italy  before  his  first 
visit  to  that  country  is  uncertain.  Certain  it  is 
that  in  some  way,  at  some  time,  he  acquired  a 
knowledge  of  some  of  the  works  of  Dante,  Petrarch, 
and  Boccaccio,  the  three  great  Italian  writers 
with  whom  the  great  age  of  Italian  literature 
began.  All  three  of  these  men  had  a  richer, 
finer  conception  of  the  meaning  and  value  of 
literature  and  were  more  powerful  as  thinkers 
and  more  skilful  as  artists  than  the  French  poets 
who  up  to  this  time  had  been  Chaucer's  models. 
After  becoming  acquainted  with  these  new  and 
stimulating  masterpieces,  Chaucer,  for  a  time, 
translated  and  imitated  them;  but  the  new  poetic 
material  with  which  they  provided  him  was  very 
far  from  constituting  their  chief  value  to  him. 
He  obviously  began  to  reflect  upon  the  differences 
between  the  old  and  the  new,  to  consider  questions 
of  literary  art  —  of  narration,  of  description,  of 
characterization,  of  background,  of  tone,  of 
structure  —  with  the  result  that  he  developed  a 
thoroughly  original  manner  of  thinking  and  of 
writing,  indebted,  to  be  sure,  to  all  his  models, 
English,  French,  Latin  and  Italian,  but  none  the 
less  original,  individual,  thoroughly  his  own. 
The  poems  of  his  mature  years  are  those  upon 
which  his  fame  rests. 

Troilus  and  Criseyde 

Pp.  56  ff.  The  story  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  is 
one  of  the  most  farhous  love  stories  of  literature. 
It  does  not  appear  in  Homer's  account  of  the  siege 
of  Troy  but  was  developed  by  Boccaccio,  an 
Italian  writer  of  the  fourteenth  century,  from 
slight  hints'  in  the  Roman  de  Trove,  by  Benoit 
de  Sainte-More,  a  French  writer  of  the  twelfth 
century,  and  the  Historia  Troiana  of  Guido  delle 
Colonne,  an  Italian  of  the  twelfth  century  who 
turned  Benoit's  French  verse  into  Latin  prose. 
Chaucer  got  the  story  from  Boccaccio  and  greatly 
improved  it  by  changing  the  characters  of  some 
of  the  actors  and  making  the  motives  of  action 
more  psychological.  Shakespeare  derived  the 
plot  of  his  play  Troilus  and  Cressida  largely  from 
Chaucer,  but  he  introduced  many  changes  of 
character  and  motive,  and  produced  a  cynical, 
unpleasant  story  very  different  from  the  piteous 
and  beautiful  tpagedy  told  by  Chaucer. 

Our  first  selection  (p.  56)  describes  the  first 
meeting  of  Troilus  and  Criseyde  and  his  sudden 
love  for  her,  in  spite  of  all  the  sport  he  had  pre- 
viously made  of  love  and  lovers.  The  second 
(p.  57)  describes  Criseyde's  first  sight  of  Troilus, 
after  Pandarus  —  her  uncle  and  Troilus'  friend 


and  confidant  —  had  awakened  her  interest  by 
telling  her  how  desperately  Prince  Troilus,  the 
best  of  all  the  Trojan  knights  except  his  brother 
Hector,  had  fallen  in  love  with  her.  The  third 
(p.  58)  tells  briefly  and  pathetically  how  she 
forsook  Troilus  for  Diomede,  the  Greek,  after 
she  had  been  compelled  by  her  father  to  leave 
Troy  and  join  him  in  the  camp  of  the  besieging 
army. 

The  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury 
Tales 

Pp.  59  ff.  The  Canterbury  Tales  are  a  collection 
of  tales  which  Chaucer  represents  as  told  by  a 
group  of  men  and  women  who,  having  met  by 
chance  in  an  inn  in  Southwark,  made  a  pilgrimage 
together  to  the  shrine  of  St.  Thomas  at  Canter- 
bury. The  Prologue  tells  when  and  how  they 
met,  and  how,  finding  that  they  were  all  going  to 
the  same  place,  they  agreed  to  go  together  and  to 
enliven  their  journey  by  telling  tales  as  they  rode 
along.  At  his  own  suggestion,  the  innkeeper, 
Harry  Bailey  by  name,  agreed  to  accompany 
them  and  to  act  as  presiding  officer  and  as  judge 
of  the  merits  of  the  tales.  The  teller  of  the  best 
tale  was  to  have  a  supper  at  the  expense  of  the 
rest  upon  their  return,  and  any  one  who  refused 
to  obey  the  orders  of  the  presiding  officer  was  to 
pay  for  all  that  the  company  spent  on  the  journey. 

Chaucer  tells  us  that  there  were  twenty-nine, 
including  himself  and  not  counting  the  Host 
(or  innkeeper).  They  came  from  various  parts 
of  England  and  represented  almost  every  occupa- 
tion and  station  in  life.  The  upper  classes  were 
represented  by  the  Knight  and  his  son  the  Squire, 
who  were  attended  by  a  servant,  the  Yeoman. 
The  church,  in  accordance  with  the  large  part  it 
played  in  mediaeval  life,  was  predominant,  with 
nine  representatives:  the  Prioress,  and  her  com- 
panions, the  Nun  and  the  Priest;  the  Monk, 
the  Friar,  the  Pardoner,  the  Summoner,  the 
Parson,  and  the  Clerk  (who  had  not  yet  obtained 
a  benefice  and  was  still  studying  at  Oxford). 
Of  the  learned  professions  there  were  two  repre- 
sentatives :  the  Doctor  and  the  Sergeant-at-Law. 
From  the  country  there  were  the  Franklin  (a 
large  landowner),  the  Reeve  (a  sort  of  overseer 
of  a  large  estate  in  Norfolk),  the  Miller,  and  a  poor 
Plowman.  From  the  city  of  London  there  were, 
besides  Chaucer,  who  had  recently  been  Comptrol- 
ler of  Customs  for  the  post  of  London,  a  Merchant 
(or  wholesale  exporter),  five  tradesmen,  a  Cook, 
and  a  Manciple  (steward  of  one  of  the  organiza- 
tions of  lawyers).     From  the  west  of  England 


NOTES 


689 


there  was  a  Shipman  of  Dartmouth  (master  of  a 
saiHng  vessel  and  a  rather  disreputable  character, 
though  a  good  sailor)  and  a  buxom,  red-cheeked 
widow  from  Bath,  skilful  in  weaving  cloth  and 
fond  of  gadding  about. 

The  intention  at  first  was  that  each  of  these 
persons  should  tell  four  tales,  two  on  the  way  to 
Canterbury  and  two  on  the  way  back;  but 
Chaucer  seems  to  have  decided  later  that  one 
each  way  would  be  enough;  and  as  a  matter  of 
fact  he  did  not  write  enough  tales  to  go  once 
around.  There  are  actually  only  twenty-four 
tales,  and  of  these  one  is  a  second  tale  told  by 
Chaucer  himself  after  he  had  been  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  his  first  tale  by  the  Host's  declaration 
that  it  was  too  dull,  and  another  is  an  account 
of  the  tricks  of  an  Alchemist  who  had  overtaken 
them  on  the  journey,  given  by  his  servant  after 
the  Alchemist  had  fled  in  shame  at  the  revelations 
of  his  swindling  methods. 

Chaucer  also  intended  to  tell  how  each  tale  led 
to  the  next  and  to  report  the  conversations  and 
discussions  which  arose.  These  bits  between 
the  tales  are  among  the  liveliest  and  most  inter- 
esting parts  of  Chaucer's  work ;  but  as  he  did  not 
write  all  the  tales  necessary,  so  also  he  did  not 
fill  in  all  the  bits  that  should  have  come  between. 
No  part  of  the  work,  however,  is  more  artistic 
than  these  and  the  descriptions  of  the  pilgrims 
which  Chaucer  gives  in  the  Prologue.  They 
have  never  been  surpassed  in  humor  or  in  brilliance 
of  characterization. 

P.  59.  1.  8.  In  1.  I  Chaucer  tells  us  that  April 
had  already  begun.  During  April  the  sun  is  in 
the  sign  Aries  until  the  nth  and  in  Taurus  the 
rest  of  the  month.  Line  8  therefore  means  that 
it  is  now  after  April  nth.  In  fact,  we  learn  from 
a  later  passage  that  the  pilgrims  met  on  the  even- 
ing of  April  1 6th. 

1.  17.  Thomas  a  Becket,  at  one  time  Chancellor 
of  Henry  II,  upon  being  made  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  resisted  the  efforts  of  Henry  to  deprive 
the  church  courts  of  some  of  the  powers  they  had 
possessed.  In  the  quarrel  that  ensued,  four  of 
Henry's  knights  rode  to  Canterbury  and  murdered 
Thomas  in  the  Cathedral  (in  11 70).  Although 
Henry  had  not  ordered  the  murder,  he  was  held 
responsible  for  it,  and  Thomas  was  worshipped 
as  a  saint.  His  tomb  at  Canterbury  became  the 
most  famous  shrine  in  England  and  for  three 
hundred  and  fifty  years  was  visited  by  pilgrims 
from  aU  parts  of  the  country,  who  brought  gifts  of 
gold  and  jewels  in  return  for  the  saint's  services  to 
them.  When  the  shrine  was  destroyed  by  Henry 
VIII,  cart-loads  of  treasures  were  taken  away. 


11.  48  flf.  When  the  Knight  was  not  fighting 
for  his  lord,  he  sought  service  elsewhere.  His 
campaigns  were  all  against  the  heathen  and  fall 
into  three  groups :  one  in  the  orient  (Alisaundre, 
Lyeys,  Satalye,  Tramissene,  Turkeye),  one  against 
the  Moors  (Algesir  in  Granada,  and  Belmarye  in 
northern  Africa) ,  and  one  on  the  borders  of  Russia 
and  Prussia  (Ruce,  Pruce,  Lettow).  His  battles 
ranged  in  time  from  1344  to  the  date  of  the  pil- 
grimage (see  1.  77).  The  Grand  Master  of  the 
Knights  of  the  Teutonic  Order  in  Prussia  was 
famous  for  his  wisdom,  his  skill  in  war,  and  his 
courtesy. 

P.  60.  11.  85-6.  The  expedition  here  referred  to 
was  doubtless  that  under  Bishop  Henry  of  Norwich 
in  1383. 

I.  115.  Compare  the  images  which  Louis  XI 
wore  in  his  hat,  in  Queniin  Durward. 

II.  118  ff.  The  nunnery  over  which  the  Prioress 
presided  was  probably  in  the  main  a  finishing 
school  for  young  ladies  of  the  upper  classes. 
Hence  her  manners  are  those  prescribed  in  the 
books  of  etiquette  of  the  day. 

I.  120.  Most  ladies  of  rank  swore  pretty 
vigorously  in  ancient  times;  cf.  what  Hotspur 
says  to  his  wife  in  I  Henry  IV,  III,  i,  252-261, 
and  Clarke's  note  on  the  strong  oaths  of  Queen 
Elizabeth.  By  Scint  Loy  was  a  very  mild  oath, 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  delicate  manners  of  the 
Prioress. 

II.  124-6.  The  French  of  Stratford-atte-Bowe 
(a  nunnery  near  London)  was  boarding-school 
French. 

1.  146.  Nuns  were  so  fond  of  little  dogs  that  it 
was  necessary  to  prohibit  them  from  bringing 
them  into  the  church. 

P.  61.  1.  162.  Amor  vincit  omnia  (Love  con- 
quers all  things)  is  not  a  very  appropriate  motto 
for  a  nun,  unless  "Love"  is  taken  in  a  spiritual 
sense. 

I.  164.  Prestcs  three  is  probably  wrong.  Only 
one  is  mentioned  elsewhere;  three  would  make 
the  number  of  pilgrims  31,  instead  of  29  (see  1.  24), 
and  it  is  strange  that  Chaucer  does  not  here 
describe  the  Nun  and  the  Priest,  as  he  does  the 
other  pilgrims.  Perhaps  he  left  the  passage 
incomplete,  intending  later  to  compose  descrip- 
tions of  these  characters. 

II.  165  ff.  Many  monasteries  of  Benedictine 
monks  had  become  very  wealthy  through  the 
increase  in  value  of  the  lands  given  them  at  their 
foundation  and  later.  Consequently  the  heads  and 
other  officials  often  needed  to  be,  and  became,  much 
engrossed  in  business  and  scarcely  distinguish- 
able in  manners  and  ideas  from  nobles  and  other 


690 


ENGLISH  PROSE   AND   POETRY 


great  landholders.  An  interesting  account  of  all 
this  is  given  in  Carlyle's  Past  and  Present.  The 
rule  of  St.  Benedict,  the  founder  of  the  order 
{Seinl  Beneit,  1.  173),  was  revised  often;  once  by 
St.  Maurus  (1.  173),  who  lived  some  fifty  years 
later  and  introduced  the  Benedictine  order  into 
France.  The  Austin  of  11.  187-8  was  probably 
that  St.  Augustine  who  in  596  brought  Christian- 
ity from  Rome  to  England ;  he  was  a  Benedictine 
monk.  He  shoidd  not  be  confused  with  St. 
Augustine,  Bishop  of  Hippo  (fourth  century),  or 
with  the  founder  of  the  Augustinian  order  of 
friars  (see  footnote  on  1.  210).  The  worldliness 
of  the  monks  was  supposed  to  be  shown  by  their 
fondness  for  sports.  Pricking  (1.  191)  means 
tracking  a  hare  by  its  footprints. 

11.  208  fi.  The  orders  of  friars  were  established 
in  the  thirteenth  century  to  carry  religion  among 
the  common  people,  as  the  Salvation  Army  of 
oiir  own  day  was,  and  the  methods  of  work  of  the 
two  organizations  have  a  few  points  of  resemblance. 
To  prevent  such  worldliness  as  had  grown  up 
among  the  monks,  it  was  ordered  that  neither 
the  individual  friar  nor  the  house  to  which  he 
belonged  could  hold  property.  They  were  to  be 
like  the  disciples  who  went  out  to  convert  the  world 
after  the  death  of  Christ.  They  did  a  great  work, 
and  became  influential.  Then  ambitious  men 
entered  the  order  and  used  it  to  advance  their 
personal  interests,  with  the  result  that  in  Chaucer's 
day  need  was  felt  within  the  Church  for  reforming 
the  worldliness  of  the  friars. 

P.  62.  11.  285  ff.  In  the  Middle  Ages  education 
was  the  best  means  for  an  able  man  who  lacked 
wealth  and  social  influence  to  attain  eminence 
and  power.  The  Church  afforded  great  oppor- 
tunities for  many,  and  many  entered  the  service 
of  the  government  or  of  powerful  nobles.  All 
educated  men  were  called  clerks,  whether  they 
went  into  the  service  of  the  Church  or  not.  The 
Clerk  of  this  poem  is  a  t3rpe  of  the  deVout  scholar ; 
he  was  devoted  to  the  Church  and  to  the  philos- 
ophy of  Aristotle. 

P.  63.  11.  331  ff.  A  frankhn  is  a  landholder  of 
free,  but  not  of  noble  birth.  This  Franklin  wa's 
rich  and  hospitable,  but  not  a  man  of  education 
or  culture. 

11.  388  ff.  The  Shipman,  though  an  able 
sailor,  was,  like  most  of  his  craft  at  that  time, 
rather  disreputable  —  dishonest  and  little  better 
than  a  pirate. 

P.  67.  11.  725  ff.  Chaucer's  excuse  for  some  of 
the  improper  stories  he  tells  is  one  of  the  earliest 
bits  of  social  or  moral  criticism  of  literature  in 
English.     It  serves  here  two  purposes  :   it  carries 


on  the  literary  device  that  this  was  a  real  pil- 
grimage ;  and  it  thereby  enables  Chaucer  to  shift 
responsibility  for  the  improper  tales  from  himself 
to  the  characters  —  who  are  of  course  in  reality 
his  own  creations. 

A  Roundel 

P.  69.  This  roundel  is  sung  by  the  birds  of 
Chaucer's  Parlement  of  Foules  (Assembly  of  Birds) 
just  before  they  fly  away  with  the  mates  they  have 
chosen  for  the  ensuing  year.  The  roundel  is  an 
elaborate  form  of  light  verse  (vers  de  sociele)  which 
originated  in  France  and  was  much  cultivated  in 
the  Middle  Ages.  It  and  the  other  forms  similar 
to  it  died  out  in  the  fifteenth  century  but  were 
revived  in  the  nineteenth.  Compare  the  struc- 
ture of  this  roundel  with  that  of  the  three  by 
Swinburne,  p.  643. 

Balade  de  Bon  Conseyl 

The  balade  is  also  a  conventional  form  of 
verse  with  much  the  same  history  as  the  roundel. 
There  should  always  be  three  stanzas  (or  a  multi- 
ple of  three)  with  the  same  rhymes  in  the  same 
order,  and  each  stanza  should  close  with  the  same 
line,  called  the  "refrain."  Usually  there  is  an 
additional  stanza,  called  "I'envoi"  (or  "the 
envoy"),  which  contains  an  address  to  the  person 
for  whom  it  was  written.  Chaucer's  balades 
have  a  different  structure  from  those  of  most 
later  writers ;  cf .  Rossetti's  translation  of  Villon's 
Balade  of  Dead  Ladies,  p.  629. 

The  Compleint  of  Chaucer  to  his 
Empty  Purse 

This  is  also  in  form  a  balade  with  an  envoy. 
It  was  addressed  to  Henry  IV  a  few  days  after  his 
accession  to  the  throne  and  was  immediately  suc- 
cessful in  procuring  a  pension  for  the  aged  poet. 
How  serious  was  Chaucer's  need  it  is  hard  to  say, 
in  view  of  the  humorous  tone  of  his  Complaint. 

Note  the  three  claims  which  Henry  has  to  the 
throne,  as  expressed  in  II.  22,  23. 

A  Treatise  on  the  Astrolabe 

P.  70.  An  astrolabe  (or  astrolabie)  is  a  simple 
instrument  for  taking  rough  obsen'ations  of  the 
positions  of  the  heavenly  bodies.  Chaucer,  who 
was  much  interested  in  astronomy  and  astrologj'^, 
compiled  a  treatise  on  the  use  of  this  instrument 
for  little  Lcuis,  who  had  shown  ability  and  interest 


NOTES 


691 


in  mathematics.  The  Prologue  to  this  treatise 
is  the  only  bit  of  prose  we  have  from  Chaucer 
except  certain  translations. 

JOHN   DE  TREVISA 
Higden's  Polychronicon 

p.  71.  About  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, Ralph  Higden,  a  monk  of  the  city  of  Chester, 
wrote  in  Latin  a  history  of  the  world,  with  spe- 
cial regard  to  England,  entitled  Polychronicon. 
Thirty-five  or  forty  years  later  John  de  Trevisa, 
of  Cornwall,  wishing  to  make  this  book  accessible 
to  those  who  could  not  read  Latin,  translated  it 
into  EngUsh.  He  included  comments  and  addi- 
tions of  his  own  and  to  them  he  prefixed  his 
name. 

The  section  here  given  is  a  brief  extract  from  the 
remarks  of  Higden  and  Tre\nsa  on  the  languages 
spoken  in  England.  These  remarks  show  that 
although  there  was  no  scientific  study  of  languages 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  educated  men  thought 
about  the  linguistic  situation  and  had  very  sensi- 
ble ideas  concerning  it.  Trevisa's  statements  in 
regard  to  the  change  that  occurred  about  the  end 
of  the  first  half  of  the  century  are  very  important 
for  the  history  of  literature  in  English  (see  above, 
p.  677).  The  two  reformers  of  teaching  whom 
Trevisa  mentions  seem  from  their  names  to  have 
been  Cornishmen. 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE 
AGES 

HOCCLEVE  AND   LYDGATE 

Pp.  72  ff.  Hoccleve  (p.  72)  and  Lj^dgate  (p.  73) 
are  of  historical  interest  only.  Each  professed 
himself  a  follower  and  devoted  pupil  of  Chaucer's, 
and  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  their  affection  and 
admiration,  but  both  singularly  failed  to  reproduce 
any  of  his  characteristic  quahties.  Neither  seems 
to  have  understood  his  versification  or  to  have 
had  the  ability  to  adapt  it  to  the  language  of  their 
time.  Chaucer's  verse,  as  everybody  now  knows,  is 
as  smooth  and  musical  as  the  best  verse  of  any  age, 
if  the  final  vowels  which  were  pronounced  in  his 
speech  are  sounded  in  his  verse.  Hoccleve  and 
Lydgate  knew  that  final  e  was  sometimes  sounded, 
but  in  their  own  speech  apparently  sounded  it 
much  less  often  than  Chaucer,  and  consequently, 
when  they  read  his  verse  with  their  own  pro- 


nunciation, it  sounded  to  them  as  rough  and  un- 
certain as  their  own. 

There  must  have  been  very  great  and  sudden 
changes  in  the  pronunciation  of  English  during 
Chaucer's  lifetime,  especially  in  regard  to  sound- 
ing final  e.  He  and  Gower  apparently  spoke  and 
wrote  the  more  conserx-ative  speech  of  the  upper 
classes.  The  younger  generation,  to  whicii  Hoc- 
cleve and  Lydgate  belonged,  apparently  spoke 
very  differently.  This  may  have  been  due  to  the 
sudden  rise  in  social  position  of  a  vast  multitude 
of  people  in  consequence  of  the  general  political 
and  social  movements  of  the  age.  Such  people 
would  naturally  try  to  acquire  the  pronunciation 
of  the  new  class  into  which  they  had  risen,  but 
because  of  the  multitude  of  them  their  own  earlier 
habits  of  speech  could  not  fail  to  exercise  some 
influence  upon  standard  English. 

But  it  is  clear  also  that  neither  Hoccleve  nor 
Lydgate  was  possessed  of  much  intellectual  fine- 
ness or  artistic  sensibility.  Neither  of  them  under- 
stood the  spirit  and  aims  of  Chaucer's  work.  To 
them,  and,  sad  to  relate,  to  most  men  for  a  century 
to  come,  Chaucer's  merits  were  not  those  of  a 
great  artist,  a  true  poet,-  but  merely  those  of  a 
voluminous  writer  of  interesting  stories  and  songs. 
Doubtless  they  enjoyed  his  work  more  than  they 
did  Gower's,  but  he  and  Gower  seemed  to  them 
to  belong  essentially  to  the  same  class  of  writers. 
It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  Hawes  and  Skel- 
ton  and  other  writers  of  the  age  of  Henry  VII  and 
Henry  VIII  praised  Chaucer  and  Gower  and 
Lydgate  in  the  same  breath  and  with  the  same 
note  of  praise.  The  matter  was  all  they  could 
understand  or  appreciate;  and  Gower  and  Lyd- 
gate had  as  much  material  as  Chaucer,  if  not 
more.  In  our  own  day  the  sudden  addition  to  the 
reading  pubhc  of  a  multitude  of  readers  of  uncul- 
tivated minds  and  undeveloped  taste  has  resulted 
in  a  somewhat  similar  state  of  affairs.  The  success 
of  a  book  —  that  is,  of  one  of  "the  best  sellers" 
—  depends  not  upon  its  artistic  qualities  or  its 
power  and  beauty  of  thought,  but  solely  upon  its 
presentation  of  the  sort  of  material  liked  by  the 
general  pubhc.  Now,  as  in  the  fifteenth  century, 
it  is  not  even  necessary  that  the  material  should 
be  novel ;  the  public  swallows  with  avidity  to-day 
absolutely  the  same  story  that  it  swallowed  yester- 
day, provided  the  names  of  the  hero  and  the 
heroine  are  changed.  A  century  or  two  hence 
critics  will  find  it  as  hard  to  account  for  the  great 
vogue  of  some  of  our  popular  novels  as  we  find  it 
to  account  for  the  failure  of  the  men  of  the  fifteenth 
century  to  distinguish  Chaucer  from  Gower  and 
Lydgate. 


692 


ENGLISH  PROSE   AND   POETRY 


De  Regimine  Principum 

Pp.  72  f.  Hoccleve's  De  Regimine  Principum 
is  a  treatise  on  the  duties  of  princes,  addressed  to 
Prince  Henry,  Shakespeare's  Prince  Hal.  It  has 
a  Prologue  of  2016  lines,  telling  how  he  came  to 
write  the  poem,  and  an  Address  to  the  Prince  of 
147  lines  (11.  2017-2163).  The  Prologue  contains 
much  information  about  Hoccleve's  misspent 
jrouth  and  his  poverty,  and  incidentally  throws 
much  light  on  the  life  of  the  time.  For  nearly 
twenty-four  years,  he  tells  us,  he  had  been  a 
wri-ter  in  one  of  the  government  ofi&ces,  that  of 
the  Privy  Seal.  Now  his  back  is  bent  and  he  has 
pains  in  "every  vein  and  place  of  his  body"  from 
so  much  writing ;  he  is  married  and  his  income  is 
only  four  pounds  a  year,  besides  an  annuity  of 
twenty  marks  (£13  ds.  Sd.),  which  is  hardly  ever 
paid.  An  old  and  wise  beggar,  who  professes  to 
be  able  to  help  him,  advises  him  to  write  a  book 
and  present  it  to  the  Prince  in  the  hope  of  getting 
a  more  lucrative  position.  The  dialogue  between 
Hoccleve  and  the  beggar,  which  forms  the  greater 
part  of  the  Prologue,  is  very  interesting,  as  has 
just  been  said. 

Hoccleve's  devotion  to  Chaucer  cannot  be 
doubted;  he  neglects  no  opportunity  to  praise 
him.  The  first  of  the  three  passages  given  in  our 
selection  (11.  1961-1974)  is  from  the  Prologue;  the 
second  (11.  2077-2107),  from  the  Address  to  the 
Prince.  In  both  cases  Hoccleve  is  lamenting  his 
own  lack  of  skill  as  a  writer,  and  this  naturally  sug- 
gests to  him  the  mention  of  his  beloved  master, 
the  "flower  of  eloquence."  The  third  passage 
(11.  4978-4998)  occurs  in  the  treatise  itself,  when 
the  author  has  just  urged  Prince  Henry  not  to 
hold  councils  on  holy  days.  Lines  4992-4998  refer 
to  the  portrait  of  Chaucer  which  Hoccleve  caused 
to  be  inserted  in  the  Manuscript  at  this  point. 
We  are  not  told  who  the  artist  was,  but  the  like- 
ness was  probably  a  good  one.  It  is  reproduced 
in  many  modern  books :  see  especially  Garnett 
and  Gosse,  Engl.  Lit.  (ill.  ed.).  Vol.  I,  p.  140  (in 
color) ;  Skeat's  Oxford  Chaucer,  Vol.  I,  front. ; 
Green's  Short  Hist,  of  the-  Engl.  People,  Vol.  I, 
p.  419;  Saunders,  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales, 
etc. 

The  Story  of  Thebes 

Pp.  73  f.  In  the  Prologue  to  the  Story  of 
Thebes  Lydgate  represents  himself  as  having 
made  a  pilgrimage  alone  to  Canterbury  in  grati- 
tude for  his  recovery  from  illness.  Upon  reaching 
the  inn,  he  finds  there  all  Chaucer's  Canterbury 
pilgrims  and  is  invited  by  the  Host  to  join  them 


and  ride  home  with  them  the  next  day.  He 
accepts  the  invitation,  and  the  next  morning, 
before  they  have  gone  a  bow-shot  from  the  citj'^, 
the  Host  calls  upon  him  for  a  tale.  The  story  of 
the  Siege  of  Thebes  is  the  story  he  tells.  As 
Lydgate  was  only  thirty  years  old  when  Chaucer 
died,  and  as  he  gives  his  age  as  "nigh  fifty"  when 
he  meets  the  Canterbury  pilgrims,  it  is  obvious 
that  we  have  here,  not  the  account  of  a  real  meet- 
ing, but  merely  a  literary  device  to  introduce  his 
story. 

The  story  itself  is  more  than  twice  as  long  as 
the  Knight's  Tale.  It  is  concerned  with  the  strife 
between  Eteocles  and  Polynices  (Polymyte  is  the 
form  in  Lydgate),  the  sons  of  (Edipus  and  Jocasta, 
for  the  kingdom  of  Thebes  —  the  subject  of 
/Eschylus '  great  tragedy.  The  Seven  against  Thebes ; 
but  Lydgate's  poem  is  not  derived  from  the  Greek 
play,  which  of  course  was  unknown  to  him,  but 
from  an  Old  French  prose  romance. 

The  situation  in  our  selection  is  as  follows : 
Tydeus,  the  friend  of  Polynices,  has  come  to 
Thebes  with  a  message  to  Eteocles  from  Poly- 
nices demanding  that  he  fulfil  his  promise  of  giving 
up  the  kingdom  to  Polynices  after  reigning  for  one 
year.  Eteocles  has  refused,  and  Tydeus,  after 
declaring  that  God  will  punish  him  for  his  unfaith- 
fulness, has  left  Thebes  alone  on  his  journey  back 
to  Polynices  at  Argos.  He  has  scarcely  left  the 
palace  when  Eteocles,  in  furious  wrath,  orders  his 
Chief  Constable  with  fifty  chosen  knights  to  pur- 
sue him  and  slay  him.  They  steal  out  secretly 
and  lie  in  ambush  for  him,  as  our  selection  tells. 

In  ].  1 165,  squar  seems  irreconcilable  with 
round;  I  presume  that  it  either  is  a  mistake  for 
swar  (heavy)  or  has,  by  confusion,  taken  on  the 
meaning  of  that  word. 

THE   BALLADS 

Pp.  74  flf .  The  Ballads  here  given  are  specimens 
of  a  kind  of  literature  which  has  attracted  a  great 
deal  of  attention  and  aroused  a  great  deal  of 
controversy  in  modern  times.  Composed  during 
the  Middle  Ages  for  the  common  people,  they 
attracted  scarcely  any  attention  from  cultivated 
men  and  played  little  part  in  literature  until  the 
second  half  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Sir 
Philip  Sidney  knew  and  loved  "the  old  song  of 
Percy  and  Douglas,"  Shakespeare  and  some  of  the 
other  dramatists  quoted  brief  snatches  of  them 
in  certain  of  their  plays,  and  Addison  devoted  a 
critique  in  the  Spectator  to  one  of  the  best  of  them ; 
but  they  had  no  general  literary  standing  until 
some  men  of  the  eighteenth  century,  sick  of  the 


NOTES 


693 


conventionalities  and  prettinesses  of  the  poetry 
of  their  da}-,  turned  for  rcHef  to  the  rude  vigor  and 
simplicity  of  these  old  poems.  The  book  most 
influential  in  this  introduction  of  them  to  modern 
readers  was  Bishop  Percy's  Reliqiies  of  Ancient 
English  Poetry,  published  in  1765. 

But,  although  obscure  until  the  time  of  the 
Romantic  Movement,  the  ballads,  as  has  been 
said,  were  composed  centuries  before  that  time. 
Even  approximate  dates  of  composition  can  be 
set  for  very  few  of  them,  for  they  were  not  written 
down  but  only  preser\-ed  in  memory  and  trans- 
mitted orally  through  the  centuries,  and  con- 
sequentl}'  in  most  cases  no  certain  conclusions  as 
to  their  dates  can  be  drawn  from  the  forms  of  the 
language  in  which  thej'  are  expressed.  But  we 
know  that  some  of  those  that  have  come  down  to 
us  belong  to  the  fifteenth,  the  fourteenth,  and 
even  the  thirteenth  century.  Perhaps  the 
earliest  of  those  printed  here  is  St.  Stephen  and 
Herod  (p.  84),  one  of  the  most  remarkable  for  a 
vivid  simplicity  which  no  art  could  improve. 
This  and  Sir  Patrick  Spens,  by  some  curious  chance, 
have  precisely  the  artistic  qualities  which  we  look 
for  in  the  best  modern  verse;  the  excellences  of 
some  of  the  others,  such  as  the  Battle  of  Otierbiirn 
and  Captain  Car,  though  perhaps  as  great  in  their 
way,  belong  to  an  ideal  of  art  entirely  different 
from  that  of  the  modern  individualistic,  conscious 
artist. 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne 

Pp.  74  ff.  Between  1.  8  and  1.  9  a  number  of 
verses  have  been  lost.  Apparently'  they  told  that 
Robin  had  a  dream  in  which  he  was  bound  and 
beaten  by  two  yeomen,  who  also  took  away  his 
bow.  From  the  later  development  of  the  story 
we  learn  that  these  are  the  Sheriff  of  Nottingham 
and  Sir  Guy  of  Gisborne.  It  does  not  appear 
from  anj'thing  in  the  ballad  that  Robin  recog- 
nized his  foes,  but  he  has  at  least  been  warned 
that  there  are  two  of  them  and  he  vows  vengeance 
upon  them.  The  story  is  told  in  the  vivid,  dis- 
connected way  characteristic  of  ballads  and  much 
is  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  hearer.  Thus  we 
are  not  told  how  Robin  knows  that  Little  John 
has  been  captured  by  the  Sheriff.  He  goes  to 
Barnesdale  to  see  how  his  men  are  faring  (st. 
45) ;  perhaps  he  sees  Little  John  bound  and  recog- 
nizes him  at  a  distance. 

Ballads  were  sung  (usually  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  fiddle  or  other  stringed  instrument) ; 
see  the  quotation  from  Sir  Philip  Sidney  in  the 
notes  on  The  Battle  of  Otterburn.     The  tunes  of 

AE 


many  of  them  are  given  in  Chappell's  Popular 
Music  of  tlie  Olden  Time. 

The  Battle  of  Otterburn 

Pp.  77  fif.  The  words  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  who 
knew  both  good  fighting  and  good  poetry,  have 
been  quoted  a  hundred  times,  but  must  be  quoted 
again:  "Certainly  I  must  confess  my  own  bar- 
barousness.  I  never  heard  the  old  song  of  Percy 
and  Douglas  that  I  found  not  my  heart  moved 
more  than  with  a  trumpet ;  and  yet  it  is  sung  by 
some  blind  crowder  (fiddler),  with  no  rougher 
voice  than  rude  style :  which  being  so  evil  ap- 
parreled  in  the  dust  and  cobwebs  of  that  uncivil 
age,  what  would  it  work  trimmed  in  the  gorgeous 
eloquence  of  Pindar ! "  Sidnej^'s  praise  is  justified, 
whether  he  had  in  mind  The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot 
or  the  older  poem.  The  Battle  of  Otterburn. 

Both  of  these  famous  ballads  are  founded  on  an 
actual  historical  event,  the  battle  of  Otterburn, 
which  was  fought  between  the  English  and  the 
Scots  on  Wednesday,  August  19,  1388.  A  de- 
tailed and  admiring  account  of  the  real  battle 
was  given  by  the  French  chronicler  Froissart  and 
may  be  read  either  in  Johnes's  translation,  \^ol.  Ill, 
Chaps.  126-128,  or  in  the  older  translation  of  Lord 
Berners,  Globe  ed.,  pp.  370-380.  Neither  of  the 
ballads  is  accurate  historically,  and  curiously 
enough  each  entirely  neglects  the  picturesque 
motive  which  was  the  real  occasion  of  the  battle, 
that  is,  Percy's  vow  to  recover  his  pennon,  whicji 
Douglas  had  captured  a  few  days  earlier  in  a 
combat  before  Newcastle.  As  we  are  studying 
the  ballad  not  as  history  but  as  poetry,  we  need  not 
discuss  the  historj'  or  the  geography,  further  than 
to  note  that  events  are  thoroughly  distorted  to  the 
advantage  of  the  English.  Douglas  reall}-  had 
qnly  300  lancers  and  2000  other  soldiers ;  Percy 
had  600  lancers  and  8000  foot  soldiers.  Both 
Percy  and  Douglas  were  young  men.  "The 
chivalrous  trait  in  st.  17  and  that  in  the  charac- 
teristic passage  stt.  36-44,"  says  Professor  Child, 
"are  peculiar  to  this  transcendently  heroic  ballad." 
On  stt.  43  and  49,  he  remarks  that  archers  really 
had  no  part  in  this  fight. 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Pp.  80  f.  Whether  this  tragic  ballad  had  any 
historical  event  as  its  basis  is  unknown  and  unim- 
portant. It  is  one  of  the  finest  examples  of 
Scottish  balladry;  and  if  its  suppressions  of 
details  be  due  to  accident,  this  is  one  case  in 


694 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


which  the  half  of  the  story  is,  as  Professor  Child 
says,  better  than  the  whole. 

Captain  Car,  or  Edom  o  Gordon 

pp.  81  f.  The  reason  for  the'  double  title  of  this 
ballad  is  that  in  some  versions  the  villain  is  not 
Captain  Car  but  Edom  o  Gordon  (that  is,  Adam 
of  Gordon).  There  was,  in  fact,  in  Scotland  in  the 
days  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  an  able  and  gallant 
soldier  Adam  Gordon,  whose  fame  is  said  to  have 
been  destroyed  by  the  infamous  deed  of  his  man, 
Captain  Ker.  He  sent  his  soldiers  under  the 
leadership  of  Captain  Ker  to  the  castle  of  Towie, 
demanding  the  surrender  of  the  castle  in  the 
queen's  name.  In  the  absence  of  her  lord,  the 
lady  of  the  castle  refused,  and  "the  soldiers  being 
impatient,  by  command  of  their  leader.  Captain 
Ker,  fire  was  put  to  the  house,  wherein  she  and 
the  number  of  twenty-seven  persons  were  cruelly 
burnt  to  the  death."  According  to  another 
account,  nearly  contemporary,  Gordon  himself 
was  the  inhuman  leader.  At  all  events,  whether 
for  his  own  deed  or  for  failing  to  punish  Ker,  he 
was  denoimced  and  execrated  by  his  contem- 
poraries. 

Lines  5-8  are  a  chorus  or  refrain.  The  tune 
of  this  ballad  is  given  in  Chappell's  Popular  Music 
of  the  Olden  Time,  old  ed.,  p.  226,  new  ed.,  I,  74. 

P.  82.  Stanza  20  is  not  in  this  version  of  the 
ballad,  but  it  is  traditional.  John  Hamelton, 
of  St.  22,  is  a  servant,  as  1.  90  indicates. 

Lord  Randal 

P.  83.  This  is  not  an  historical  ballad.  Its 
origin  lies  in  folk  lore.  Stories  and  ballads  on  this 
theme  are  very  ancient  and  almost  worldwide  in 
their  distribution,  and  versions  of  the  ballad 
itself  are  still  sung  in  parts  of  the  United  States. 
The  eels  of  st.  3  are  of  course  snakes. 

Hind  Horn 

Pp.  83  f.  This  ballad  is  not  derived  from  the 
romance  of  King  Horn  (p.  9),  but  is  a  variant  of 
the  same  story.  The  refrain,  which  is  sung  be- 
tween the  lines,  is  very  different  in  the  other  ver- 
sions of  this  ballad,  of  which  there  are  many. 
Most  refrains  are,  like  this,  entirely  meaningless ; 
one  of  the  most  interesting  is  a  Scottish  version : 

Near  Edinburgh  was  a  young  son  born, 

Hey  lilelu  an  a  how  low  Ian 
An  his  name  it  was  called  young  Hyn  Horn. 

An  it's  hey  down  down  deedle  airo. 


St.  Stephen  and  Herod 

P.  84.  This  is  of  course  a  traditional  distortion 
of  the  story  of  St.  Stephen,  for  which  there  is  no 
warrant  in  sacred  or  secular  history.  But  a 
somewhat  similar  story  is  told  of  Judas  in  the 
apocryphal  Gospel  of  Nicodemus  and  the  incident 
of  the  crowing  of  the  cock  is  found  in  tales  in  many 
languages  The  picturesque  ignorance  of  the 
liiljle  involved  in  placing  the  stoning  of  Stephen 
on  the  day  after  the  birth  of  Christ  is  characteris- 
tic of  the  common  folk  of  the  Middle  Ages.  All 
that  they  knew  was  that  in  the  Church  calendar 
St.  Stephen's  day  is  the  next  after  Christmas. 

1.  2.     befalle,  befits;  subjunctive  for  indicative. 

1.  3.  boris  hed,  the  Christmas  dish  of  old  Eng- 
land, brought  into  the  hall  in  procession  with  the 
singing  of  carols. 

SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 

MORTE    DaRTHUR 

Pp.  84  ff.  The  Morte  Darthur  of  Sir  Thomas 
Malory  has  long  been  famous,  not  only  as  the 
source  of  most  of  the  modern  poems  about  King 
Arthur  and  his  Knights,  but  also  as  one  of  the 
most  interesting  books  in  any  language.  It  has 
recently  been  shown  by  Professor  Kittredge  that 
Sir  Thomas  was  not,  as  some  have  supposed,  a 
priest,  but,  as  the  colophon  of  his  book  tells  us,  a 
soldier,  with  just  such  a  career  as  one  would  wish 
for  the  compiler  of  such  a  volume.  He  was 
attached  to  the  train  of  the  famous  Richard 
Beauchamp,  Earl  of  Warwick,  and  perhaps  was 
brought  up  in  his  service.  As  Professor  Kit- 
tredge says,  "No  better  school  for  the  future 
author  of  the  Morte  Darthur  can  be  imagined  than 
a  personal  acquaintance  with  that  Englishman 
whom  all  Europe  recognized  as  embodying  the 
knightly  ideal  of  the  age."  The  Emperor; 
Sigismund,  we  are  informed  on  excellejit  authority, 
said  to  Henry  V,  "that  no  prince  Cristen  for 
wisdom,  norture,  and  manhode,  hadde  such 
another  knyght  as  he  had  of  therle  Warrewyk; 
addyng  thereto  that  if  al  curtesye  were  lost,  yet 
myght  hit  be  founde  ageyn  in  hym;  and  so  ever 
after  by  the  emperours  auctorite  he  was  called 
the  'Fadre  of  Curteisy. '" 

Sir  Thomas  derived  his  materials  from  old 
romances,'  principally  in  French,  which  he  at- 
tempted to  condense  and  reduce  to  order.  His 
style,  though  it  may  have  been  affected  to  some 
extent  by  his  originals,  is  essentially  his  own.  Its 
most  striking  excellence  is  its  diction,  which  is 


NOTES 


69s 


invariably  picturesque  and  fresh,  and  this  un- 
doubtedly must  be  ascribed  to  him.  The  syntax, 
though  sometimes  faulty,  has  almost  always  a 
certain  naive  charm.  On  the  whole,  regarding 
both  matter  and  manner,  one  can  hardly  refuse 
as^nt  to  Caxton  when  he  says,  "But  thystorye 
(i.e.,  the  history)  of  the  sayd  Arthur  is  so  gloryous 
and  shynjTig,  that  he  is  stalled  in  the  fyrst  place 
of  the  moost  noble,  beste,  and  worthyest  of  the 
Cristen  men."  With  this  version  of  the  death  of 
King  Arthur  the  student  should  read  Layamon's 
version  (p.  5)  and  Tennyson's  (p.  528). 

WILLL\M   C-AXTON 
Preface  to  the  Booke  of  Eneydos 

P.  86.  William  Caxton,  the  first  English 
printer,  was  born  in  Kent  about  1422.  After 
serving  his  apprenticeship  in  London  with  the 
merchant  Robert  Lange,  who  became  Lord 
Mayor,  he  went  to  Bruges  and  so  prospered  that 
in  1462  he  was  Governor  of  the  guild  of  English 
Merchant  Adventurers  there.  In  1469  he  seems 
to  have  given  up  his  business  and  entered  the 
service  of  the  Duchess  Margaret  of  Burgimdy, 
sister  of  Edward  IV  of  England.  For  her  he 
began  in  that  year  a  translation  into  English 
of  a  French  prose  romance  called  Le  Recueil  des 
Histoires  de  Troyes.  So  many  of  those  who  heard 
of  this  translation  wished  to  have  a  copy  of  it  that 
he  learned  the  new  art  of  printing  in  order  to 
provide  enough  copies.  He  says  in  the  Epilogue 
to  the  Third  Book :  "And  for  as  moche  as  in  the 
wryting  of  the  same  my  penne  is  worn,  myn 
hand  wery  and  not  stedfast,  min  eyen  dimmed 
with  over  moche  lokyng  on  the  whit  paper,  and 
my  corage  not  so  prone  and  redy  to  laboure  as 
hit  hath  ben,  and  that  age  crepeth  on  me  dayly 
and  febleth  all  the  bodye ;  and  also  because  I 
have  promysid  to  dy\'erce  gentilmen  and  to  my 
frendes  to  address  to  hem  as  hastely  as  I  myght 
this  sayd  book;  therfor  I  have  practysed  and 
lerned  at  my  grete  charge  and  dispense  to  ordeyne 
this  sayd  book  in  prynte  after  the  manner  and 
forme  as  ye  may  here  see ;  and  is  not  wreton  with 
penne  and  ynke  as  other  bokes  ben,  to  thende 
that  every  man  may  have  them  attones  (at  once) ; 
for  all  the  bookes  of  this  storj^e  named  the  Recide 
of  the  Historyes  of  Troyes,  thus  enpryntid  as  ye 
here  see,  were,  begonne  in  oon  day  and  also 
f>Tiyshid  in  oon  day." 

Whether  he  learned  printing  in  Cologne,  where 
he  finished  his  translation  in  September,  147 1,  or 
in  Bruges,  he  began  to  print  in  Bruges  in  partner- 


ship with  Colard  Mansion  and  produced,  besides 
the  Troy  Book,  a  translation  called  The  Game  and 
Play  of  the  Chess  Moralized.  In  1476  he  remo\'ed 
to  London  and  set  up  a  press  in  Westminster 
Abbey.  Such  was  his  diligence  that  he  trans- 
lated, before  his  death  in  1491,  twenty  large  folio 
volumes  (4900  pages)  and  printed  nearly  one 
hundred  volumes  (over  18000  pages). 

With  the  exception  of  his  continuation  of 
Higden's  Polychronicon  (see  p.  71),  his  original 
writings  are  confined  to  the  prefaces,  epilogues, 
etc.,  which  he  supplied  to  several  of  his  publica- 
tions. These  are  very  interesting,  both  for  their 
intrinsic  value  and  for  the  charming  garrulity 
of  his  style.  The  passage  here  chosen  is  from  his 
preface  to  his  translation  of  a  French  version  of 
the  story  of  ^neas.  What  he  tells  us  of  his 
difficulty  in  determining  what  sort  of  English  to 
use  is  a  classic  in  the  history  of  the  language 
(compare  the  passage  given  above  from  Trevisa, 
p.  71).  I  have  tried  to  make  it  easier  to  read  by 
breaking  up  into  shorter  lengths  his  rambling 
stgitements,  —  they  can  hardly  be  called  sentences, 
—  but  I  somewhat  fear  that,  in  so  doing,  a  part, 
at  least,  of  their  quaint  charm  may  have  been 
sacrificed. 

STEPHEN  HA  WES 
The  Pastime  of  Pleasure 

Pp.  86  f.  The  main  stream  of  English  poetry 
in  the  fifteenth  century  was  in  name  and  claim 
Chaucerian,  but  in  reality  it  showed  rather  the 
influence  of  Lydgate.  With  the  exception  of  the 
Scottish  Chaucerians,  not  represented  in  this 
volume,  the  later  men  were  insensible  to  those 
qualities  of  the  master  which  make  him  significant 
not  for  the  Middle  Ages  only  but  for  all  time.  The 
literary  forms  and  the  style  which  attracted  them 
and  which  they  most  frequently  try  to  reproduce 
are  those  which  Chaucer  himself  in  the  course  of 
his  marvelous  artistic  development  outgrew  and 
abandoned.  They  imitate  The  Boke  of  the  Diich- 
esse,  The  Prologue  to  the  Legende  of  Goode  Women, 
The  Parlement  of  Foules,  and  above  all  the  Roman 
de  la  Rose  or  the  translation  of  it.  Allegory  is  the 
chosen  form,  abstractions  are  the  fa\-orite  per- 
sonages; the  ancient  conventional  machinery  of 
spring  mornings  and  grassy  arbors  and  dreams  and 
troups  of  men  and  fair  womeri  is  used  again  and 
again,  though  all  its  parts  have  become  loose  and 
worn  with  use  and  age  and  creak  audiblj'-  at  every 
movement.  To  all  this  they  add  a  pretentious 
diction  that  smells  of  schools  and  musty  Latinity. 
The  flowers  that  deck  their  fields  are  withered 


696 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


blossoms  that  they  have  picked  up  and  painted 
and  tied  to  the  bare  and  lifeless  stalks.  Gaudy 
they  are,  but  odorless,  lifeless,  and  obviously 
painted. 

This  outworn  tradition  was  preserved  in  the 
beginning  of  the  new  age  by  one  man  of  some  note, 
Stephen  Hawes,  who  regarded  himself  as  the  only 
faithful  votary  of  true  poetry  in  his  age.  His 
most  important  poem  is  an  elaborate  allegory  in 
the  form  of  a  romance  of  chivalry.  The  full  title 
of  it  is  significant:  The  Pastime  of  Pleasure;  or 
the  History  oj  Graunde  Amour  and  La  Bell  Pucell; 
conteining  the  knowledge  of  the  seven  Sciences  and 
the  course  of  mans  life  in  this  ivorlde.  All  this  is 
set  forth  in  a  series  of  incidents  in  which  the  hero, 
Graunde  Amour  (Love  of  Knowledge)  falls  in  love 
with  and  wins  La  Bell  Pucell  (the  beautiful  maiden, 
Knowledge).  Our  extract  gives  a  fair  idea  of  the 
method  and  merits  of  the  poem.  After  the  mar- 
riage, Graunde  Amour  lives  happily  with  his  bride 
for  many  years;  then,  summoned  by  Old  Age 
and  Death,  he  dies  and  is  buried,  his  epitaph  being 
written  by  Remembrance. 

The  use  of  chivalric  romance  as  the  form  of  the 
allegory  is  both  a  link  with  the  world  that  was 
passing  away  and  Hawes's  sole  original  contribution 
to  the  development  of  poetry.  Even  in  Chaucer's 
day  the  spirit  which  had  informed  and  vitalized 
chivalry  as  a  social  system  was  giving  way  before 
the  new  methods  of  warfare  and  the  rising  powers 
of  commerce  and  industry;  but  the  system  re- 
mained much  longer  and  the  ideals  were  cherished 
with  an  almost  fanatic  zeal  by  many  lovers  of 
ancient  forms  of  beauty.  Malory's  Morte  Darthur 
—  an  unallegorical  presentation  of  chivalry  — 
was  published  shortly  before  Hawes  wrote. 
And  nearly  a  century  later,  Edmund  Spenser  found 
no  form  so  suitable  for  the  embodiment  of  his 
allegory  of  the  moral  virtues  as  the  persons  and 
incidents  of  chivalric  romance. 

JOHN   SKELTON 

Pp.  87  f.  Skelton  was  the  bitterest  satirist 
of  his  time.  His  learning,  which  was  of  the  old 
t^pe,  was  very  considerable,  and  his  fondness  for 
displaying  it  is  thoroughly  characteristic.  He 
wrote  verses  on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  but  it  is  as  a 
satirist  of  Cardinal  Wolsey  that  he  is  best  remem- 
bered. The  language  used  in  these  satires  is 
vituperative  and  often  obscene,  and  the  ideas  are 
sometimes  expressed  with  such  obscurity  that  we 
who  are  ignorant  of  the  petty  details  of  court 
intrigue  in  those  days  are  unable  to  discover  their 
meaning.     A  brief  specimen  of  his  satirical  verse 


at  its  cleanest  and  clearest  is  given  in  the  short 
extract  from  Colyn  Cloute  (p.  88). 

Jlie  Boke  of  Phyllyp  Sparowe  (p.  87)  was  written 
for  a  young  girl,  Jane  Scroupe,  whose  pet  sparrow 
had  been  killed  by  a  cat.  The  poem  contains 
1267  lines,  not  counting  the  additions  (of  115 
lines)  in  which  he  defends  himself  for  having 
written  as  he  did.  The  first  844  lines  are  sup- 
posed to  be  spoken  by  Jane;  they  are  largely  in 
the  form  of  a  dirge,  with  sentences  and  words  in- 
terspersed from  the  Latin  service  for  the  dead. 
Some  devout  persons  took  offence  at  this,  but 
Skelton  explains  that  he  meant  no  harm. 

THE   NUTBROWNE  MAIDE 

Pp.  88  ff.  This  is  curiously  modern  in  versifica- 
tion, in  language  and  in  tone.  One  would  like  to 
know  who  was  the  author — to  what  class  of  society 
he  belonged,  what  education  and  experience  of 
life  were  his,  and  whether  he  ever  wrote  anything 
else.  The  existence  of  such  isolated  originality 
as  is  shown  in  this  poem,  in  The  0-cii  and  the 
Nightingale,  in  some  of  the  Early  Tudor  lyrics, 
and  a  few  other  ancient  poems,  rhakes  one  slow  to 
believe  that  our  remote  ancestors  were  less  capa- 
ble of  excellence  in  literature  than  we  are,  and 
confirms  the  view  that  the  variation  in  the  number 
of  good  writers  in  different  periods  is  due,  not  so 
much  to  differences  in  intellectual  equipment,  as 
to  variation  in  the  interests  that  attract  the 
attention   of   different   periods. 

The  poem  was  intended  for  recitation  as  a 
dialogue.  The  object  is  to  set  forth  the  manner  in 
which  a  loving  woman  would  overcome  all  ob- 
stacles separating  her  from  her  lover.  It  may  be 
held  that  the  attitude  expressed  in  11.  151-156-is, 
after  the  mediaeval  fashion,  somewhat  exagger- 
ated. Professor  Skeat  thought  the  author  was  a 
woman;  but  the  last  stanza,  especially  1.  177, 
seems  against  this  view,  and  the  whole  concep- 
tion of  woman's  love  seems  rather  that  of  a  man 
(cf.  Mrs.  Browning's  Man's  Requirements). 

EARLY  TUDOR  LYRICS 

Pp.  92  ff.  That  Lyrics  were  written  in  great 
numbers  before  the  influence  of  Italy  seriously 
affected  English  poetry  in  the  sixteenth  century  is 
well  known,  but  most  historians  of  English  litera- 
ture entirely  neglect  these  lyrics  and  speak  as  if 
England  owed  all  her  wealth  of  song  in  the  age  of 
Elizabeth  to  Italian  influence.  That  there  was 
much  imitation  of  sonnet  and  madrigal  and  other 
Italian   forms   of   lyric   poetry  is   beyond   ques- 


NOTES 


697 


tion,  but  in  many  of  the  most  charming  of  the 
lyrics  of  the  latter  part  of  the  century  one 
hears,  I  think,  the  same  notes  and  discovers  the 
same  poetic  method  that  had  marked  English 
lyrics  at  the  beginning  of  the  century  and  for  ages 
before.  Only  a  few  specimens  of  these  "  native 
wood-notes  wild  "  are  given  here,  but  they  will 
ser\'e  to  enforce  what  has  just  been  said.  One  of 
them,  it  will  be  remarked,  is  curiously  unlike  the 
rest  and  curiously  modern.  In  both  tone  and 
poetic  method  the  love  song : 

tully,  lulley,  lulley,  luUey ! 

The  fawcon  hath  born  my  make  away !  (p.  94) 

smacks,  not  of  the  Middle  Ages,  but  of  that  inter- 
esting nineteenth  century  imitation  of  mediaeval- 
ism  associated  with  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Movement. 

Christmas  Carols 

P.  93.  I,  1.  36.  Some  such  word  as  to  or  for 
seems  needed  for  the  metre  before  the  ( =  thee) . 

II.  The  refrain  seems  to  represent  a  playful 
conversation  between  the  Mother  and  the  Babe. 
The  Mother  says,  "What  are  you  seeking,  O  little 
son?"  The  Babe  replies,  "O  sweetest  Mother, 
kiss-kiss!"  The  question  is  repeated;  and  the 
Babe  replies,  "Give  me  the  kisses  of  approval." 
I  take  ba-ha  and  da-da  to  be  the  only  remarks 
really  made  by  the  Babe,  the  rest  of  his  speeches 
being  the  Mother's  interpretation  of  this  babble. 
Ba-ba  and  da-da  are  treated  as  Latin  imperatives, 
the  latter  being  taken  from  the  actual  imperative 
of  do,  and  the  former,  as  my  friends  Professors  Hale 
and  Beeson  suggest,  being  based  on  the  obsolete 
Enghsh  verb  ba  (meaning  "kiss"). 

Convivial  Songs 

P.  94.  II.  The  exclamations  in  this  song  are 
mere  convivial  outcries,  having  probably  no  very 
definite  meaning.  Sir  James  Murraj^  says,  how- 
ever, that  "  Tyrll  on  the  bery  "  means  "  Pass  round 
the  wine." 


THE    BEGINNING    OF   THE 
RENAISS.\NCE 

SIR  THOMAS  MORE 
A  Dialogue 

Pp.  95  f.     Sir  Thomas  More  is  one  of  the  most 
striking  and  charming  figures  in  the  brilliant  court 


of  Henry  VIII,  and  is  known  to  all  students  of 
literature  as  the  author  of  Utopia.  Unfortu- 
natel}'  for  our  purposes,  that  interesting  book  was 
written  in  Latin  and,  though  soon  translated  into 
English,  cannot  represent  to  us  the  author's  Eng- 
hsh style.  I  have  chosen  a  selection  from  his 
Dialogues  rather  than  from  the  History  of  Richard 
III ,  partly  because  the  style  seems  to  me  more 
touched  with  the  author's  emotion,  and  partly 
because  the  passage  presents  the  attitude  of  the 
writer  on  a  question  which  maj-  interest  many 
modern  readers.  It  is  characteristic  in  its  mixture 
of  dignity,  good  sense,  prejudice,  enlightenment, 
spiritual  earnestness,  and  playfulness  of  temper. 
The  question  of  making  the  Bible  accessible  to  the 
laity  was  one  of  the  burning  questions  of  the  day. 
Sir  Thomas  argued  that  the  Church  had  done  all 
it  was  safe  to  do  in  this  matter  and  that  more  harm 
than  good  would  arise  from  going  further.  Tyn- 
dale  and  his  fellows,  a  specimen  of  whose  transla- 
tion follows,  thought  differently. 

WILLIAM  TYNDALE 

The  Gospell  of  S.  Mathew 

Pp.  96  f.  Tyndale's  translation  of  the  New 
Testament  (1525)  was  the  first  of  many  transla- 
tions into  English  that  appeared  during  the  six- 
teenth century.  It  passed  through  two  editions 
of  3000  copies  each  almost  immediately,  although 
it  had  to  be  printed  abroad  and  distributed  sur- 
reptitiously. The  opposition  of  the  English 
bishops  to  its  circulation  was  bitter  and  effective, 
and  as  Henry  VHI  had  not  yet  broken  with  the 
Roman  Church,  he  did  not  come  to  the  aid  of 
T>Tidale  as  he  did  to  that  of  Coverdale  ten  years 
later. 

TjTidale's  translation  is  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant monuments  of  the  English  language. 
As  will  readily  be  seen,  the  Authorized  Version 
of  161 1  is  greatly  indebted  to  it  in  diction  and 
phraseology';  and  it  has  directly  or  indirectly 
affected  the  language  of  all  later  writers  and 
speakers  of  English. 

WYATT  AND   SURREY 

Pp.  97  ff.  Most  of  the  lyrics  of  Sir  Thomas 
Wyatt  and  the  Earl  of  Surrey  were  first  printed  in 
a  little  volume  entitled  Songes  attd  Sonettes  written 
by  the  right  honourable  Lorde  Henry  Howard,  late 
Earle  of  Surrey,  and  other,  but  commonly  known, 
from  the  publisher's  name,  as  TolteVs  Miscellany. 
With  this  volume  modern  English  literature  is  usu- 


698 


ENGLISH   PROSE  AND   POETRY 


ally  regarded  as  beginning;  its  significance  is  didy 
emphasized  in  all  histories  of  English  literature. 

The  contribution  of  Wyatt,  Surrey,  and  their 
fellows  is  twofold;  partly  in  introducing  new 
forms  of  verse,  and  partly  in  developing  themes 
which  were  either  new  or  freshly  conceived  and 
expressed.  The  principal  new  forms  were  the 
sonnet,  which  was  destined  to  become  the  stand- 
ard form  for  the  brief  expression  of  serious  thought 
in  poetic  mood,  and  blank,  verse,  which  was  des- 
tined to  become  the  standard  form  for  drama  and 
serious  narrative  poetry. 

The  Lover  Complaineth 

P.  98.  This  poem  appears  to  be  original,  as  also 
is  the  next.  Lines  6-8  mean  "My  song  may  pierce 
her  heart  as  soon  as  a  tool  of  lead  can  engrave  in 
marble  or  a  sound  be  heard  where  there  is  no  ear 
to  hear." 

A  Description,  Etc. 

1.  4.  The  /  in  should  is  pronounced  and  the 
word  rhymes  with  gold  (1.  6). 

1.  7.  The  printed  editions  have  tried,  but 
tied  (the  reading  of  the  Mss.)  is  obviously  correct. 
The  poet  says  that  he  might  be  tied  to  one  object 
of  love  if  she  possessed  the  charms  he  enumerates, 
and  good  sense  {wit)  in  addition. 

Description  and  Praise  of  his  Love 

P.  100.  This  sonnet  was  addressed  to  Elizabeth 
Fitzgerald,  daughter  of  the  great  Irish  Earl  of  Kil- 
dare,  who  was  brought  to  England  and  imprisoned 
by  Henry  VIII.  After  her  father's  execution  in 
1534,  Elizabeth  was  attached  to  the  household  of 
the  Princess  Mary.  A  very  romantic  story  grew  up 
about  the  love  of  Surre\'  for  the  fair  Geraldine,  as 
she  was  called ;  but  his  love  poems  were  probably 
mere  literary  exercises,  as  Elizabeth  was  only 
nine  years  old  when  this  poem  is  supposed  to  have 
been  written.  The  Fitzgeralds  claimed  to  have 
come  from  Florence  in  Tuscany  (U.  i,  2);  Camber 
(1.  4)  is  Wales ;  Htmsdon  (1.  9)  and  Hampton  (1.  11) 
were  royal  residences.  Surrej'-  was  imprisoned  at 
Windsor  in  1537*  for  having  struck  a  courtier,  and 
this  poem  (because  of  1.  12)  is  usually  ascribed  to 
that  date;  but  he  was  also  imprisoned  there  in 
1542,  and,  after  all,  the  passage  may  mean  that 
Geraldine  was  at  Windsor  and  he  elsewhere. 

The  Means  to  Attain  a  Happy  Life 

The  epigram  on  this  subject  by  the'  Latin  poet 
Martial  addressed  to  himself  {Ad  Seipsum),  has 


been  a  favorite  for  translation.     Surrey's  version 
is  very  graceful  as  well  as  nearly  literal. 

Virgil's  ^Eneid 

This  is  important  as  the  earliest  blank  verse 
written  in  England.  Although  lacking  the 
flexibility  later  developed  by  .Shakespeare,  Milton, 
and  others,  this  earliest  attempt  is  far  less  stiiT 
and  monotonous  than  much  blank  verse  that 
followed  it.  The  translation  keeps  pretty  close 
to  the  original,  though  it  lacks  distinction  »nd 
perfection  of  phrasing. 

In  this  passage  /Eneas  begins  to  tell  Dido  the 
story  of  the  destruction  of  Troy  and  his  wander- 
ings. 

11.  lo-ii.  The  soldiers  mentioned  were  enemies 
of  ^neas. 

1.  55.  Kindled  means  excited.  The  punish- 
ment of  Laocoon,  related  by  Virgil  in  this  same 
book,  has  become  famous  in  literature  and  in  art. 

ROGER  ASCHAM 
The  Scholem:\ster 

Pp.  101  ff.  Ascham  is  of  special  interest  for  two 
reasons:  bis  reforms  in  the  methods  of  teaching 
Latin  and  his  serv'ices  to  English  criticism.  His 
ideas  on  education,  presented  fully  in  his  Schole- 
master,  were  singularly  enlightened.  He  be- 
lieved in  making  the  study  of  Latin  as  easy  as  pos- 
sible ;  he  held  that  the  value  of  the  classics  lay, 
not  in  their  difficulty,  but  in  the  world  of  great 
ideas  and  great  men  which  the}^  made  accessible ; 
and  he  counseled  humane  and  gentle  methods  of 
instruction  and  discipline.  His  ideas  prevailed 
for  a  time,  but  were  long  forgotten  or  disregarded 
and  had  to  be  rediscovered  by  schoolmasters  of  the 
last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Much 
of  his  criticism  of  literature  we  now  regard  as 
mistaken,  particularlj^  his  advocacy  of  classi- 
cal metres  for  English  and  his  mixture  of  ethics 
with  aesthetics  in  his  judgments;  but  his  ideas 
of  English  style  were  in  the  main  sound,  and 
he  aided  not  a  little  in  preventing  the  language 
from  being  overrun  with  ornate  words  of  Latin 
origin. 

In  some  matters  he  was  very  conservative.  He 
believed  that  the  replacement  of  the  bow  by  the 
gun  would  cause  the  decay  of  manhood  and  he 
therefore  wrote  a  book,  Toxophilus  (Lover  of 
the  Bow),  to  revive  and  promote  archery  in 
England. 


i 
I 


NOTES 


699 


JOHN  FOXE 
Acts  and  Monuments 

Pp.  103  flf.  This  book,  more  commonly  called 
Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs,  is  the  work  of  a  violent 
partisan.  It  purports  to  describe  "the  great 
persecutions  and  horrible  troubles  that  have  been 
wrought  and  practised  by  the  Romish  prelates, 
especially  in  this  realm  of  England,  and  Scotland, 
from  the  year  of  our  Lord  a  thousand  unto  the 
time  now  present"  (1563).  Probably  no  book 
ever  written  is  more  uncritical  and  unjust,  or  has 
done  so  much  to  create  among  Protestants  a  wrong 
conception  of  Queen  Mary  and  the  Catholics  of 
the  sixteenth  century.  Catholics  like  Sir  Thomas 
More  and  Bishop  Fisher  and  numerous  others, 
who  suffered  the  same  sorts  of  deaths  as  the  Prot- 
estant mart>TS,  Foxe  regards  as  wicked  men  who 
were  justly  and  not  too  severely  punished  by 
righteous  and  gracious  Kenr}^  VHI.  Foxe's 
book  —  a  huge  folio  originally,  eight  octavo  vol- 
umes in  the  modem  editions  —  is  an  unrelieved 
orgy  of  blood  and  bitterness,  but  it  was  much  rel- 
ished by  our  Protestant  ancestors. 


THOMAS  SACKVn.LE,  LORD  BUCKHURST 

A  Mirror  for  Magistr.a.tes 

Pp.  105  ff .  This  is  a  tremendous  collection  (over 
1400  pages)  of  tragic  stories  of  wicked  and  unfortu- 
nate kings  and  nobles  of  Great  Britain,  from  1085 
B.C.  to  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  after 
Christ.  In  character  and  aim  it  is  mediaeval; 
its  editor  saj^s  in  his  address  to  the  nobility  {i.e., 
those  called  magistrates  in  the  title) :  "Here,  as 
in  a  looking-glass,  you  shall  see,  if  am^  vice  be  in 
you,  how  the  like  hath  been  punished  in  other[s] 
heretofore."  The  plan  was  derived  from  such 
mediaeval  works  as  Chaucer's  Monk's  Tale  and 
Lydgate's  Falls  of  Princes.  Nine  editions,  not 
counting  reprints,  were  published  between  1554 
and  16 10,  and  it  contributed  greatly  to  the  de- 
velopment of  historical  poems  and  plays  on  British 
history.  The  author  of  the  Induction  was  Thomas 
Sackville,  one  of  the  authors  of  Gorboduc.  the  first 
English  tragedy,  who  later,  as  Lord  Buckhurst, 
was  an  eminent  statesman.  The  subject  of  the 
Induction  is  a  vision  in  which  the  goddess  Sorrow 
shows  the  author  the  enemies  of  mankind  and  the 
sad  plight  of  their  victims. 

1.  210.  Averne,  lake  Avemus,  near  Cumae, 
through  which  .^neas  entered  the  underworld. 
This  description  is  based  on  the  Mneid,  VI,  237  ff. 


1.  219  etc.  Remorse  of  Conscience,  Dread,  Re- 
venge, Misery,  etc.,  are  personifications  of  the 
mediaeval  type. 

P.  106.  1.294.  Wealth  and  poverty  are  here  con- 
trasted in CrmsHS,  the  fabuloush'  rich  king,  axidlrus, 
the  beggar  described  in  the  Odyssey,  Bk.  XVIII. 

1.  299.  The  Sisters,  the  Fates  who  spin  and  cut 
the  thread  of  man's  fate  (cf.  Lycidas,  75-6). 

1.  330.     This  recalls  the  riddle  of  the  Sph3mx : 

There  Uves  upon  earth  a  being,  two-footed,  j^ea, 
and  with  four  feet. 

Yea  and  with  three  feet  too,  yet  his  voice  con- 
tinues unchanging : 

And  lo  !  of  all  things  that  move  in  earth,  in  heaven 
or  in  ocean, 

He  only  changes  his  nature,  and  yet  when  on 
most  feet  he  walketh. 

Then  is  the  speed  of  his  limbs  most  weak  and 
utterly  powerless. 

The  solution  given  by  (Epidus  was  as  follows : 

Man  is  it  thou  hast  described,   who,   when  on 

earth  he  appeareth, 
First  as  a  babe  from  the  womb,  four-footed  creeps 

on  his  way ; 
Then  when  old  age  cometh  on  and  the  burden  of 

years  weighs  full  heavy. 
Bending  his  shoulders  and  neck,  as  a  third  foot 

useth  his  staff. 

Tr.  by  Plumptre,  The  Tragedies  of  Sophocles,  p.  i, 
notes  2,  3. 


THE    RENAISSANCE 

EDMUND   SPENSER 

The  Shepheards  Calender 

Pp.  108  ff.  About  300  B.C.,  when  the  social 
life  of  Greek  cities  had  become  highly  artificial 
and  sophisticated,  there  arose,  just  as  there  has 
arisen  in  our  own  time,  a  feeling  of  satiety  and 
weariness,  and  a  fad  of  celebrating  the  charm 
and  the  ^•irtues  of  rural  life  —  a  movement  "back 
to  nature."  The  most  important  literary  result 
of  this  fad  was  the  Eclogues  of  Theocritus,  a  native 
probably  of  Sicily,  and  a  dweller  in  the  courts  of 
S\Tacuse  and  Alexandria.  In  these  Eclogues 
Theocritus  represents  goatherds  as  discussing  the 
interests  and  incidents  of  their  simple  life,  such  as 
the  care  of  their  flocks,  their  contests  in  song, 
their  loves,  their  joys  and  their  sorrows.     Three 


700 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


centuries  later,  when  Roman  society  was  similarly- 
sophisticated,  the  Latin  poet  Vergil  wrote,  in  imi- 
tation of  Theocritus,  poems  of  a  similar  character, 
his  Eclogues.  With  the  revival  of  classical  learn- 
ing in  the  period  of  the  Renaissance  came  imita- 
tions of  all  types  of  classical  literature,  and  among 
them  of  the  eclogue.  This  type  of  poetry,  the 
pastoral,  as  it  is  called,  passed  naturally  from  a 
celebration  of  the  simplicity  and  innocent  sweet- 
ness of  country  life  to  a  contrasting  of  it  with  the 
complicated,  wearisome,  vicious  life  of  men  in 
cities,  and  the  pastoral  became  very  early  a 
medium  of  social,  religious,  and  political  satire. 
Under  these  conditions,  naturally  enough,  the 
pastoral  was  often  allegorical  or  symbolical. 
Feeding  one's  flocks  meant  really  something  else 
—  governing  a  kingdom,  or  ruling  a  diocese,  or 
presiding  over  a  college;  contests  in  song  meant 
really  contests  in  politics,  or  religion,  or  some 
other  affair  of  the  great  world ;  and  the  characters, 
though  bearing  the  names  of  shepherds,  were  under- 
stood to  be  statesmen,  or  bishops,  or  scholars,  or 
poets. 

Spenser  was  not  the  first  Englishman  to  write 
pastoral  poetry,  but  his  Shepheards  Calender  was 
the  first  English  pastoral  of  real  beauty  or  power. 
It  is  a  series  of  twelve  poems,  one  for  each  month, 
in  which  shepherds  are  represented  as  keeping 
their  flocks  and  engaging  in  discussions  of  matters 
that  interest  them.  Some  of  these  poems,  "aeg- 
loges"  he  calls  them,  are  undoubtedly  allegorical. 
That  for  February  has  been  thought  to  be  in  real- 
ity a  controversy  as  to  the  old  and  new  religious 
establishments. 

The  vogue  of  the  pastoral  conception  and  its 
conventions  explains  the  form  and  tone  of  many 
lyrics  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  as  well  as  Milton's 
choice  of  the  pastoral  eclogue  as  the  form  for 
Lycidas. 

The  language  of  the  Shepheards  Calender  is 
archaic.  Spenser  wished  to  give  it  a  rustic  tone, 
and  he  did  so,  not  by  imitating  the  language  of  the 
rustics  of  his  own  day,  but  by  imitating  the  spell- 
ing of  older  English  and  using  some  old  words. 
He  had  particularly  in  mind  the  works  of  Chaucer, 
which  had  already  been  published  in  several  edi- 
tions. As  he  did  not  know  how  to  pronounce 
fourteenth  century  English,  it  is  highly  probable 
that  he  thought  that  in  some  of  the  metres  of  the 
Shepheards  Calender  he  was  writing  Chaucerian 
verse. 

P.  108.  yEgloga  is  so  spelled  because  Spenser 
thought  the  word  meant  goat-song.  The  word 
is  properly  eclogue  and  means  a  choice  or  a  chosen 
song.     Phyllis  (1.  63)  and  Tityrus  (1.  92)  are  names 


from  Vergil  (and  Theocritus) ;  Thenot  (1.  25)  is 
from  the  French  poet  Marot. 

1.  40.  Making  music  by  blowing  in  pipes  made 
of  the  straws  or  stems  of  oats  was  conventionally 
one  of  the  chief  occupations  of  the  shepherds  in 
pastoral  poems.  In  England  corn  never  means 
maize,  Indian  corn,  but  simply  grain. 

P.  109.  11.  65-66.  A  gilt  girdle  embossed  with 
glass  beads  (buegle  or  bugle)  was  an  appropriate 
gift  to  win  the  love  of  Phyllis,  the  country  maid. 

1.  92.  By  Tilyrus  Spenser  usually  indicates 
Chaucer,  but  this  tale  of  the  Oak  and  the  Briar 
is  not  from  Chaucer. 

1.  116.  Thelemenl:  the  element  par  excellence, 
i.e.,  the  air,  the  other  three  elements  being  earth, 
water,  and  fire. 

The  Faerie  Queene 

Pp.  Ill  ff.  Spenser's  design  in  writing  the 
Faerie  Queene  is  best  told  in  his  own  words  in  a 
letter  to  Sir  Walter  Raleigh : 

"The  generall  end  therefore  of  all  the  booke  is  to 
fashion  a  gentleman  or  noble  person  in  vertuous 
and  gentle  discipline :  Which  for  that  I  conceived 
shoulde  be  most  plausible  and  pleasing,  being  col- 
oured with  an  historicall  fiction,  the  which  the  most 
part  of  men  delight  to  read,  rather  for  variety  of 
matter  than  for  profite  of  the  ensample,  I  chose 
the  historye  of  King  Arthure,  as  most  fitte  for  the 
excellency  of  his  person,  being  made  famous  by 
many  mens  former  workes,  and  also  furthest  from 
the  daunger  of  envy,  and  suspition  of  present  time. 
...  I  labour  to  pourtraict  in  Arthure,  before 
he  was  king,  the  image  of  a  brave  knight,  perfected 
in  the  twelve  private  morall  vertues,  as  Aristotle 
hath  devised;  the  which  is  the  purpose  of  these 
first  tweh^e  bookes :  which  if  I  finde  to  be  well 
accepted,  I  may  be  perhaps  encoraged  to  frame  the 
other  part  of  polliticke  vertues  in  his  person,  after 
that  hee  came  to  be  king.  ...  In  that  Faery 
Queene  I  meane  glory  in  my  generall  intention, 
but  in  my  particular  I  conceive  the  most  excellent 
and  glorious  person  of  our  soveraine  the  Queene, 
and  her  kingdome  in  Faery  Land.  And  yet,  in 
some  places  els,  I  doe  otherwise  shadow  her.  For 
considering  she  beareth  two  persons,  the  one  of  a 
most  royall  Queene  or  Empresse,  the  other  of  a 
most  vertuous  and  beautifull  Lady,  this  latter 
part  in  some  places  I  doe  expresse  in  Belphoebe, 
fashioning  her  name  according  to  your  owne  ex- 
cellent conceipt  of  Cynthia,  (Phoebe  and  Cynthia 
being  both  names  of  Diana).  So  in  the  person 
of  Prince  Arthure  I  sette  forth  magnificence  in 
particular;    which  vertue,  for  that  (according  to 


NOTES 


701 


Aristotle  and  the  rest)  it  is  the  perfection  of  all  the 
rest,  and  conteineth  in  it  them  all,  therefore  in 
the  whole  course  I  mention  the  deedes  of  Arthure 
applyable  to  that  vertue  which  I  write  of  in  that 
booke.  But  of  the  xii.  other  vertues  I  make  xii. 
other  knights  the  patrones  [i.e.,  patterns,  models], 
for  the  more  variety  of  the  history  :  of  which  these 
three  bookes  contayn  three.  The  first  of  the 
Knight  of  the  Redcrosse,  in  whome  I  expresse 
holynes  :  The  seconde  of  Sir  Guyon,  in  whome  I 
sette  forth  temperaunce  :  The  third  of  Britomartis, 
a  lady  knight,  in  whome  I  picture  chastity.  .  .  . 
"The  beginning  therefore  of  my  history,  if  it 
were  to  be  told  by  an  Historiographer,  should  be 
the  twelfth  booke,  which  is  the  last ;  where  I  de- 
vise that  the  Faery  Queene  kept  her  Annuall 
feaste  xii.  dayes,  uppon  which  xii.  severall  dayes, 
the  occasions  of  the  xii.  severall  adventures  hapned, 
which  being  undertaken  by  xii.  severall  knights, 
are  in  these  xii.  books  severally  handled  and  dis- 
coursed. The  first  was  this.  In  the  beginning 
of  the  feast,  there  presented  him  selfe  a  tall  clown- 
ishe  younge  man,  who,  falling  before  the  Queen 
of  Faries,  desired  a  boone  (as  the  manner  then 
was)  which  during  that  feast  she  might  not  refuse : 
which  was  that  hee  might  have  the  atchievement 
of  any  adventure,  which  during  that  feaste  should 
happen :  that  being  graunted,  he  rested  him  on 
the  floore,  unfitte  through  his  rusticity  for  a  better 
place.  Soone  after  entred  a  faire  Ladye  in  mourn- 
ing weedes,  riding  on  a  white  Asse,  with  a  dwarfe 
behind  her  leading  a  warlike  steed,  that  bore  the 
Armes  of  a  knight,  and  his  speare  in  the  dwarfes 
hand.  Shee,  falling  before  the  Queene  of  Faeries, 
complayned  that  her  father  and  mother,  an  an- 
cient King  and  Queene,  had  bene  by  an  huge 
dragon  many  years  shut  up  in  a  brasen  Castle,  who 
thence  suff red  them  not  to  yssew ;  and  therefore 
besought  the  Faery  Queene  to  assygne  her  some 
one  of  her  knights  to  take  on  him  that  exployt. 
Presently  that  clownish  person,  upstarting,  de- 
sired that  adventure :  whereat  the  Queene  much 
wondering,  and  the  Lady  much  gainesaying,  yet 
he  earnestly  importuned  his  desire.  In  the  end 
the  lady  told  him,  that  unless  that  armour  which 
she  brought  would  serv-e  him  (that  is,  the  armour 
of  a  Christian  man  specified  by  Saint  Paul, 
vi.  Ephes.),  that  he  could  not  succeed  in  that 
enterprise :  which  being  forthwith  put  upon  him 
with  dewe  furnitures  thereunto,  he  seemed  the 
goodliest  man  in  al  that  company,  and  was  well 
liked  of  the  Lady.  And  eftesoones  taking  on  him 
knighthood,  and  mounting  on  that  straunge 
Courser,  he  went  forth  with  her  on  that  adven- 
ture :  where  beginneth  the  first  booke,  viz. 


"A  gentle  knight  was  pricking  on  the  playne,  &c." 

Of  this  plan  he  completed  scarcely  more  in  pro- 
portion than  did  Chaucer  of  his  original  scheme  for 
the  Canterhiiry  Tales;  of  the  twenty-four  books 
planned,  six  are  complete  and  there  are  portions 
of  two  others. 

To  get  some  idea  of  the  length  of  the  projected 
work,  note  that  a  single  book  contains  more  than 
43,000  words  —  is  about  half  as  long  as  a  modern 
novel.  Consequently,  Spenser  was  undertaking 
the  equivalent  of  a  dozen  novels  in  addition  to 
reducing  aU  his  material  to  an  elaborate  and  arti- 
ficial metrical  form. 

Aside  from  its  length.  The  Faerie  Queene  as 
planned  was  impracticable.  Mediaeval  poems, 
such  as  the  Roman  de  la  Rose  and  the  romances  of 
the  Grail  Cycle,  had  indeed  personified  abstract 
qualities  and  allegorized  situations  and  actions; 
but  Spenser's  outline  called,  first,  for  a  much  more 
elaborate  display  of  the  virtues  and  vices  and  their 
conflicts  with  one  another,  and,  secondl}',  for  his- 
torical interpretations  also  of  characters  and  scenes 
invoh'ed  in  the  romance.  In  the  First  Book  he 
succeeds  fairly  well  with  the  efforts  of  the  Red 
Cross  Knight  to  free  the  church  from  Error,  Hypoc- 
risy, and  the  great  dragon.  Sin ;  but  as  the  poem 
advanced,  the  plots  inevitably  became  entangled, 
the  characters  and  situations  inconsistent,  and  the 
allegory  obscured. 

^Moreover,  the  structural  weakness  of  the  poem, 
as  shown  in  Spenser's  outline,  involves  an  intoler- 
aljle  degree  of  suspense  if  the  work  is  to  be  regarded 
as  a  continuous  whole.  If,  however,  each  book 
is  read  separately  with  the  emphasis  on  the  ro- 
mance rather  than  on  the  allegory,  the  poem  can 
scarcely  fail  to  give  great  pleasure,  both  by  its 
continual  appeal  to  the  imagination,  and  by  its 
wonderful  verse  movement  and  perfect  adapta- 
tion of  sound  to  sense. 

The  nine-line  stanza  used  was  invented  by 
Spenser  and  is  named  for  him  Spenserian.  It 
consists  of  the  ten-syllabled  eight-line  stanza 
which  had  been  in  common  use  earlier,  plus  an 
alexandrine,  or  twelve-syllabled  line  rhyming  with 
the  eighth  line.  The  rhyme-scheme  is,  then, 
ababbcbcc.  The  movement  is  full  of  dignity, 
but  necessarily  slow  (cf.  Pope's  clever  gibe  at 
the  Alexandrine  in  the  Essay  on  Criticism,  II,  356- 

357). 

The  key  to  the  allegory  in  the  passages  quoted 
is: 

Canto  I 

The  Red  Cross  Knight  (1.  i),  holiness.  Church 
of  England. 


702 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


Gloriana  (1.  20),  glory,  Elizabeth. 
Dragon  (1.  27),  sin. 
The  Lady  (1.  28),  Una,  truth. 
The  ass  (1.  29),  humility. 
The  milkwhite  lamb  (1.  36),  innocence. 
The  dwarf  (1.  46),  prudence. 
The  aged  sire,  Archimago  (the  chief  magician, 
1.  384),  hypocrisy;    also  Jesuitism. 


Canto  III 

The  lion  (1.  38),  strength  of  mind. 

Stanzas  VIII  to  XXVIII  tell  how  Error  and  her 
brood  are  overcome  by  the  knight ;  but  he  and  the 
lady  then  fall  into  the  clutches  of  Hypocrisy. 

P.  113.  Canto  I,  1.  313.  fie  his  tongue,  polish 
it  so  that  it  would  utter  smooth  words. 

1.  317.     sad  humor,  heavy  vapor. 

1.  328.  In  late  classic  writers,  Proserpine,  the 
wife  of  Pluto  (Hades),  came  to  be  associated  and 
even  confused  with  Hecate,  the  goddess  of  magic 
(1.  381).  Cf.  Gayley's  Classic  Myths,  pp.  83, 
84. 

I.  332.  Gorgon,  i.e.,  Demogorgon.  This  name 
was  first  given  to  Pluto,  seemingly,  by  a  writer  of 
the  fifth  century  A.D.  It  appears  in  Boccaccio's 
Genealogia  Deorum,  which  is  supposed  to  be  the 
source  of  Ariosto.  Spenser  probably  got  it  from 
Ariosto,  and  Milton  (Paradise  Lost,  II,  965)  from 
Spenser. 

1-  333-  ■Sfyx  and  Cocytns  are  two  of  the  rivers 
in  the  kingdom  of  the  dead.  There  were  two  or 
(according  to  some  authors)  three  others. 

II.  343-387.  The  visit  of  a  messenger  to  the 
house  of  Morpheus  occurs  in  Ovid's  Metamor- 
phoses (XI,  592-632),  and  has  been  borrowed  and 
worked  up  by  many  later  poets,  Chaucer  among 
them.  Chaucer  in  his  Death  of  Blanche  the 
Duchess  (11.  160-165)  h3.s  just  the  hint  of  Spenser's 
wonderful  description  of  the  cave  of  sleep  in  the 
lines : 

"  Save  ther  were  a  fewe  welles 
Came  rennyng  fro  the  cliffes  a-doun, 
That  made  a  deedly,  slepyng  soun. 
And  ronnen  doun  right  by  a  cave 
That  was  under  a  rokke  y-grave 
Amidde  the  valey,  wonder  depe." 

1.  348.  Telhys,  a  Titaness,  i.e.,  one  of  the 
older  race  of  gods,  overthrown  iDy  Jupiter  (cf. 
Keats's  Hyperion).  She  was  the  wife  of  Oceanus, 
the  ocean,  another  of  the  same  line,  his  refers  to 
Morjjheus,  whose  bed  was  beneath  the  sea. 


Epithalamion 

Pp.  115  ff.  The  custom  of  writing  a  poem  to 
celebrate  a  wedding  and  to  be  sung  at  the  bride's 
house  by  a  procession  of  youths  and  maidens  is 
classical.  Such  poems  were  called  Epithalamia,  or 
hymeneal  songs. 

1.  I.  learned  sisters,  the  Muses,  who  are  regu- 
larly invoked  by  poets.  Cf.  Gayley's  Classic 
Myths. 

1.  7.  Probably  an  allusion  to  Spenser's  Tears  of 
the  Muses. 

1.  16.  Orpheus,  cf.  Gayley's  Classic  Myths; 
also  Milton's  L'Allegro,  11.  145-150,  Lycidas, 
U.  58-63,  and  notes  on  these  lines. 

1.  25.  Hymen,  god  of  marriage,  represented  in 
art  as  a  winged  youth  bearing  a  lighted  torch  and 
the  nuptial  veil.  He  was  supposed  to  lead  the 
wedding  procession  or  masque  ,(!•  26). 

1.  43.  Flowers  of  early  summer.  Spenser  was 
married  June  1 1 ,  St.  Barnabas  Day,  which  was  then 
(cf.  11.  265-272)  the  date  of  the  summer  solstice. 

1.  44.     tnielove  loise,  with  truelove  knots. 

1.  75.  Tithon's  bed.  Aurora,  goddess  of  the 
dawn,  is  fabled  to  have  loved  Tithonus  and  to 
have  procured  for  him  from  the  gods  the  gift  of 
immortality.  Unfortunately  she  neglected  to  ask 
that  he  should  never  grow  old.  Tennyson's  fine 
poem  Tithonus  depicts  the  distress  which  came 
from  this  neglect. 

1.  83.  concent,  harmony,  from  Latin  concentus, 
a  singing  together. 

P.  116.  1.  95.  Hesperus,  the  evening  star,  is  here 
mentioned  only  for  its  brightness ;  but  Spenser  can 
hardly  have  failed  to  remember  the  line  in  the 
Wedding  of  Peleus  and  Thetis  in  which  Catullus 
speaks  of  Hesperus  as  bringer  of  what  the  husband 
desires  (1.  328).  Tennyson  in  Locksley  Hall  Sixty 
Years  After  calls  Hesper  tlie  "bringer  home  of 
all  good  things  "  (cf.  U.  185-194). 

1.  98.  Hours,  "the  goddesses  of  order  in  na- 
ture, who  cause  the  seasons  to  change  in  their 
regular  course,  and  all  things  to  come  into  being, 
blossom,  and  ripen  at  the  appointed  time." 

1.  103.  The  three  Graces,  as  well  as  the  Hours, 
attended  on  Venus.  Cyprian,  because  she  was 
supposed  to  have  first  landed  on  Cyprus  after  her 
birth  in  the  sea. 

1.  190.  Medusa  was  a  maiden  -who  dared  to 
vie  in  beauty  with  the  goddess  Minerva.  As  a 
punishment  her  hair  was  changed  into  serpents 
and  her  appearance  became  such  that  all  who  saw 
her  —  "read  her  mazeful  head"  —  were  turned 
into  stone.  Read  Shelley's  lines  On  the  Medusa 
of  Leonardo  da  Vinci : 


NOTES 


703 


"Yet  it  is  less  the  horror  than  the  grace 
Which  turns  the  gazer's  spirit  into  stone." 

P.  117.  1.  269.  the  Crab,  the  zodiacal  sign 
Cancer,  the  first  sign  after  the  suiftmer  solstice, 
in  which  the  sun  seems  to  crawl  slowly  backward 
from  the  high  point  it  had  reached.' 

1.  433.  The  meaning  seems  to  be  :  "May  you 
(the  song),  instead  of  lasting  only  a  short  time, 
as  would  the  ornaments  you  have  taken  the  place 
of,  be  an  eternal  memorial  of  my  love." 

Amoretti 

pp.  117  f .  The  Amoretti  and  the  Epithalamion 
were  published  together  in  a  small  volume  in  1595 ; 
and  as  the  Epithalamion  celebrates  Spenser's  own 
marriage,  it  has  been  assumed  that  the  Amoretti 
celebrate  his  courtship  of  his  wife.  Recently 
this  assumption  has  been  attacked,  and  the 
theory  maintained  that  the  Amoretti,  like  so 
many  of  the  sonnet-cycles  of  the  time,  were  a  mere 
literary  exercise  of  courtly  compliment.  This 
may  be  true;  at  any  rate,  it  is  unsafe  to  regard 
these  sonnets  as  strictly  autobiographical  and  to 
use  them  as  they  have  been  used  in  writing  Spen- 
ser's life.  Other  Elizabethan  sonnet-cycles  quoted 
from  in  t&is  volume  are  Sidney's  Astrophel  and 
Stella,  Daniel's  Delia,  Drayton's  Idea,  and 
Shakespeare's  Sonnets.  For  later  cycles,  see  Mrs. 
Browning  and  D.  G.  Rossetti. 

VIII,  1.  5.     the  hlitided  guest,  the  gpd  of  love. 

P.  118.  XXIV,  1.  10.  Helice,  the  constellation 
of  the  Great  Bear,  by  which  Greek  sailors  steered 
their  course  (cf.  note  on  V Allegro,  1.  80). 

Prothalamion 

Pp.  118  ff .  The  subtitle  reads :  A  Spotisall  Verse 
made  by  Edni.  Spenser  in  Honour  of  the  Double  Mar- 
riage of  the  Two  Honorable  &'  Vertuous  Ladies,  the 
Ladie  Elizabeth  and  the  Ladie  Kalherine  Somerset, 
Daughters  to  the  Right  Honourable  the  Earle  of 
Worcester  and  espoused  to  the  Tuv  Worthie  Gentle- 
men Master  Henry  Gilford,  and  Master  William 
Peter,  Esquyers.  The  occasion  seems  to  have  been 
a  real  water  fete  to  celebrate  the  spousall,  i.e., 
formal  betrothal,  of  the  two  daughters  of  the  Earl 
of  Worcester.  The  bridegrooms  were  Sir  Henry 
Guildford  and  William,  Lord  Petre.  That  a 
distinction  between  spousall  and  marriage  was 
made  at  that  time  is  clear  (cf.,  for  example, 
Faerie  Queene  (I,  x,  4,  7))  :  "Though  spoused,  yet 
wanting  wedlocks  solemnize."  That  this  poem 
celebrates  such  a  contracting  is  indicated  by  U. 


i7S~i7Q)  which  become  perfectly  clear  if  "at  th' 
appointed  tide"  refers  to  the  spousal  ceremony 
while  "their  bridal  day"  in  the  refrain  refers  for- 
ward to  the  wedding,  which  did  not  take  place 
until  November  8.  It  seems  certain  that  the 
poem  was  written  between  the  two  events. 

The  names  Somerset  and  Devereux  are  puimed 
upon  in  11.  67  and  153-154  (happy:   Fr.  heureux). 

Perhaps  Spenser  hoped  for  some  reward  for  this 
occasional  poem.  He 'says  that  he  has  been  dis- 
appointed after  a  long  stay  at  court  (11.  5-10),  and 
we  know  from  the  dedication  of  the  Four  Hymns 
that  he  was  at  Greenwich  in  September,  1596. 
His  allusions  to  the  favors  that  he  had  received 
from  Leicester  (11.  137-142),  to  his  love  of  London 
(U.  127-131),  and  his  laudation  of  the  Earl  of 
Essex's  fame  (11.  145-158)  and  personal  beauty 
(U.  163-165)  strongly  suggest  that  he  used  the  oc- 
casion to  solicit  Essex's  influence  with  the  Queen 
to  secure  for  him  a  place  that  would  enable  him 
to  live  in  London.  Perhaps  he  aimed  at  this  result 
both  directly  through  Essex  and  indirectly  through 
the  Earl  of  Worcester.  But  the  Queen  was  disap- 
pointed at  the  results  of  Essex's  expedition  (11. 
147-152),  and  he  was  for  a  time  out  of  her  favor. 
In  any  case,  the  poem  seems  to  have  brought 
no  result,  as  Spenser  soon  after  retiuned  to 
Ireland. 

If  the  poem  is  to  be  read  literally  as  describing 
a  real  pageant,  the  party  of  the  brides  set  out  upon 
the  Lea  River*(U.  37-38,  114-118),  which  empties 
into  the  Thames  opposite  Greenwich,  where  the 
court  then  was ;  and  on  the  Thames,  near  the  place 
where  the  poet  stood  (near  Greenwich?),  they 
were  met  by  the  "nymphs"  (from  the  Court, 
then  at  Greenwich)  with  flowers  and  songs,  and 
so  passed  up  the  Thames  to  the  Temple  (11.  132- 
136)  or  to  Essex  House  which  stood  by  it  (11.  137, 
163),  where  they  were  met  by  Essex  and  the 
bridegrooms. 

Compare  the  regular  metre  with  the  refrain 
at  the  end  of  each  stanza,  and  the  less  regular 
verse  of  the  Epithalamion. 

11.  42-44.  For  the  story  of  Jove's  changing 
himself  into  a  swan  to  win  the  love  of  Leda,  cf. 
Gayley's  Classic  Myths. 

1.  63.     Venus'  silver  team,  doves. 

P.  119.  11.  78-80.  This  district  of  Greece 
was  famed  for  its  beauty,  and  the  name  Tempe  was 
generalized  to  mean  any  beautiful  valley  (cf. 
Keats's  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  1.  7). 

1.  121.  Cynthia,  the  moon;  a  compliment  to 
Elizabeth,  as  the  Virgin  Queen,  was  also  implied. 

P.  120.  U.  147-149.  The  conquest  of  Cadiz 
by  the  English.     Essex  led  the  expedition.    The 


704 


ENGLISH   PROSE   AND   POETRY 


pillars  of  Hercules  are  the  two  promontories  sepa- 
rated by  the  strait  of  Gibraltar. 

Spenser's  Hymns 

Pp.  120  flf.  In  1596  Spenser  published  a  little 
volume  entitled  Foure  Hymnes.  The  first  two 
have  as  their  subjects  Love  and  Beauty,  respec- 
tively; the  second  two,  Heavenly  Love  and 
Heavenly  Beauty.  All  four  were  written  under 
the  influence  of  the  poetico-philosophical  ideas 
known  as  neo-platonism  —  a  mixture  of  parts  of 
the  p{iilosophy  of  Plato  with  elements  drawn  from 
oriental  mysticism  and  from  Christian  doctrine. 
"The  two  original  Hymnes  in  Honour  of  Love  and 
of  Beaulie,  taken  together,  suggest,"  as  Professor 
Fletcher  says,  "  the  ascent  from  sensual  to  intellec- 
tual love.  .  .  .  The  two  later  Hymnes  purge  away 
all  suggestion  of  romantic  love,  and  develop  at 
length  the  four  higher  grades  of  the  soul's  reas- 
cent  to  God.  Thus  the  Foure  Hymnes  really  con- 
stitute one  complete  doctrinal  poem." 

Our  selections  are  from  the  second  and  fourth 
of  the  hymns.  The  first  selection  sets  forth  the 
view  that  every  earthly  thing  is  made  after  a 
divine  pattern  and  is  beautiful  just  in  proportion 
as  it  partakes  of  the  nature  and  qualities  of  its 
pattern.  It  is  the  infusion  of  this  celestial  power 
which  kindles  beauty  and  love  in  all  things  beauti- 
ful; "for  of  the  soul  the  body  form  doth  take." 
A  beautiful  body  therefore  must  be'the  residence 
of  a  beautiful  soul.  Yet  the  poet  is  forced  to  ad- 
mit that  sometimes,  by  some  perversion  of  nature, 
a  beautiful  soul  is  found  in  an  ugly  body  and  a 
wicked,  ugly  soul  in  a  beautiful  body;  this  how- 
ever he  reconciles  poetically,  though  not  logically, 
with  his  theory.  The  Cyprian  Queen  (1.  55)  is 
Venus  as  goddess  of  love  and  fruitfulness. 

The  second  selection  shows  how  by  contempla- 
tion of  the  beauty  and  goodness  of  created  things 
we  rise  to  a  vision  of  the  beauty  and  goodness 
and  love  of  God. 

SIR  PHILIP   SIDNEY 

Pp.  122  ff.  "The  miracle  of  our  age,"  Sidney 
was  called  by  an  enthusiastic  contemporary,  but 
the  quality  of  his  work  does  not  account  for  his 
extraordinary  influence  upon  the  writers  of  his 
own  day.  This  is  rather  to  be  explained  by  his 
strong  enthusiasms,  generous  patronage  of  litera- 
ture, social  rank,  physical  prowess,  personal  charm, 
romantic  love  affair,  and  tragic  early  death,  which, 
taken  all  together,  touched  the  popular  imagina- 
tion.    Fully  two  hundred  memorials  were  pub- 


lished at  the  time  of  his  death,  and  for  a  genera- 
tion after,  Arcadian  romance  and  sonneteering 
were  literary  fashions,  while  several  plays  drew 
their  plots  from  episodes  of  the  Arcadia. 

ASTROPHEL   AND   StELLA 

Pp.  122  f .  Although  Watson's  sonnets  were  the 
first  published  as  a  series  (1582),  Sidney's  were 
circulating  in  manuscript  among  his  friends  at 
that  time;  and  it  was  their  publication  in  1591 
that  seems  to  have  given  the  great  impulse  t'l 
sonnet  writing.  The  series  was  called  AslropJul 
and  Stella  (Star-lover  and  Star).  Stella  was 
Lady  Penelope  Devereux,  the  Earl  of  Essex's 
sister,  who  in  1581  married  Lord  Rich.  A  mar- 
riage between  her  and  Sidney  had  been  partly 
arranged  by  their  parents,  and  the  earlier  sonnets 
seem  to  have  been  largely  literary  exercises.  Only 
when  it  was  too  late  did  Sidney  awaken  to  his  love 
for  her,  and  the  later  sonnets  are  believed  to  re- 
flect real  passion. 

1. 1.  6.  inventions,  methods  of  treating  a  theme ; 
but  in  11.  9,  10  Invention  is  creative  imagination. 

XV.  11.  5-6.  dictiofiary^s  method  .  .  .  rimes. 
Sidney  refers  to  alliteration,  by  which  words  be- 
ginning with  the  same  letter  are  associated  as,  he 
says  contemptuously,  they  are  in  the  dictionary. 
For  the  use  of  alliteration,  see  Piers  the  Plowman; 
for  its  use  combined  with  rhyme,  see  Pearl. 

11.  7-8.  Sidney  means  that  the  English  son- 
neteers lack  .originality.  They  are  still  sighing 
over  the  woes  thatPetrarch  long  ago  expressed  in 
his  sonnets,  and  their  ideas  (wit)  are  not  their  own 
but  his,  naturalized  {denizen' d). 

P.  123.  XXXIX.  Compare  Daniel's  sonnet, 
No.  LIV,  Fletcher's  Invocation  to  Sleep,  Words- 
v.orth's  and  Keats's  sonnets  entitled  To  Sleep, 
and  Macbeth,  II,  ii,  37-40. 

XLI.  1.  I.  The  occasion  referred  to  is  prob- 
ably a  tournament  which  was  held  in  the  spring 
of  1581,  in  honor  of  a  French  embassy  (1.  4). 

11.  5-8.  Each  attributes  my  success  to  what 
interests  him  most.  Daintier  Judge,  connois- 
seur ;   sleight,  skill ;    use.  practice. 

1.  10.  The  Sidne3'S  were  knights  and  soldiers 
as  early  as  the  time  of  Henry  II.  On  his  mother's 
side.  Sir  Philip  was  descended  from  the  Dukes  of 
Northumberland. 

The  Nightingale 

According  to  classical  legend,  Tereus,  King  of 
Thrace,  married  Procne,  daughter  of  Pandion, 
King  of  Athens,  and  by  her  had  a  son  Itys,  or 


NOTES 


705 


Itylus.  After  five  years,  at  the  request  of  his  wife, 
he  went  to  Athens  to  persuade  her  younger  sister 
Philomela  to  visit  her;  but  falling  in  love  with 
Philomela,  he,  on  the  way  to  Thrace,  ravished 
her,  and  cut  out  her  tongue  in  order  that  she  might 
not  be  able  to  betray  him.  She,  however,  wove 
pictures  of  her  wrongs  in  a  web  of  cloth  and 
sent  it  to  Procne.  The  two  sisters  then,  for  re- 
venge, killed  Itys  and  served  him  up  to  his  father 
to  eat.  When  Tereus  learned  what  they  had  done, 
he  tried  to  kill  them ;  but  the  gods  changed  him 
into  a  hawk,  Procne  into  a  swallow,  and  Philo- 
mela into  a  nightingale,  and  the  pursuit  and  at- 
tempt to  slay  still  continues.  The  story  is 
frequently  alluded  to  by  Elizabethan  poets.  They 
had  studied  it  in  school  in  Ovid's  Metamorphoses 
(VI,  412-674).  Compare  the  love  song  on  p.  94, 
L.y\y'?,  Spring's  Welcome  (p.  i2'8),  and  As  It  Fell 
Upon  a  Day  (p.  162).  For  modern  versions,  see 
Matthew  Arnold's  Philomela  (p.  616),  and  Swin- 
burne's Itylus  (p.  642). 

The  tereu  {Spring's  Welcome,  1.  3)  and  teru  {As 
It  Fell  Upon  a  Day,  1.  14)  come  from  a  fancied 
resemblance  between  the  vocative  Tereu  and  the 
nightingale's  song. 

Hymn  to  Apollo 

Apollo  is  addressed  in  his  double  character  as 
the  sun  and  as  the  god  of  intellectual  endeavor, 
as  appears  in  11.  1-2. 

1.  5.  Python's  skin.  The  Python  was  a  ser- 
pent-monster slain  by  Apollo  near  Delphi,  as  is 
related  in  Ovid's  Metamor piloses,  I,  416-451. 

1.  8.  Doth  teach  to  learn  the  good  what  travails 
do  belong,  i.e.,  what  labor  is  involved  in  learning 
the  good. 

Arcadia 

Pp.  124  ff.  Sidney's  Arcadia  was  written  to 
amuse  his  sister  Mary,  Countess  of  Pembroke. 
He  seems  to  have  considered  it  —  what  it  is  — 
mere  elaborate  trifling,  and  on  his  deathbed  he 
asked  to  have  the  manuscript  burned.  His  sister, 
however,  took  charge  of  its  publication  in  1590. 
Its  influence  on  Elizabethan  prose  was  pronounced 
although  perhaps  not  so  great  as  was  that  of  the 
sonnets  on  verse.  It  is  too  leisurely  in  movement 
and  too  complicated  in  structure  to  be  well  illus- 
trated by  a  continuous  selection,  except  as  to 
its  style,  but  the  passage  here  presented  seems 
better  suited  than  any  other  of  similar  length 
to  convey  an  idea  of  the  nature  of  the  story 
and  the  sources  of  its  charm  for  Sidney's  con- 
temporaries. 


On  the  Countess  of  Pembroke  herself  (cf. 
Browne's  Epitaph,  p.  177). 

JOHN  LYLY 

Pp.  127  f.  The  selection  from  John  Lyly's 
Euphues  avd  his  England  may  seem  to  some 
teachers  shorter  than  is  warranted  by  Lyly's  repu- 
tation and  his  indubitable  services  to  English 
prose.  But  the  characteristics  of  his  style  are  such  ' 
as  can  be  exhibited  in  comparatively  small  com- 
pass, and  its  excessive  ornamentation  soon  be- 
comes monotonous  and  unendurable.  Moreover, 
it  is  not  by  its  ornamental  but  by  its  structural 
features  that  it  rendered  its  services  to  English 
prose,  and  the  most  significant  of  these,  as  Pro- 
fessor Morsbach  has  shown,  is  exact  balance  of 
accents  in  correlative  phrases  and  clauses. 

P.  128.  Lyly's  classical  comedies,  which  de- 
lighted Elizabeth's  court,  were  written  for  the  boy 
actors  of  St.  Paul's  and  the  Savoy,  and  were 
played  by  them.  Some  scholars  have  thought  that 
the  exquisitely  fanciful  lyrics  scattered  through 
the  plays  were  not  written  by  Lyly;  but  the 
weight  of  evidence  seems  to  me  entirely  against 
this  view,  and  I  have  therefore  presented  them 
here,  under  Lyly's  name. 

Spring's  Welcome 

II.  1-4.  Cf.  Sidney's  The  Nightingale  (p.  123) 
and  notes  on  it. 

11.  6-8.  Cf.  Shakespeare's  sonnet  XXIX, 
11-12  (p.  139),  and  the  first  song  from  Cymbeline 
(P-  145)- 

THOMAS   LODGE 

Pp.  129  £f .  The  subtitle  of  Rosalynde  shows  that 
Lodge  was  one  of  the  immediate  heirs  to  Lyly's 
affectations.  Rosalynde  is  quite  as  artificial  as 
Euphues  and  much  more  sentimental.  Shake- 
speare borrowed  the  plot  oi  As  You  Like  It  from 
Lodge's  novel ;  but  he  made  many  important 
changes  in  structure  and  characterization,  and  the 
difference  in  atmosphere  between  the  two  works  is 
as  great  as  between  a  perfumed,  lighted  room  and 
a  forest  glade  in  the  sunshine.  Compare  this  pas- 
sage with  Act  III,  Sc.  ii,  and  Act  IV,  Sc.  i,  of  the 
play.  Read  the  madrigal  from  this  romance 
published  in  England's  Helicon,  p.  164  of  this 
volume. 

P.  129  a.  like  the  Syren.  Cf.  the  passage 
from  Chapman's  Odysseys,  pp.  145  f. 

P.  129  b.  (Enone  .  .  .  Paris.  See  Peele's 
charming  song,  p.  161. 


7o6 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


Sonnet.  Cf.  Sonetto  on  p.  131.  Note  that 
neither  is  in  the  conventional  sonnet  form. 

P.  130  h.  with  Ixion  embrace  Juno.  Ixion  was 
a  king  of  the  Lapithae,  who,  for  boasting  that  he 
had  won  the  love  of  Juno,  was  bound  forever  to  a 
revolving  wheel  in  Tartarus,  the  place  of  punish- 
ment for  the  wicked. 

flew  to  the  fist.  When  the  falconer  whistles,  the 
bird  flies  back  and  settles  on  his  fist.  So  Gani- 
mede,  i.e.,  Rosal>Tide,  recognized  in  Rosader  her 
master  and  showed  her  preference  for  him,  even 
though  he  did  not  know  her  and  had  not  sent 
any  "call." 

Phyllis  .  .  .  Ariadne.  Chaucer  tells  both 
stories,  and  also  that  of  Dido,  in  his  Legend  of  Good 
Women  (11.  2394-2561,  1886-2227,  and  924-1367). 
Cf.  Gayley's  Classic  Myths.  Phyllis  hanged  her- 
self in  despair  of  the  return  of  her  lover  Demoph- 
oon  and  was  changed  into  an  almond  tree.  Lodge 
calls  the  tree  philhert  {filbert,  i.e.,  hazel),  evi- 
dently thinking  that  the  name  is  derived  from 
Phyllis.  Ariadne  helped  Theseus  to  slay  the 
Minotaur  in  the  labyrinth,  and  was  afterwards 
forsaken  by  him. 

ROBERT  GREENE 

Pp.  131  £f.  Robert  Greene  had  the  reputation 
of  being  one  of  the  most  dissolute  and  disreputable 
men  of  his  time.  Strangely  enough  his  plays  and 
his  novels  are  singularly  free  from  immorality  and 
coarseness,  and  his  songs  are  not  only  sweet 
and  clean  but  have  an  astonishing  accent  of  inno- 
cence and  simplicity. 

A    Groat's    Worth    of    Wit    Bought 
WITH  A  Million  of  Repentance 

Pp.  133  ff .  Although  this  purports  to  be  a  death- 
bed confession  and  admonition  by  Greene,  it  is 
probably,  as  some  of  his  friends  declared  when  it 
was  published  (after  his  death),  the  work  of  Henry 
Chettle.  Professor  Vetter's  arguments  against 
Greene's  authorship  {Abhandl.  d.  44ten  Sammhmg 
d.  d.  Schidmdnner,  Teubner,  1897)  seem  to  me 
conclusive,  and  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  add  to 
them. 

The  extract  given,  however,  is  interesting  as 
showing  a  contemporary  Puritan  view  of  Greene, 
and  as  touching  upon  the  lives  of  several  of  his 
famous  companions. 

P.  133  a.  Delphrigns,  etc.  Allusions  to  char- 
acters in  plays  and  to  plays  of  the  time  not  now 
identified. 

P.   133   h.    thou  famous  gracer  of  tragedians, 


Marlowe,  who,  for  the  unconventional  utterances 
in  his  plays,  especially  Tamburlane,  was  regarded 
as  nothing  less  than  an  atheist.  In  point  of  fact, 
he  was  a  kind  of  Unitarian. 

P.  134  a.  Machiavellian  policy.  To  the  Eliza- 
bethans Niccolo  Machiavelli  was  the  devil  incar- 
nate, and  from  his  name  is  said  to  come  the  term 
Old  Nick.  In  reality  he  merely  set  forth  in  his 
treatise  The  Prince  the  methods  which  successful 
rulers  used  and  still  use.  He  recognized  their 
immorality  and  brutality  as  clearly  as  any  one. 

Perished  as  ill  as  Julian,  the  Emperor  Julian  the 
Apostate,  nephew  of  Constantine  the  Great,  who 
because  of  ill-treatment  by  Christians  in  his  youth 
abjured  their  religion.  He  died  of  a  spear-thrust 
in  battle.  He  was  one  of  the  stock  examples  of 
the  punishment  of  atheists. 

young  Juvenal,  Thomas  Nash,  the  bitterest 
satirist  of  the  age,  who  was  repeatedly  referred  to 
by  that  name. 

thou  no  less  deserving,  perhaps  George  Peele; 
certainly  the  description  fits'him. 

P.  134  b.  an  itpstart  Crow  .  .  .  Johannes  fac 
totum  (  =  Jack-of-all-trades)  .  .  .  Shake-scene, 
undoubtedly  Shakespeare.  The  Tiger's  heart,  etc., 
is  a  parody  of  3  Henry  VI,  I,  iv,  137. 

buckram  gentlemen,  imitation  gentlemen.  Buck- 
ram was  a  coarse  linen  cloth  (often  stiffened  with 
glue  or  gum).  It  seems  to  have  been  worn  only 
by  the  lower  classes  (see  Falstaff's  account  of  the 
"rogues  in  buckram"  who  robbed  him,  i  Henry 
IV,  II,  iv),  and  was  used  as  a  general  term  of 
contempt:  "Thou  say  {i.e.  silk),  thou  serge, 
nay,  thou  buckram  lord ! "  2  Henry  VI,  IV,  vii, 
27. 

CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 
Hero  and  Leander 

Pp.  135  £f.  This  unfinished  poem  was  Mar- 
lowe's last  work.  He  seems  to  have  written  onlj?- 
two  books  and  a  fragment  of  the  third.  Seem- 
ingly at  his  request,  his  friend  Chapman,  the  trans- 
lator of  Homer,  finished  the  poem  and  published 
it  in  1598,  five  years  after  Marlowe's  death. 

The  story  of  Hero  and  Leander  is  taken  from  a 
Greek  poem,  attributed  to  a  pre-Homeric  legen- 
dary poet  named  Musasus  (1.  52).  No  genuine 
writings  of  Musasus,  however,  are  known.  Mar- 
lowe's original  was  written  by  an  unknown  author, 
probably  in  the  fifth  or  sixth  century  after  Christ. 
Of  this  work,  however,  IVIarlowe  used  little  more 
than  the  bare  outlines;  the  imaginative  fire  and 
strong  power  of  visualization  that  enter  into  his 
wonderful  pageantry  of  pictures  are  as  much  his 


NOTES 


707 


own  as  is  the  rich  and  musical  verse.  To  appre- 
ciate its  splendor,  read  vnih  it  the  selection  from 
Venus  and  Adonis  (p.  137),  in  which  even  Shake- 
speare, writing,  as  he  undoubtedly  did  on  that 
occasion,  in  a  commercial  spirit,  lags  far  be- 
hind. 

The  First  Sesiiad.  Sestiad  is  derived  from  Seslos 
as  Iliad  from  Ilium ;  hence,  Sestiad  means  a  poem 
"  about  Sestos  as  Iliad  a  poem  about  Troy  (Ilium) . 
But  the  Elizabethans  used  both  words  in  the 
plural  for  the  whole  work  and  in  the  singular  for 
each  book. 

Marlowe's  familiarity  with  the  classics  appears 
from  many  allusions,  which  may  be  studied  in 
Gayley's  Classic  Myths  or  in  the  special  references 
given  below  with  each. 

11.  12-14.  Adonis  was  a  huntsman  and  scorned 
the  goddess  of  love.  The  outcome  of  the  story  as 
told  by  Shakespeare  follows  on  pp.  137  ff. 

11.  45-50.  Hero  was  so  loveh'  that  Nature 
wept  because  she  took  more  than  half  of  the 
beauty  of  the  world ;  and  as  a  sign  of  her  loss,  since 
Hero's  time,  half  the  people  of  the  world  have 
been  black. 

11.  56-58.  Jason's  quest  for  the  Golden  Fleece 
of  Colchis  and  his  flight  with  Medea,  the  king's 
daughter,  are  told  in  Ovid's  Metamorplwses,  VII, 
1-452,  Heroides,  VI,  and  in  William  Morris's 
Life  and  Death  of  Jasan. 

I.  59.  Sphere.  See  the  note  on  Milton's  astron- 
omy, p.  717  below. 

P.  136.  1.  65.  the  ii-hite  of  Pelops'  shoulder, 
ivor3^  Pelops  was  killed  and  served  as  a  banquet 
to  the  gods  by  his  father  Tantalus ;  but  was  after- 
wards restored  to  hfe.  The  only  part  missing,  hia 
shoulder,  was  replaced  by  one  of  ivory  {Metamor- 
phoses, VI,  403-411). 

II.  73-76.  Narcissus,  who  fell  in  love  with  his 
own  reflection  in  a  pool  and  pined  away  because 
he  could  not  embrace  it  {Metamorphoses ,  HI, 
339-510). 

I.  77.  wild  Hippolytus,  son  of  the  Amazon 
Antiope,  served  Artemis  (Diana) ;  and  was  un- 
tamed by  love  (Ovid,  Heroides,  IV). 

II.  81-82.  Thrace  was  a  moimtainous  country. 
In  classical  times  mountaineers  were  called  bar- 
barians, as  over  against  the  more  civilized  in- 
habitants of  cities. 

11.  101-102.  Phaeton,  son  of  Apollo,  tried  to 
drive  his  father's  chariot;  the  horses  ran  away 
with  him  and  almost  destroyed  the  world  by 
fire  (Metamorphoses,  II,  1-400). 

I.  105.   Cf.  Chapman's  Odysseys,  p.  146. 

II.  114-115.  Ixion's  shaggy-footed  race.  Ixion 
was  the  father  of  the  Centaurs,  a  race  of  beings 


half-man  and  half-horse  {Metamorphoses,  XII, 
210-535). 

1.  137.  Proteus  was  a  sea  god,  a  shape-shifter, 
who  could  assume  any  form  he  wished  (cf .  Odyssey, 
I\',  384  ff.,  and  Vergil,  Ceorgics,  IV,  387-452). 

1.158.  turtles' blood.  It  should  be  noted  that  in 
Elizabethan  English  turtle  ahva3's  means  "dove"; 
it  was  not  until  nearly  a  century  later  that  it  was 
applied  to  the  water-tortoise. 

1.  161.  Love  has  two  arrows:  one,  with  a 
golden  head,  which  causes  successful  love;  the 
other,  with  a  leaden  head,  causes  unreciprocated 
love;   cf.  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  I,  i,  170. 

WILL-IAM    SHAKESPEARE 
Venus  and  Adonis 

Pp.  137  ff.  Venus  a?ul  Adonis  was  Shake- 
speare's first  work  to  be  printed  (in  1593)  and,  in 
his  own  words,  "the  first  heir  of"  his  "invention." 
It  was  dedicated  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton  in 
extremely  formal  and  respectful  language.  That 
it  met  with  his  approval  is  shown  by  the  affec- 
tionate tone  of  the  dedication  to  him  in  1594  of 
The  Rape  of  Lucrece. 

Venus  and  Adonis  became  immediately  popular 
and  continued  so.  It  went  through  about  a  dozen 
editions  within  the  next  fifty  years.  The  story 
was  taken  from  0\'id's  Metamorphoses  (X,  519- 
739,  with  details  from  IV,  271-388,  and  ^TII, 
267-371) — a  book  famihar  to  every  one  who 
went  to  school  in  Shakespeare's  time  —  with  not 
a  little  added  (perhaps  through  an  intermediarj') 
from  the  Greek  pastoral  writers.  Cf.  Andrew 
Lang's  Theocritus,  Bion  and  Moschus  (in  the  Golden 
Treasurj'^  Series) ,  especially  The  Lament  for  Adonis 
by  Bion  and  the  fifteenth  id)^  of  Theocritus. 

A  familiar  \o\t  story,  with  the  fashionable 
idyllic  background,  and  handled  with  the  utmost 
license,  was  sure  to  succeed  even  though  it  showed 
little  originality  and  only  moderate  imaginative 
fire. 

The  verse  form  and  some  details  are  borrowed 
from  Lodge's  Scillaes  Metamorphosis  (also  derived 
from  Ovid),  published  in  1589. 

P.  138.  11.  1109-1116.  Cf.  Theocritus,  The 
Dead  Adonis,  in  Idyl  XXX. 

Sonnets 

P.  139  ff.  The  only  edition  of  Shakespeare's 
sonnets  in  his  lifetime  was  seemingly  unauthorized. 
We  do  not  know  for  whom  they  were  written  or 
whether  they  are  now  placed  in  the  order  in  which 


yoS 


ENGLISH   PROSE   AND   POETRY 


he  meant  tliem  to  be  read.  Although  the  critics 
agree  that  Nos.  I-CXXVI  are,  for  the  most  part, 
addressed  to  a  young  man  who  was  at  once  patron 
and  friend,  and  CXXVII-CLIV  to  a  dark  lady 
with  whom  the  poet  was  in  love,  this  conclusion  is 
based  entirely  upon  internal  evidence,  and  does 
not  explain  some  features  of  the  texts  as  they 
stand.  No  attempt  to  identify  the  persons  men- 
tioned has  been  imivcrsally  accepted  as  convincing. 

The  sonnets  are  very  unequal  in  value,  ranging 
from  the  extravagant  commonplaces  of  con- 
ventional Elizabethan  flattery  to  serious  reflec- 
tions of  personal  experience  and  opinion.  It  is 
best  to  judge  each  on  its  own  merits  without  regard 
to  the  series  as  a  whole. 

In  form  they  belong  to  the  loosely-knit  English 
type  of  three  distinct  quatrains,  with  a  summariz- 
ing couplet  that  often  has  a  tacked-on  elYect. 

The  best  sonnet  writers  of  the  nineteenth 
century  —  see  the  examples  given  below  of 
Wordsworth,  Keats,  the  Rossettis,  and  Mrs. 
Browning  —  returned  to  the  Italian  model. 

XII,  1.  lo.  tJiou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must 
go,  thou  must  take  thy  place  among  things  injured 
by  time. 

XV,  1.  4.  The  stars  comment  upon  the  unsub- 
stantial forms  and  events  of  life  by  making  or 
marring  them  through  their  secret  influence. 

11.  11-12.  Time  discusses  with  Decay  how  to 
change  j^our  youth  to  age. 

11.  13-14.  Warring  with  Time  because  of  my 
love  for  you,  I,  in  my  verses,  give  you  life  as  fast 
as  he  takes  it. 

XVII,  1.  II.  Cf.  what  Theseus  says  of  "the 
lunatic,  the  lover  and  the  poet,"  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  V,  i,  2-17. 

1.  12.     stretched  metre,  exaggerated  verse. 

XXIX,  11.  10-12.  Cf.  hyly's  Spring's  Welcome, 
11.  6-8,  p.  128,  Shakespeare's  first  song  from  Cymbe- 
line,  1.  I,  p.  145,  and  Par.  Lost,  V,  198. 

P.  140.  LV,  I.  I  ff.  The  traditional  idea,  which 
goes  back  to  Horace,  that  a  poem,  as  poetry,  will 
live  forever,  does  not  necessarily  involve  any  per- 
sonal conceit  on  the  part  of  the  poet. 

1.  4.  Than  uncared-for  gravestone  stained  by 
Time. 

1.  13.  Till  the  Judgment  Day  that  bids  you 
rise  from  the  dead. 

LXIV  and  LXV  are  closely  connected,  and 
should  be  read  together.  The  first  is  pessimistic, 
and  the  second  returns  to  the  traditional  poetic 
hope. 

LXIV,  1.  2.  Elaborate,  expensive,  and  ancient 
monuments. 

1.  4.     Possibly   suggested   by   Horace's   momi- 


mentiim  cere  peremtius,  "a  monument  more  endur- 
ing than  brass";  but. here  eternal  modifies  slave. 
Mortal  rage  means,  simply,  violence  that  destroys. 
Cf.  CVII,  11.  13-14. 

1.  8.  Shakespeare  regards  land  as  the  positi\  >• 
element  {store  =  abundance),  water  as  the  nega- 
tive (loss). 

LXV,  1.  2.     sad     mortality,     destruction,     not 
limited  to  human  beings,  but  applied  to  every-  '  ^ 
thing  that  exists.  ■ 

1.  3.  hold  a  plea,  contend  successfully.  »! 

1.  4.     action,  vigor. 

1.  10.  Time  is  supposed  to  take  things  from 
this  world  and  deposit  them  in  the  oblivion  of  his 
jewel-chest. 

P.  141.  LXXI.  Cf.  Christina  Rossetti's  Re- 
member, p.  652. 

LXXIII,  11.  1-4.  This  is  a  double  metaphor : 
first  of  his  own  condition  as  that  of  the  leafless 
boughs  among  which  no  birds  now  sing;  then  of 
the  condition  of  those  boughs  as  that  of  the  choir 
of  a  ruined  abbey.  At  the  disestablishment  of  the 
monasteries  by  Henry  VTII  many  were  stripped 
and  ruined  and  left  to  decay.  These,  as  Steevens 
points  out,  would  have  been  familiar  and  impres- 
sive sights  to  Shakespeare. 

I.  1 2.  The  fire  is  consumed  by  the  burning  of  the 
fuel  which  maintains  it. 

XCVII,  1.  5.     time  removed,  time  of  absence. 

II.  4-10.  The  autumn  is  represented  as  ready 
to  bring  forth  the  fruit  begotten  by  the  spring 
(the  prime,  1.  7),  but  as  the  spring  is  dead,  the 
autumn  is  a  widow,  and  consequently  the  fruit 
hoped  for  will,  when  it  is  brought  forth,  be  or- 
phaned. 

XCVIII,  1.  4.  Saturn,  the  planet  whose  metal 
is  lead,  is  supposed  to  govern  heaviness  and 
melancholy,  and  therefore  stands  here  for  all  dull 
and  low-spirited  creatures. 

XCIX.  The  first  line  is  introductory;  the 
sonnet  is  complete  without  it.  It  is  made  to  fit 
the  rhyme  scheme  of  the  first  quatrain  thus: 
bahah. 

1.  7.  i.e.,  have  stolen  its  fragrance,  but  some 
editors  think  that  color  (dark  auburn)  is  meant. 

1.  13.     canker,  canker-worm. 

P.  142.  CVII.  Massey  explained  this  as  a 
song  of  triumph  at  the  death  of  Elizabeth  and  the 
deliverance  of  Shakespeare's  friend,  the  Earl  of 
Southampton,  from  imprisonment  in  the  Tower. 
Elizabeth  would  be  the  eclipsed  mortal  moon  of 
1.  5.  This  seems  impossible  on  any  hypothesis. 
The  reason  why  the  augurs  are  sad  and  mock  their 
own  prediction  (1.  6)  is  certainly  that  the  moon  has 
passed  through  her  eclipse  and  now  shines  clear 


NOTES 


709 


again ;  this  could  not  apply  to  the  death  of  Eliza- 
beth. Rolfe  thinks  the  moon  represents  Eliza- 
beth; her  survival  of  the  eclipse  represents,  he 
thiniis,  the  suppression  of  the  Rebellion  of  Essex 
(1601);  he  also  quotes  with  apparent  approval 
Palgrave's  suggestion  that  "the  peace  completed 
in  1609  might  answer  to  the  tone  of  this  sonnet," 
though  it  does  not  appear  why,  if  Shakespeare 
wrote  as  late  as  1609,  he  should  speak  of  an  event 
of  eight  years  earlier  which  had  lost  all  interest. 

But  all  such  interpretations  are  excluded  by  the 
fact  that  the  sonnet  is  a  love  sonnet,  celebrating 
an  ideal  love  or  friendship.  Such  a  love  would 
not  be  afifected  by  the  imprisonment  of  either  lover 
or  beloved  (cf.  sonnet  CXVI).  The  subject  of 
the  sonnet  is  some  threatened  and  predicted 
estrangement  between  the  friends  which  has  now 
been  removed.  The  eclipse  and  the  endless  peace 
are  figurative  expressions  of  aspects  of  the  love 
story ;  the  balmy  time  of  1.  9  is  of  the  same  nature 
and  has  nothing  to  do  with  "the  weather  at  the 
time  he  writes, "  as  Rolfe  seems  to  think.  Lines 
3,  4,  mean  "none  of  these  things  can  set  limits  to 
the  duration  of  my  love  (which  was  falsely  sup- 
posed to  be  nearing  its  end),  because  it  is  true  and 
endless." 

CIX,  11.  7-8.  Prompt  to  the  time,  not  changed 
by  absence ;  so  that,  coming  back  as  I  do,  I  bring 
my  own  excuse. 

CX,  11.  2-4.  I  have  played  the  fool,  done  vio- 
lence to  my  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  I  prize 
most,  committed  gra\e  offences  by  entertaining 
new  affections.  Line  2  contains  a  figure  which 
may  come  from  the  stage  (though  household  fools 
also  wore  motley),  but  U.  7-8,  11-12  show  that 
Shakespeare  is  not  talking  about  his  stage  career 
but  about  this  temporary  interest  in  new  friends, 
which  had  only  made  him  love  the  old  friend  better. 

11.  10-12.  I  will  never  again  whet  my  sword  on 
newer  armor  {i.e.,  on  a  new  friend)  in  order  to  test 
an  older  friend  to  whom  I  am  bound. 

CXI.  This  strongly  personal  sonnet  is  a  pro- 
test against  the  deterioration  in  manners  and 
character  caused  by  the  profession  of  acting  (1.  4). 

CXVI,  11.  2-4.  Love  is  not  love  if  it  alters 
when  the  loved  one  alters,  or  turns  away  (bends  to 
remove)  as  the  loved  one  withdraws. 

11.  5-7.     Cf.  Spenser's  Amoretii,  XXIV. 

P.  143.  CXLVI.  In  this  splendidly  impersonal 
and  virile  sonnet,  Shakespeare  gets  away  from 
convention  and  expresses,  in  grim  and  powerful 
phrasing,  a  fundamental  creed.  The  soul  is  the 
citadel  of  the  body  (sinful  earth)  warred  upon  by 
its  own  rebellious  faculties.  Why,  as  the  body 
necessarily  has  so  short  a  lease  of  life,  should  it 

AE 


be  cultivated  at  the  expense  of  the  soul?  Are 
worms  to  devour  all  that  which  you  spend  upon 
the  body  and  which  would  feed  your  soul  ?  Then 
starve  your  body  and  feed  your  soul.  Acquire 
ages  in  heaven  (terms  divine)  by  selling  worthless 
hours.     So  shall  you  cheat  death. 

songs  from  the  plays 
Love's  Labour's  Lost 

P.  143.  This  is  merely  a  genre  picture  of  winter 
in  the  country. 

1.  13.  crabs,  crabapples,  which,  floating  in 
spiced  ale,  made  the  dish  called  "lambs'  wool." 

A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 

This  song  is  sung  by  a  fairy. 

1.  9.  pensioners.  An  allusion  to  the  splendor 
of  the  dress  of  the  gentlemen  pensioners  of  the 
Queen,  of  whom  Elizabeth,  following  the  custom 
of  her  father,  had  fifty  in  attendance  upon  her. 
They  were  chosen  for  their  fine  physique  and  good 
looks. 

As  You  Like  It 

P.  144.  The  first  of  these  songs  is  sung  by 
Amiens  in  praise  of  the  free  life  which  the  Duke' 
and  his  followers  lead  in  the  greenwood.  The 
second  (also  sung  by  him)  recalls  the  ingratitude 
of  those  whom  the  Duke  had  loved  and  befriended. 

Hamlet 

P.  145.  1.  3.  cockle  hat.  The  cockle  shell  was 
worn  on  the  hat  by  pilgrims  who  had  visited  the 
shrine  of  St.  James  of  ComposteUa  in  Spain. 
Lovers  in  the  old  romances,  when  forbidden  to 
see  their  sweethearts,  often  disguised  themselves 
as  pilgrims  to  escape  recognition. 

The  Tempest 

The  Sea  Dirge  is  sung  by  Ariel  —  the  dainty 
invisible  spirit  commanded  by  Prospero  —  in  the 
hearing  of  Prince  Ferdinand,  who  supposes  his 
father  has  been  drowned  in  the  storm  that  has 
thrown  them  on  the  island.  Its  beauty  is  un- 
deniable; its  lightness  of  tone  and  lack  of  any 
hint  of  grief  are  perhaps  due,  not  only  to  the  in- 
ability of  such  a  spirit  as  Ariel  to  understand 
death,  but  also  to  the  fact  that  the  father  has  not 
been  drowned  but  has  been  conveyed  by  Ariel 
himself  to  a  place  of  safety. 


7IO 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


The  second  song  is  also  sung  by  Ariel  and  gives  a 
hint  of  his  nature  and  character. 

GEORGE   CHAPMAN 

The  Twelfth  Book  of  Homer's 
Odysseys 

Pp.  145  f.  At  the  time  when  Chapman  made 
his  translations  of  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey,  the 
study  of  Greek  in  England  was  still  uncommon. 
Chapman's  work  is  full  of  errors,  but  by  its  vigor 
and  picturesqueness  it  has  held  its  own  until  this 
day.  It  was  greatly  admired  by  Dryden,  himself 
a  good  translator,  and  Dr.  Johnson  said  that  Pope 
constantly  referred  to  it  in  making  his  version; 
but  the  same  criticism  that  Bentley,  the  eighteenth 
century  classical  scholar,  made  of  Pope  holds,  in  a 
different  way,  of  Chapman  —  "a  very  pretty 
poem  but  not  Homer."  Pope  (cf.  p.  290)  is  too 
abstract,  too  sophisticated,  too  regular,  for  Homer's 
simple  concreteness  and  the  big  wave-movement 
of  his  he.Tameters.  Chapman,  on  the  other  hand, 
although  he  is  concrete,  is  not  simple.  His  style 
is  full  of  Ehzabethan  "conceits,"  highly  com- 
pressed and  unnatural  figures  of  speech,  as,  for 
example,  in  describing  the  sirens'  song  in  11.  284- 
2S5: 

"This  they  gave  accent  in  the  sweetest  strain 
That  ever  open'd  an  enamour'd  vein." 

In  the  simple  translation  of  Butcher  and  Lang, 
this  reads:  "So  spake  they,  uttering  a  sweet 
voice." 

Chapman  in  his  Iliad  uses  a  fourteen-syllabled 
rhyming  couplet  which  comes  nearer  to  the  big 
swing  of  the  Greek  hexameters  than  the  ten- 
syllabled  couplet  used  in  the  Odyssey;  but  the 
longer  measure  also  ga\-e  him  more  opportunity 
to  get  away  from  the  plain  directness  of  the 
original.  Keats's  sonnet  On  First  Looking  into 
Chapman's  Homer,  p.  478,  shows,  however,  how 
profoundly  the  range  and  sweep  of  Chapman's 
translation  impressed  one  who  loved  and  knew  fine 
poetry. 

The  Odyssey  is  an  account  of  the  ad\'entures  of 
Ulysses  (Greek,  Odysseus)  and  his  companions, 
and  later  of  himself  alone,  in  his  efforts  to  return 
to  his  home  in  Ithaca  after  the  destruction  of  Troy, 
and  of  the  means  by  which  he  punished  the  suitors 
of  his  wife  and  regained  possession  of  his  kingdom. 
Our  selection  tells  how  he  managed  to  hear  the 
fatal  song  of  the  Syrens  and  yet  to  escape  in 
safety.     He  himself  tells  the  story. 


SAMUEL  DANIEL 

Pp.  146  £E.  Daniel's  connection  with  the  Sidney 
family  —  he  was  tutor  to  the  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke's son,  William  Herbert,  who  became  the 
third  earl  —  probably  explains  his  early  venture 
into  sormeteering.  An  unauthorized  edition  of 
some  of  his  Delia  sonnets  appeared  in  the  appendix 
to  Astrophel  and  Stella,  and  the  following  year, 
1592,  the  series  of  fifty- five  was  published,  dedi- 
cated to  Sidney's  sister. 

Daniel's  sonnets  are  all  on  conv-entional  themes, 
but  his  conceptions  have  individuality  and  his 
verse  has  dignity,  sonority,  and  a  fine  rhythmical 
movement.  No.  XIX  may  be  contrasted  with 
Shakespeare's  No.  XCIX ;  No.  LIV  with  Sidney's 
No.  XXXIX  and  the  others  on  the  same  topic ;  No. 
LV  recalls  to  mind  several  of  Shakespeare's. 


Epistle  to  the  Lady  Margaret, 
Countess  of  Cumberland 

Pp.  147  f.  Daniel  v/as  tutor  from  1595  to  1599 
to  Lady  Margaret's  daughter.  Lady  Anne  Clifford 
(born  1590).  He  fretted  at  having  to  "bide  with 
children"  when  he  wished  to  be  trying  lofty  flights 
of  verse,  as  Spenser,  who  thought  highly  of  his 
work,  had  lu-ged  him  to  do. 

This  description  of  the  state  of  a  man  strong 
in  character  and  confident  in  his  strength  shows 
him  at  his  best. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

Pp.  148  flf.  Drayton  tried  his  hand  at  most  of 
the  forms  of  verse  popular  in  his  day,  and  achieved 
more  reputation  than  he  has  been  able  to  maintain. 

Many  students  of  Shakespeare's  sonnets  believe 
that  Drayton  was  the  rival  poet,  "the  proud  fuU 
sail  of  [whose]  great  verse  "  Shakespeare  mentions 
in  sonnet  LXXXVI.  This  belief  is  to  some 
extent  confirmed  by  a  comparison  of  Drayton's 
sonnet  XX  with  Shakespeare's  CXX\TI-CXLIV. 
Others  think  the  rival  poet  to  have  been  Chapman. 

Idea 

XXXVII.  Compare  this  with  the  sonnets  on 
Sleep  —  Daniel's  and  others. 

LXI.  This  is  one  of  the  most  famous  sonnets 
ever  written;  but  it  is  admired  probably  as  much 
for  its  appeal  to  common  experience  as  for  its 
beauty  of  expression. 


NOTES 


711 


Ode  XII 

To  the  Cambro-Britans  and  Their  Harp, 
His  Ballad  of  Agincourt 

Pp.  149  f.  Cambro-Britans,  the  Welsh,  whose 
national  instrument  was  the  harp.  For  the  cir- 
cumstances and  leading  figures  of  the  battle  of 
Agincourt,  see  Shakespeare's  Henry  V,  especially 
in,  v-vii,  and  IV. 

1.  41.  Poitiers  (1356)  and  Cressy  (1346),  in 
which  Henry's  great-grandfather,  Edward  III, 
won  amazing  victories  over  the  French,  might 
well  inspirit  his  men  at  Agincourt  (1415). 

1.  48.  tfie  French  lilies.  The  French  coat  of 
arms  was  three  fleurs-de-lys,  often  called  lilies. 

P.  150.  1.  113.  St.  Crispin's  Day.  October 
25,  the  day  of  the  twin  saints,  Crispinus  and 
Crispinianus.     See  Henry  V,  IV,  iii,  40-67. 

NYjMPHIDIA 

The  Court  of  Fairy 

Compare  Shakespeare's  description  of  Queen 
Mab,  Romeo  and  Jidiet,  I,  iv,  53-69,  and  of  Titania 
and  her  court,  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  II 
and  III,  i,  147-181.  The  influence  of  Shakespeare 
appears  from  11.  150-152;  but  Drayton  has  bor- 
rowed no  details,  and  his  form  is  entirely  different. 

FRANCIS  BACON 

Pp.  150  ff.  Bacon's  essaj's  are  characterized 
by  extraordinary  compression  of  thought  and 
richness  of  illustration.  In  reading  them,  it  is 
necessary  often  to  pause  between  sentences  and 
to  expand  the  thought  in  order  to  grasp  the  full 
meaning.  Again,  like  all  other  writers  to  whom 
Latin  was  almost  as  familiar  as  English  (notably 
Sir  Thomas  Browne  and  Milton,  in  this  book), 
he  uses  words  derived  from  the  Latin  with  a  sig- 
nificance not  commonly  given  to  them  at  the  pres- 
ent da}^  For  example,  imposeth  (p.  151  a)  means 
"impresses  itself  as  authoritative."  For  this 
reason,  it  is  necessar\'  to  study  his  vocabulary 
with  great  care.  His  range  of  quotation  and  anec- 
dote is  ver>'  great,  as  will  be  seen  from  the  follow- 
ing notes.  His  practice  was,  indeed,  to  jot  down 
in  a  note-book  whatever  struck  him  as  of  special 
interest  in  his  thinking  or  his  reading,  and  these 
notes,  classified  by  subjects  and  arranged  in  proper 
order,  furnished  nearly  the  whole  frame-work  of 
his  essays. 

On  whatever  subject  Bacon  is  writing,  his  ideas 


show  the  same  mixture  of  obser\'ation  and  shrewd 
common  sense.  His  ideals  are  all  governed  by 
considerations  of  practicability,  and  he  is  never 
carried  off  his  feet  by  imagination  or  by  any  sort 
of  enthusiasm. 

I.   Of  Truth 

P.  151  a.  masks  and  mummeries  and  triimiphs. 
The  masques,  disguisings,  and  other  elaborate 
entertainments  at  court  were  usually  given  in  the 
evening  by  artificial  hght. 

vinum  dcemomim.  Many  of  the  early  Chris- 
tians were  opposed  to  Greek  and  Roman  litera- 
ture and  especially  poetry,  not  so  much  because 
it  was  fiction  as  because  it  celebrated  the  gods. 

The  quotation  from  Lucretius  is  in  his  poem  De 
reriim  natura,  Bk.  II ,  11.  i  ff. ;  that  from  ilon- 
taigne  in  his  Essais,  ii,  18;  the  prediction  at  the 
end  of  this  essa}'  is  from  Luke,  xviii :  8. 

VIII.   Of  Marriage  and  Single  Life 

P.  152  a.  In  the  Odyssey,  Bk.  V,  the  nymph 
Calypso  offers  Ulysses  immortality  and  eternal 
youth  if  he  wiU  remain  with  her.  He  refuses  and 
returns  to  his  old  wife  Penelope. 

P.  152  b.  A  young  man  not  yet.  The  saying 
is  ascribed  to  Thales,  one  of  the  Seven  Wise  Men 
of  Greece. 

XI.   Of  Great  Place 

Pp.  152  ff.  Of  the  Latin  quotations,  the  first 
is  from  a  letter  of  Cicero's  to  his  friend  Marius ; 
the  second  from  Seneca's  tragedy,  Thyestes,  401- 
403 ;  the  third  is  Bacon's  Latinization  of  Gene- 
sis, i :  31 ;  the  fourth  and  fifth  from  Tacitus's 
Histories,  I,  49  and  50. 

XVI.   Of  Atheism 

Pp.  154  f.  Of  the  Latin  quotations,  the  first 
is  from  Diogenes  Laertius,  the  Greek  biographer 
of  philosophers  (X,  123);  the  second  from  a 
sermon  b}^  St.  Bernard  of  Clair\-aux ;  the  last  from 
one  of  Cicero's  Orations. 

P.  154  a.  The  Legetui  is  doubtless  The  Golden 
Legend  (Legenda  A  urea),  a  collection  of  Legends 
of  the  saints  made  by  Jacobus  de  Voragine  in  the 
thirteenth  century;  the  Talmud  is  a  vast  collec- 
tion of  stories,  decisions,  and  sayings  of  Jewish 
Rabbis ;  the  Alcoran  (or  Koran)  is  the  sacred  book 
of  the  Mohammedans. 

Leucippus,  Denwcrilus,  and  Epicurus  were  Greek 


712 


ENGIJSH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


philosophers  who  developed  the  atomic  theory  of 
matter.  The  foiir  mutable  elements  are  earth,  air, 
fire,  and  water,  of  which,  in  Bacon's  day,  all 
things  were  supposed  to  be  made.  The  immutable 
fifth  essence  (quintessence)  was  supposed  to  be 
an  ethereal  substance  necessary  to  the  existence 
of  things  and  in  a  sense  the  soul  of  them.  The 
theory  which  Bacon  rejects  is,  in  a  modified  form, 
that  now  dominant  in  science. 

P.  154  b.  Diagoras  and  Bion  were  Greek  phi- 
losophers of  the  fifth  and  third  centuries  B.C.; 
Lucian  was  a  Greek  humorist  and  satirist  (120?- 
200?  A.D.). 


XXIII.   Of  Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self 

P.  155  b.  The  setting  of  a  house  on  fire  to 
roast  an  egg  may  have  suggested  to  Charles  Lamb 
his  amusing  Dissertation  upon  Roast  Pig. 

P.  156  a.  The  deceitful  weeping  of  the  croco- 
dile, reported  by  early  travellers  and  naturalists, 
became  proverbial  in  Shakespeare's  day;  cf.  2 
Henry  VI,  III,  i,  226. 

Sui  amantes  sine  rivali  is  loosely  quoted  from  a 
letter  of  Cicero  to  his  brother  Quintus  (III,  8,  4). 


XXVII.   Of  Friendship 

The  sentiment  quoted  in  the  first  sentence  is  a 
modification  of  a  statement  by  Aristotle:  "He 
who  is  unable  to  Uve  in  society,  or  who  has  no  need 
because  he  is  sufficient  for  himself,  must  be  either 
a  beast  or  a  god"  {The  Politics  of  Aristotle,  trans- 
lated by  Jowett,  I,  i,  2). 

falsely  and  feignedly.  Bacon  means  that  the 
stories  told  of  them  were  not  true.  Epimenides 
was  a  Cretan  Rip  Van  Winkle,  who  slept  fifty 
years  in  a  cave  and  came  back  with  superhuman 
knowledge.  Numa  Pompilius,  the  second  mythi- 
cal king  "of  Rome,  retired  into  sohtude  to  learn 
wisdom  from  the  nymph  Egeria.  Empedocles 
threw  himself  into  the  crater  of  ^tna  in  order  to 
seem  to  disappear  like  a  god,  instead  of  dying  hke 
a  mortal.  Apollonius  of  Tyana  was  an  ascetic 
who  was  worshipped  as  a  rival  of  Christ. 

Pp.  157  £f.  The  stories  of  Pompey,  Casar,  and 
Themistocles  are  told  by  Plutarch  in  his  lives  of 
those  men,  and  the  parable  of  Pythagoras  (p.  157  b) 
is  also  reported  by  Plutarch  (in  a  Discourse  on  the 
Training  of  Children) ;  the  anecdotes  of  the  Roman 
emperors  are  recorded  by  Suetonius  (in  his  Lives 
of  the  Casars)  and  Dion  Cassius  (in  his  Roman 
History).  The  famous  maxim  of  Heraclitus  (p. 
158  a)  is  recorded  by  ]!)iogenes  Laertius. 


XLII.   Of  Youth  and  Age 

P.  159.  The  first  quotation  is  from  the  life  of 
Severus  in  the  collection  of  biographies  of  the 
Roman  emperors  known  as  the  Augustan  History; 
the  second  (English)  is  from  Joel,  ii :  28 ;  the 
third  is  from  Cicero's  Brutus ;  and  the  last  is  a 
paraphrase  of  a  sentence  of  Livy's  History  of  Rome. 

Cosmus  Duke  of  Florence  (1519-1574),  better 
known  as  Cosmo  the  Great,  belonged  to  the  family 
of  the  Medici,  famous  for  their  wealth,  their  political 
power,  and  their  patronage  of  literature  and  art. 
Gaston  de  Fois  (or  Foi.x),  Due  de  Nemours  (1489- 
15 1 2),  was  a  brilliant  young  general ;  after  a  great 
victory  at  Ravenna,  in  151 2,  he  was  killed  while 
pursuing  the  enemy. 

MINOR  POETRY 
Song  of  Paris  and  (Enone 

P.  161.  Elizabethan  lyrics  are  of  two  kinds. 
One  is  the  formal,  elaborate  sonnet,  not  set  to 
music,  sornetimes  a  mere  tissue  of  conventional 
sentiments  expressed  in  highly  artificial  terms,  but 
often  built  around  a  striking  thought.  The  other 
is  the  song,  —  madrigal,  canzone,  round,  rounde- 
lay, etc.,  —  which  shows  extreme  variation  in 
form,  a  minimum  of  thought,  and  a  maximum  of 
musical  expression.  In  fact,  the  Elizabethan  song 
is  as  near  an  approach  to  pure  musical  sound  as 
has  ever  been  made  in  words.  Of  this  type  no 
better  example  can  be  given  than  this  roundelay 
(1.  11).  It  is  sung  by  a  man  and  a  woman,  first 
turn  about  and  then  together.  With  all  the  repe- 
titions it  contains  more  than  forty  lines  and  only 
sixty-two  words. 

Compare  the  lyrics  taken  from  Englatid's  Heli- 
con, pp.  162  ff.,  and  the  note  on  them. 

Farewell  to  Arms 

The  occasion  for  this  poem  was  the  retirement 
of  Sir  Henry  Lee  from  his  office  as  queen's  cham- 
pion, November  17  (the  anniversary  of  Elizabeth's 
coronation  day),  1590.  It  was  sung  in  a  pageant 
presented  before  the  Queen  at  Westminster.  Sir 
Henry  Lee,  who  had  held  his  office  ever  since  Eliza- 
beth's accession,  and  who  had  come  to  be  regarded 
as  a  model  of  knighthood,  went  through  a  ceremony 
of  actually  taking  off  his  armor  and  putting  on  a 
civihan  coat  and  cap,  and  then  presented  to  the 
Queen  his  successor,  the  Earl  of  Cumberland. 

1.  4.  Youth  (in  years)  wanes  as  youth  (the 
young  man)  increases  in  age. 


NOTES 


713 


1.  10.  age  his  alms,  i.e.,  age's  alms.  A  pedantic 
affectation  common  among  Elizabethan  writers, 
based  on  the  mistaken  idea  that  the  possessive 
arose  from  a  contraction  of  the  noun  and  the 
masculine  possessive  pronoun. 

The  Burning  Babe 

Pp.  161  f.  No  poet  ever  expressed  his  life  and 
personaUty  more  completely  in  a  few  words  than 
Southwell  in  this  poem.  The  fier>'  religious 
zeal  that  it  shows  brought  him  to  martyrdom  for 
his  faith  as  a  Roman  Catholic.  Ben  Jonson  said 
that  he  woiild  willingly  have  destroyed  many  of 
his  poems  to  have  written  The  Burning  Babe. 

ENGLAND'S   HELICON 

Pp.  162  ff.  The  success  of  Tottel's  miscellany 
in  1557  (see  note  on  Wj-att  and  Surrey,  p.  697) 
set  the  fashion  for  collections  of  lyric  poetry. 
Tottel's  book  was  in  its  eighth  edition  in  1587. 
The  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices,  published  in  1576, 
was  in  its  eighth  edition  when  England's  Helicon 
came  out ;  and  three  other  similar  collections  had 
also  appeared  before  that  time. 

Undoubtedlj'  the  interest  shown  in  IjtIc  verse 
is  to  be  associated  with  the  great  cultivation  of 
music,  which  appears  in  the  issue  of  song  books  by 
Byrd,  Dowland,  and  other  musicians,  in  the 
large  use  of  songs  in  plays,  and  in  the  popularity 
of  masques  and  pageants  with  musical  accompani- 
ments. 

The  Elizabethan  songs  were  all  practical,  that  is, 
they  were  written  to  fit  the  measures  of  times  and 
to  make  immediate  appeal  to  the  senses.  Conse- 
quently the  ideas  in  them  are  few  and  simple 
while  the  verse  forms  show  infinite  variety.  Cf. 
note  on  Peele's  Song  of  Paris  and  (Enone,  above. 

England's  Helicon  is  the  best  of  the  poetical 
miscellanies.  It  contains  lyrics  by  Sidney,  Spen- 
ser, Drayton,  Greene,  Lodge,  Breton,  Peele,  the 
Earl  of  Surrey,  Watson,  ^Marlowe,  Shakespeare, 
William  Browne,  and  other  weU-kno-nm  poets. 
Some  songs  are  signed  with  initials,  some  with 
the  pen-name  "Shepherd  Tony,"  many  are 
marked  Ignoto  (unknown).  Of  the  one  hundred 
and  sixty  poems  in  the  collection,  more  than  four- 
fifths  deal  with  the  conventional  shepherds  and 
shepherdesseg. 

PhYLLIDA   ANT3    CORYDON 

Sung  before  Queen  Elizabeth,  to  her  great  de- 
light, in  the  entertainment  given  her,  in  1591, 
by  the  Earl  of  Hertford. 


As  IT  Fell  upon  a  Day 

Attributed  to  Richard  Barnfield.  It  had  been 
published  twice  before,  once  with  music.  Barn- 
field  pubHshed  in  1594  the  sonnet  series  entitled 
Cynthia,  dedicated  to  Penelope,  Lady  Rich,  Sid- 
ney's "Stella." 

Phyllida's  Love- Call 

P.  163.  U.  15-17.  Only  a  short  time  before, 
Queen  EUzabeth  had  been  presented  with  her 
first  pair  of  knit  silk  stockings,  and  was  im- 
mensely delighted  with  them. 

1.  50.  the  golden  ball,  the  apple  of  Discord  given 
by  the  shepherd  Paris  to  Venus  as  the  most  beauti- 
ful of  the  three  goddesses.  Cf.  Gayley's  Classic 
Myths,  p.  285. 

The  Shepherd's  Description  of  Love 

Signed  S.  W.  R.  (Sir  Walter  Raleigh)  in  the  edition 
of  1600 ;  but  in  the  extant  copies  a  shp  on  which 
is  printed  Ignoto  is  pasted  over  the  initials. 

Damelus'  Song  to  his  Diaphenia 

P.  164.  H.  C.  was  probably  Henry  Constable, 
author  of  the  sonnet  series  called  Diana. 

Rosalind's  Madrigal 

From  Lodge's  romance  of  that  name  (cf.  p.  129). 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love 
P.  165.     Marlowe's  only  known  song. 

The  Nymph's  Reply 
Attributed  to  Raleigh,  but  without  grounds. 


THE   END    OF   THE   RENAIS- 
SANCE 

THOMAS   DEKKER 
The  Second  Three  Men's  Song 

P.  166.  1.  12.  Ring,  compass,  from  an  allusion 
of  the  year  1555  it  seemingly  means  to  form  a 
circle.     Perhaps  there  should  be  no  comma  after 

ring. 


714 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


The  Gull's  Hornbook 

Pp.  166  ff.  Dekker's  prose  work  is  valuable 
chiefly  for  its  vivid  representation  of  contemporary 
life.  His  Gull's  Hornbook  is  a  sort  of  "Booby's 
Primer,"  ostensibly  to  teach  a  young  man  his 
way  about  town,  incidentally  but  fundamentally 
to  show  up  the  follies  and  vices  of  the  time.  It  is 
of  course  full  of  local  hits  and  highly  satirical. 

P.  166  b.'  The  Royal  Exchange  built  by  Sir 
Thomas  Gresham  in  1566-1567,  and  opened  by 
Elizabeth  in  1571,  loomed  so  large  in  London  hfe 
that  the  ligure  is  very  apt. 

P.  167  a.  throne  .  .  .  lord's  room  (place). 
These  boxes  were  on  each  side  of  the  balcony 
in  which  scenes  in  upper  rooms  were  presented. 
Seats  there  were  not  as  comfortable  and  did  not 
give  as  good  a  view  as  a  stool  on  the  stage  itself. 

Camhises.     In  a  popular    play  of    that   name 
written  by  Thomas  Preston  before  1569. 
'  Persian  lock,  a  fashion  affected  by  the  long- 
haired gallants  of  the  time. 

a  signed  patent  to  engross  the  whole  commodity 
of  censure,  a  monopoly  to  control  the  market  of 
criticism.  A  hit  at  one  of  the  abuses  of  the 
time. 

P.  167  b.  a  mere  Fleet-street  gentleman,  i.e., 
one  who  lived  between  the  merchants  of  the 
"city"  and  the  nobility  in  the  Strand,  which  was 
then  the  fashionable  c^uarter. 

P.  168  a.  counter  amongst  the  poultry,  a  pun. 
A  counter  was  a  debtor's  prison.  There  were 
several  of  these  in  London.  One  stood  in  the 
street  called  Poultry  (from  the  fact  that  it  once 
contained  a  poultry  market).  Cf.  the  puns  below 
on  sculler  and  scullery  (p.  168  b) ;  on  frets,  troubles 
and  marks  on  a  musical  instrument  (p.  169) ;  and 
on  hogshead  (p.  169). 

P.  169  a.  Arcadian  and  Euphuised  gentle- 
women. Dekker's  hit  shows  how  popular  the 
works  of  Sidney  and  Lyly  had  become  among 
women  of  rank. 

BEN  JONSON 

Pp.  169  ff.  Jonson  is  perhaps  the  earliest  ex- 
ample in  England  of  the  all-round  man  of  letters 
whose  personal  influence  outweighed  the  critical 
judgment  of  his  work  by  his  contemporaries. 
Jonson  did  many  things  very  well,  nothing,  per- 
haps, supremely  weU  —  though  it  would  be  hard 
to  better  some  of  his  lyrics;  but  because  of  his 
versatility  and  his  power  as  a  critic,  he  became  the 
outstanding  literary  figure  of  his  time.  See  Dry- 
den's  tribute,  pp.  233  f. 


To  THE  Memory  of  my  Beloved,  Mas- 
ter William  Shakespeare 

These  lines  show  that  Jonson  understood  and 
appreciated  Shakespeare  as  fully  as  any  critic  who 
has  written  about  him.  When  a  man  who  loved 
and  imitated  the  classic  drama  could  say  that  his 
contemporary  equaled  and  surpassed  ancient  (11. 
31-54)  as  well  as  modem  dramatists  (11.  27-30), 
the  praise  does  honor  to  both.  The  tribute  to 
Shakespeare's  art  (U.  55-64),  as  well  as  to  his 
natural  gifts,  is  noteworthy  as  a  corrective  to  the 
criticism  that  Jonson  made  of  him  on  that  ground 
in  his  Conversations  with  Drummond  of  Hawthorn- 
den  (Shakespeare  Society  Publications). 

Cf.  Matthew  Arnold's  sonnet  on  Shakespeare, 
p.  602. 

JOHN  DONNE 

Pp.  171  f.  Dr.  Donne's  peculiar  qualities  as  a 
poet  were  intellectual  and  temperamental.  He 
played  with  thoughts  as  his  immediate  predeces- 
sors played  with  concrete  images.  So  doing,  he 
initiated  a  new  method,  and  his  method  was  imi- 
tated by  many  so-called  "metaphysical"  seven- 
teenth century  poets,  among  whom  must  be 
numbered  Wither,  Quarles,  Carew,  Suckling,  Love- 
lace, Marvell  and  Cowley.  They  wrote  a  few 
poems  that  will  be  remembered;  but  the  trouble 
with  most  of  them  was  that  they  insisted  upon 
the  playing  even  when  they  did  not  have  the 
thoughts.  Donne,  with  his  restless,  intense, 
subtle  mind,  was  sincere,  but  the  others  were  more 
or  less  affecting  a  mode  which  was  not  natural  to 
them. 

JOHN   FLETCHER 
Sweetest  Melancholy 

P.  173.  Compare  with  the  opening  lines  of  7/ 
Penseroso,  especially  11.  i,  2, 12,  31-36,  133-140,  67, 
and  74  of  the  latter.  Note  also  the  metrical  re- 
semblance: 11.  8-17  of  Fletcher's  poem  are  in  the 
regular  meter  of  II  Penseroso  ;  the  first  Unes  of  the 
two  poems  are  identical  in  movement ;  while  the 
opening  and  concluding  lines  of  Fletclier's,  taken 
together,  may  have  suggested  to  Milton  the  form 
of  his  Introduction. 

In  Fletcher's  day  the  cultivation  of  melancholy, 
as  he  describes  it  in  these  lines,  was  a  fad  of 
young  men  of  fashion  (cf.  King  John,  IV,  i,  15-17  ; 
and  the  melancholy  Jaques  \n  As  You  Like  It). 
The  melancholy  invoked  by  Milton  is  of  an  en- 
tirely different  cast. 


NOTES 


715 


FRANCIS  BEAUMONT 

P.  174.  The  difference  between  the  fX)ems  of 
Beaumont  and  those  of  Fletcher  shows  two 
strongly  opposed  types  of  mind  :  Fletcher,  musical, 
sensuous,  almost  effeminate;  Beaumont,  solid 
and  reflective.  In  fact,  Beaumont  had  no  real 
lyric  gift ;   he  simply  wrote  tolerable  verse. 

The  interest  of  the  Letter  to  Jonson  is  entirely 
in  its  picture  of  the  gatherings  at  the  Mermaid 
Inn.  For  an  illustration  of  the  kind  of  wit  that 
Beaumont  had  in  mind,  see  the  word  contest  be- 
tween Mercutio  and  Romeo,  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
II,  iv,  38-106. 

U.  58-65.  The  meaning  is :  "My  wit  has  gone 
to  seed.  I  shall  take  to  writing  cheap  ballads. 
I  am  getting  to  like  country  sports  such  as  teUing 
riddles  and  singing  catches.  Soon  I  shall  even  be 
proud  of  being  able  to  use  long  words  —  so  fast 
am  I  degenerating."  For  the  kind  of  ballads 
that  Beaumont  means,  see  Winter's  Taie,  IV,  iv, 
262-296.  In  sell  bargains  (I.  62)  he  refers  to  a 
country  sport  known  as  the  New  Fair. 

11.  67-68.  Our  young  men  (in  Leicestershire, 
where  the  poem  was  probably  written)  know 
little  and  talk  much. 

1. 69.  They  have  vegetable  souls,  like  the 
trees. 

1.  79.  Apparently  refers  to  the  finishing  of  a 
play.  The  Coxcombe,  which  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
were  working  on  in  the  summer  of  i6og. 

WILLIAM  DRUMMOND 

P.  174.  Drummond,  whose  pictiuresque  country 
place  at  Hawthornden,  near  Edinburgh,  is  still 
visited  by  tourists,  was  a  dilettante  who  played 
at  poetry  as  he  played  at  science.  In  his  literary 
isolation  in  Scotland,  he  continued  to  imitate  the 
Italians  after  their  influence  had  ceased  to  be  felt 
in  England. 

Sonnet 

1.  5.  Small,  capitalized  because  it  refers  to  the 
microcosm,  small  universe,  a  term  commonly  ap- 
plied to  man,  over  against  the  macrocosm,  the  great 
universe. 

1.  13.  this  prince,  Prince  Henry,  son  of  King 
James  I ;  his  death  was  greatly  lamented  by 
the  English  people. 


Madrigal  I 

Translated  from  the  Italian  of  Guarini. 


GEORGE  WITHER 

Sonnet  IV 

P.  175.  I.  14.  pelican.  According  to  ancient 
fable  the  pelican  wounded  her  own  breast  and  fed 
her  young  with  the  blood.  Because  of  this,  she 
was  often  used  in  religious  poetry  as  a  type  of 
Christ. 

In  his  own  day,  Wither  was  known  as  a  bold 
and  insuppressible  satirist.  But  as  his  satire  was 
of  temporary  and  local  interest  and  as  his  style, 
though  vigorous,  was  simple  and  often  diffuse, 
his  satires  are  no  longer  read.  His  lyrics  have 
grace  and  playfulness  and  this  one,  at  least,  has  a 
permanent  place  in  English  anthologies. 

WILLIAM   BROWNE 
Britannia's  Pastor.\ls 

Pp.  176  f .  A  copy  of  the  first  edition  of  this 
poem  with  notes  written  in  Milton's  handwriting 
points  to  the  most  significant  fact  about  Browne, 
that  he  was  a  sort  of  bridge  over  which  pastoral 
poetry  passed  from  Spenser  to  Milton.  It  does 
not  seem,  however,  that  his  influence  on  IMilton 
was  of  much  importance. 

This  passage  is  interesting  as  a  seventeenth 
century  attempt  at  a  description  of  romantic 
nature. 

11.  141-144.  Cf.  Herrick's  Corinna's  Going  A- 
Maying  (p.  177). 

1.  158.  frizzled  coats,  apparently  a  conceit  for 
foliage,  i.e.,  trees. 

1.  163.  end  tJie  creek.  0/ is  omitted  for  metrical 
reasons. 

1.  173.  thronged.  The  waters  were  crowded 
together  as  the  creek  grew  narrow.  The  phrase 
is  an  instance  of  post-Elizabethan  obscure  sub- 
tlety. 

On  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Pem- 
broke 

P.  177.  Nash  wrote  of  her  in  1591 :  "artes  do 
adore  [her]  as  a  second  Minerva,  and  our  poets 
extol  [her]  as  the  patroness  of  their  invention." 
See  notes  on  Sidney's  Arcadia  and  on  Samuel 
Daniel. 

ROBERT  HERRICK 

Pp.  177  f.  Herrick  has,  in  addition  to  the 
sweetness  and  melody  of  the  Elizabethans,  a  sense 
of  proportion  and  of  the  fitness  of  things  to  which 
they  rarely  attained.      Where  they  are   sponta- 


7i6 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


neous  and  unrestrained,  he  has  the  repose  that 
comes  with  a  sense  of  art.  One  of  the  greatest 
charms  of  his  work  is  the  country  freshness  that 
he  managed  to  get  into  it  from  long  association 
with  Devonshire.  Another  is  an  occasional  flash 
of  imaginative  insight  that  fuses  commonplace 
words  into  an  immortal  phrase,  as  when,  in  de- 
scribing the  movement  of  a  woman's  silk  dress,  he 
speaks  of  "the  hquefaction  of  her  clothes  "  {Upon 
Julia's  Clothes,  1.  3). 

CHERRY-RIPE 

P.  177.  Cf.  Campion's  poem  on  the  same  sub- 
ject, p.  162. 

Cortnna's  Going  A-Maying 

The  custom  of  maying  in  the  sixteenth  century 
is  thus  described  by  Stowe  : 

"In  the  moneth  of  May,  namely  on  May  day 
in  the  morning,  every  man,  except  impediment, 
would  walke  into  the  sweete  meadowes  and  greene 
woods,  there  to  rejoyce  their  spirites  with  the 
beauty  and  savour  of  sweete  flowers,  and  with 
the  harmony  of  birds,  praysing  God  in  their  kind, 
and  for  example  hereof  Edward  Hall  hath  noted, 
that  K.  Henry  the  eight,  as  in  the  3.  of  his  raigne, 
and  divers  other  yeares,  so  namely  in  the  seaventh 
of  his  raigne  on  May  day  in  the  morning  with 
Queene  Katheren  his  wife,  accompanied  with  many 
Lords  and  Ladies,  rode  a  IMaying  from  Greenwitch 
to  the  high  ground  of  Shooters  hill,  where  as  they 
passed  by  the  way,  they  espied  a  companie  of 
tall  yeomen  cloathed  all  in  Greene,  with  greene 
whoodes  [hoods],  and  with  bowes  and  arrowes 
to  the  number  of  200.  One  being  their  Chief  taine 
was  called  Robin  Hoode,  who  required  the  king 
and  his  companie  to  stay  and  see  his  men  shoote, 
whereunto  the  king  graunting,  Robin  Hoode 
whistled,  and  aU  the  200.  Archers  shot  off,  loosing 
all  at  once,  and  when  he  whistled  againe,  they 
likewise  shot  againe,  their  arrowes  whistled  by 
craft  of  the  head,  so  that  the  noyse  was  straunge 
and  loude,  which  greatly  delighted  the  King, 
Queene  and  their  Companie.  Moreover,  this 
Robin  Hoode  desired  the  King  &  Queene  with  their 
retinue  to  enter  the  greene  wood,  where,  in  har- 
bours made  of  boughes,  and  decked  with  flowers, 
they  were  set  and  served  plentifully  with  venison 
and  wine,  by  Robin  Hoode  and  his  meynie,  to 
their  great  contentment,  and  had  other  Pageants 
and  pastimes  as  ye  may  reade  in  my  saide  Authour. 
I  find  also  that  in  the  moneth  of  May,  the  Citizens 
of  London  of  all  estates,  lightly  in  every  Parish,  or 


sometimes  two  or  three  parishes  joyning  togither 
had  their  severall  mayings,  and  did  fetch  in 
Maypoles,  with  diverse  warlike  shewes,  with  good 
Archers,  Morice  dauncers,  and  other  devices  for 
pastime  all  the  day  long,  and  towards  the  Evening 
they  had  stage  playes,  and  Bonefiers  in  the 
streetes." 

I.  4.  fresh-quilted.  A  homely  country  touch, 
with  a  world  of  associations  of  cottage  life. 

II.  30-31.  Each  field  is  so  full  of  people,  and 
each  street  is  so  full  of  boughs. 

GEORGE  HERBERT 

Pp.  178  f.  Like  Herrick,  Herbert  was  a  clergy- 
man, but  while  Herrick  was  in  feeUng  almost  a 
pagan,  Herbert  was  almost  a  saint.  It  seems  ex- 
traordinary that  he  should  have  been  the  brother 
of  the  brilliant  and  worldly  philosopher.  Lord 
Herbert  of  Cherbury,  and  the  friend,  of  the  subtle 
and  thought-tormenting  Dr.  Donne,  and  still 
have  developed  his  serene  and  unique  genius.  He 
is  the  poet  who  most  nearly  represents  the  early 
Christian  ideal  of  ethics,  the  surrender  of  worldly 
things  to  the  life  of  the  spirit,  yet  without  the 
mystic  rapture  of  Vaughan  and  Crashaw. 

IZAAK   WALTON 

Pp.  179  £f.  The  ironmonger  who  owned  "half 
a  shop"  in  Fleet  Street,  the  nonagenarian  whose 
life  stretched  across  from  Marlowe  to  Pope,  the 
simple-minded  gentleman  who  thought  that  he 
knew  all  about  fishing  and  who  somehow  got  him- 
self the  friendship  of  the  most  interesting  literary 
men  of  his  day,  achieved  fame  seemingly  without 
trying.  There  are  critics  who  say  that  he  made 
mistakes  in  his  theory  of  fishing,  but  there  are  few 
readers  who  deny  the  spell  of  perfect  naturalness 
and  simpHcity  and  the  sense  of  being  in  the  open 
air  that  comes  when  we  begin  to  walk  with  him  up 
Tottenham  Hill.  His  Compleat  Angler  went 
through  five  editions  between  1653  and  1676  —  a 
fact  which  shows  that  England  had  other  interests 
besides  deposing  and  restoring  kings  and  "perse- 
cuting people  for  their  religious  beliefs. 

THOMAS   CAREW 

P.  181.  See  the  note  on  Waller,  Carew  and 
others,  p.  717  below. 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE 

Pp.  181  ff.  When  the  diarist  Evelyn  visited 
Sir  Thomas  Browne  at  Norwich,  he  found  the 


NOTES 


717 


house  and  garden  of  "that  famous  scholar  and 
physitian,"  full  of  "rarities,  and  that  of  the  best 
collections,  especially  medails,  books,  plants,  and 
natural  things."  His  mind  likewise  was  stocked 
with  "rarities"  of  thought.  His  curiosity  in  re- 
gard to  out-of-the-way  matters  is  illustrated  by  his 
Hydriolaphia:  Urn-Burial;  or,  a  Discourse  of  the 
Sepulchral  Urns  Lately  Found  in  Norfolk. 

The  occasion  of  this  discourse  was  the  discovery 
in  1658  of  between  forty  and  fifty  burial  urns  which 
Sir  Thomas  behev^ed  to  be  of  Romans  or  Roman- 
ized Britons.  His  interest  in  the  matter  led  him 
to  write  a  discussion  of  the  different  methods  of 
burial;  and  to  conclude  that  the  desire  of  the 
ancients  to  "subsist  in  lasting  monuments,  to  live 
in  their  productions,  to  exist  in  their  names  .  .  . 
is  nothing  in  the  metaphysics  of  true  behef." 

Sir  Thomas  Browne  is  impressive  because  of  a 
certain  breadth  of  wisdom  due  to  much  reading 
and  reflection,  and  perhaps  even  more  because  of 
the  slow  and  rhythmical  pacing  of  his  rich  and 
elaborate  stjde. 

EDMUXD  WALLER 

Pp.  184  f.  As  Waller  was  the  most  notable  of 
the  love  poets  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  his 
long  hfe  almost  covered  the  century,  we  may 
group  with  him  others  who  distingiushed  them- 
selves especially  for  this  same  kind  of  lyric  verse, 
Carew  and  Suckling,  and  later,  Lovelace,  Sedley, 
and  Rochester. 

Waller's  "sweetness,"  as  Pope's  triticism  pos- 
sibly implies  {Essay  on  Criticism,  II,  361,  p.  275), 
at  once  made  and  marred  his  work.  He  lacks  both 
ideas  and  virility,  but  such  short  lyrics  as  On  a 
Girdle  and  Go,  Lovely  Rose,  are  pearls  without  a 
flaw. 

Carew  (p.  181)  is  somewhat  violent  in  his  im- 
agerj'  and  the  mental  conceptions  behind  it.  The 
idea  of  his  Song  is  that  his  lady  is  the  source  of 
roses,  the  nightingale's  song,  the  stars,  and  that 
she  is  the  Phoenix's  nest  in  which  that  unique  and 
immortal  bird  is  bom  again  (cf .  note  on  Crashaw's 
Hymn,  1.  46,  p.  724).  This  is  a  perfect  case  of  a 
"metaphysical"  conceit,  that  is,  an  extravagance 
of  imagery  based  upon  an  elaborately  ingenious 
idea. 

Suckling  (p.  214)  is  at  the  opposite  pole  from 
Carew,  being  simple,  natural,  and  genial. 

Lovelace  (p.  218)  is  the  noblest  of  the  group, 
because  the  most  sincere.  Though  not  as  simple 
as  Waller  and  Sedley,  he  is  not  as  sentimental. 
He  lacks  Suckling's  hiunor  and  Rochester's  wit,  but 
he  has  an  earnestness  and  a  quaintness  all  his  own. 


Rochester  (p.  244)  has,  like  Suckling,  a  sense  of 
humor,  but  he  is  sharp  rather  than  sunny,  to  a 
degree  not  illustrated  by  the  selections  given. 

•Sedley  (p.  243)  is  merely  prettily  sentimental, 
and  falls  far  short  of  Waller. 

The   Story  of    Phcebus    and  Daphne 
Applied 

P.  184.  Thyrsis  is  Waller  himself  who  professes 
adoration  for  a  lady  whom  he  calls  Sacharissa 
(Dorothy,  Countess  of  Sunderland) ;  but  the 
passion  seems  to  have  been  purely  literary.  The 
classical  myth  here  "applied"  is  told  in  Ovid's 
Metamorphoses,  I,  452-567  (cf.  also  Gayley's  Clas- 
sic Myths,  pp.  138-141). 

THOMAS   FULLER 

Pp.  185  ff.  Thomas  Fuller  was  famous,  both  as 
preacher  and  as  writer,  for  his  quips  and  ingenious 
conceits.  He  had  learning  and  native  wit,  and 
he  came  at  a  time  when  elaborate  combinations  of 
the  two  were  allowed  and  praised. 

The  volume  from  which  our  selection  is  taken  is 
a  miscellaneous  collection  of  sketches  and  moral 
essays. 

JOHN  MILTON 

Pp.  189  ff.  While  all  Milton's  early  work  gives 
abundant  evidence  of  his  love  of  the  classics  and  his 
study  of  classic  methods,  only  Lycidas,  among  the 
poems  here  quoted,  may  be  said  to  approach  a  clas- 
sic model  in  form  and  in  substance.  The  titles 
U Allegro  and  II  Penseroso  show  Italian  influence, 
while  the  use  of  nature  in  both  poems  is  as  English 
as  Herrick's ;  II  Penseroso  is  decidedly  romantic, 
after  the  first  thirty  lines  even  mediaevally  roman- 
tic, in  treatment,  while  On  the  Morning  of  Christ's 
Nativity  is  a  precursor  of  Paradise  Lost  in  its  blend- 
ing of  Greek  and  Hebraic  elements. 

On  the  Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity 

This  ode  was  begun,  as  Milton  himself  says  in 
one  of  his  Latin  elegies  (\T,  U.  81-90),  on  Christ- 
mas Day.  The  irregular  metre,  with  its  wonderful 
interlacing  of  short  and  long  lines,  gives  an  ex- 
traordinary effect  as  of  leaping  flames. 

11.  45-60.  Milton  emphasizes  the  idea  that  the 
Roman 'peace  throughout  the  world  at  the  time  of 
Christ's  birth  was  in  preparation  for  the  coming 
of  the  Prince  of  Peace. 

1.  48.  the  turning  spliere,  perhaps  specifically 
the  Primum^Iobile.     Milton  knew  the  Coper- 


7i8 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


nican  system  of  astronomy,  which  regards  the 
earth  as  one  of  a  system  of  planets  revolving  round 
the  sun ;  but  in  his  poetry  he  preferred  to  make 
use  of  the  older  system  known  as  the  Ptolemaic. 
As  this  system  is  constantly  referred  to  in  our 
earlier  literature,  it  may  be  explained  here  briefly : 

1.  The  earth  is  the  centre  of  the  mundane  universe. 

2.  Surrounding  it  at  different  distances,  and  re- 
volving on  it  as  a  centre,  are  several  hollow  trans- 
parent spheres.  3.  In  the  first  seven  of  these 
are  placed  the  seven  planets,  one  planet  in  the 
surface  of  each  sphere,  in  the  following  order: 
Moon,  Mercury,  Venus,  Sun,  Mars,  Jupiter,  Sat- 
urn. Each  planet  is  carried  about  by  the  motion 
of  its  own  sphere  but  has  also  its  own  motion  in 
the  surface  of  its  sphere.  4.  The  eighth  hollow 
sphere  is  that  of  the  fixed  stars,  which  are  immova- 
bly set  in  its  surface.  5.  Outside  of  these  eight 
spheres,  according  to  the  older  view,  was  a  ninth 
sphere,  called  the  Primum  Mobile  or  First  Mover, 
which  revolved  round  the  earth  daily  from  east 
to  west  and  caused  the  succession  of  day  and 
night.  Its  motion  was  so  powerful  and  its  adjust- 
ment to  the  other  spheres  of  such  a  nature  that 
it  carried  them  all  about  with  it  in  its  diurnal 
revolution,  though  each  of  them  had  an  independ- 
ent motion  from  west  to  east  and  each  of  the 
planets  was  free  to  move  within  its  sphere  or  orb, 
as  has  just  been  said.  As  the  spheres  were  placed 
at  harmonic  intervals,  they  were  supposed  to  make 
a  divine  music,  inaudible  by  human  ears.  6.  By 
Milton's  time  this  simple  system  had  been  found 
inadequate  to  account  for  all  the  motions  of  the 
heavenly  bodies  and  a  crystalline  sphere  had  been 
added  (between  the  Primum  Mobile  and  the  fixed 
stars),  to  account  for  certain  irregularities  (see 
Par.  Lost,  III,  481-483).  7.  The  Mundane  Uni- 
verse, consisting  of  this  system  of  spheres,  is  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  Chaos  (unorganized  mat- 
ter). 8.  The  Mundane  Universe  is  suspended 
from  Heaven  (or  the  Empyrean),  which  lies  above 
it,  by  a  golden  chain  (see  Tennyson's  Morte 
D'Arihur,  254.-2$$).  g.  Below  the  Mundane  Uni- 
verse, and  distant  from  Heaven  by  three  times  the 
radius  of  that  Universe,  lies  Hell  (cf.  Par.  Lost, 
I,  72-4). 

1.  68.  birds  of  calm,  halcyons,  -fabulous  birds, 
identified  with  kingfishers,  supposed  to  nest  on  the 
sea  for  seven  days  before  and  after  the  winter 
solstice.  At  this  time  the  sea  was  always  calm. 
For  the  story  of  Ceyx  and  Halcyone,  She  Ovid, 
Metamorphoses,  XI,  410-748,  or  Gayley's  Classic 
Myths,  pp.  194-196.  Cf.  also  Theocritus,  Idyls, 
VII  (the  Song  of  Lycidas). 

P.  190.     1.  89.     Pan,  here  Christ^   The  identi- 


fication came  about  through  the  character  of  each 
as  a  shepherd  (cf.  John,  x:  11). 

11.125-132.  The  music  of  the  spheres.  It  was 
a  common  idea  that  this  could  be  heard  by  the 
pure  of  heart.  In  Arcades  (11.  61-73),  Milton 
follows  Plato  in  imagining  the  Muses  (celestial 
sirens),  as  making  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

P.  191.  11.  173-180.  The  pagan  religion  has 
come  to  an  end.  Professor  Shorey  suggests  that 
the  form  Delphos  (1.  178)  may  be  due  to  Milton's 
recollection  of  the  striking  passage  in  .^chylus' 
Eumenides,  1.  16,  in  which  the  King  of  Delphi  is 
called  Delphos,  He  also  points  out  that  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  uses  Delphos  for  Delphi.  Mar- 
lowe has  Colchos  for  Colchis. 

11.  181-188.  The  mourning  is  for  the  death  of 
•Pan,  here  symbolical  of  paganism,  not  of  Christ, 
as  in  1.  89. 

P.  192.  11.  229-231.  Certainly  a  grotesque  pic- 
ture. 

L 'Allegro  and  II  Penseroso 

Pp.  192  ff .  Although  these  companion  pieces  are 
almost  balanced  in  structure,  Milton's  preference 
for  the  thoughtful  mood  appears  in  two  ways.  He 
adds  to  //  Penseroso  (U.  167-174)  a  desire  for  a 
life  of  continued  solitude  which  carries  him  outside 
his  plan  of  giving  a  day  for  each  mood ;  and  fur- 
thermore, in  V Allegro  he  is  throughout  walking 
apart,  merely  the  observer  of  the  life  of  joy ;  not 
for  a  moment  is  he  "admitted"  to  be  of  the 
"crew"  of  Mirth. 

The  plan  of  each  poem  is:  (i)  an  introduction 
banishing  the  opposite  mood ;  (2)  the  origin  of  the 
mood;  (3)  a  day  lived  in  each  mood;  (4)  the 
poet's  attitude. 

In  U Allegro,  the  tj^pical  day  begins  with  the 
lark  and  a  sunshiny  early  morning  in  the  country ; 
continues  with  a  rustic  dinner  and  work  in  the 
fields,  followed  by  country  sports  and  tales ;  and 
ends  with  a  description  of  evening  life  in  cities, 
with  social  gatherings,  marriages,  comedies,  and 
Lydian  (secular)  music. 

In  II  Penseroso,  it  begins  with  the  nightingale,  a 
mdonlight  walk,  the  study  of  astronomy  and 
philosophy,  the  reading  of  tragedies  and  romances ; 
continues  with  a  stormy  morning,  a  woodland 
walk ;  and  ends  with  religious  music  in  a  cathedral. 

It  is  interesting  to  work  out  minutely  the  bal- 
ancing of  detail ;  also  to  observe  the  difference  in 
treatment  due  to  Milton's  personal  preference. 
It  is  obvious  that  he  is  not  interested  in  Nature 
except  as  a  means  of  reflecting  his  moods ;  and 
equally  dear  that  he  is  thoroughly  interested  in 


NOTES 


719 


music  for  its  own  sake.  Cf.  L' Allegro,  11.  136-144, 
//  Fenseroso,  11.  161-166,  and  Paradise  Lost,  I, 
550-559  (in  which  he  describes  martial  music). 
No  one  but  a  musician  could  have  written  so  fully 
and  so  technically.  Lines  139-144  of  L'AUegro 
exactly  describe  the  elaborations  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  songs.  ^Milton  played  both  the 
bass  viol  and  the  organ.  Observe  also  the 
prominence  he  ascribes  to  music  in  his  scheme 
of  education,  p.  209. 

Sletrically,  each  poem  begins  with  a  ten-line 
introduction  in  alternate  short  and  long  Unes, 
and  then  drops  into  the  regular  beat  of  the  eight- 
syllabled  iambic  couplet.  There  is,  however,  a  great 
difference  in  effect  caused  by  the  omission  in  more 
than  a  third  of  the  lines  of  U Allegro  of  the  imac- 
cented  first  syllable,  which  gives  a  tripping  tro- 
chaic movement  (cf.,  for  example,  U.  25-34,  and  11. 
69-70,  which  are  aQtuaU}'  trochaic).  In  //  Fen- 
seroso this  unaccenied  syllable  is  kept  in  more 
than  seven-eighths  of  the  lines  and  gives  a  slower, 
more  regular  movement  (cf.,  for  example,  11.  155- 
176). 

U  Allegro 

II.  33-68.  One  long,  loosely  constructed  sen- 
tence, the  effect  of  which  Is  to  give  a  hurried, 
almost  breathless  movement,  to  come  (1.  45) 
is  parallel  with  singing  (1.  42)  and  begin  (I.  41), 
though  it  can  scarcely  be  said  to  depend  upon 
hear  (1.  41) ;  while  To  hear  and  listening  (1.  53)  and 
walking  (1.  57)  are  parallel  and  refer  to  the  poet. 

P.  193.  1.  83.  Corydon  and  Thyrsis,  neighbors, 
as  in  Vergil,  Eclogues,-  VII  (where  they  are 
called  "Arcades  ambo").  Fhillis  (1.  86),  regu- 
larl}^  associated  with  the  former  in  pastoral  verse 
and  praised  by  both  in  the  Eclogue  just  cited,  is 
waiting  on  them.  Thestylis  here  is  apparently  a 
woman's  name,  as  in  Theocritus,  Idyls,  11,  and 
Vergil,  Eclogues,  II. 

1.  102.  fairy  Mab.  See  Drayton's  Nymphidia, 
p.  150,  and  the  note  on  it. 

1.  104.  Apparently  a  confusion  of  will  o'  the 
■  wisp  ("ignis  fatuus")  which  appeared  outdoors, 
and  Friar  Rush,  a  demonic  apparition  that 
haunted  houses;  the  drudging  goblin  is  Puck  or 
Robin  Goodfellow.  See  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  II,  i,  16-57. 

I.  136.     soft  Lydian  airs,  voluptuous  music. 

II.  145-150.  Orpheus  by  his  music  persuaded 
Pluto,  the  god  of  Hades,  to  give  him  back  his  wife 
Eurydice,  from  the'  dead.  But  he  broke  Pluto's 
condition  that  he  should  not  look  back  at  her  until 
they  had  left  Hades,  and  so  lost  her  again.  Cf. 
Gayley's  Classic  Myths,  pp.  185-1S8,  Ovid,  Meta- 


morphoses, X,  1-77,  and  Vergil,  Georgics,  IV,  453- 
506. 

•  II  Penseroso 

The  germ  of  this  poem  is  in  Fletcher's  Sweetest 
Melancholy,  p.  173  (cf.  note  on  that  poem). 

P.  194.  U.  83-84.  The  bellman  was  a  night 
watchman  who  passed  through  the  streets  ringing 
a  beU  and  calling  out  the  hours  and  the  weather. 
He  also  pronounced  a  blessing  on  the  sleeping  city. 

I.  88.  thrice-great  Hermes.  Hermes  Trismegis- 
tus,  the  Greek  god  Hermes  (Roman  ISIercury)  who 
came  to  be  identified  with  the  Egyptian  Thoth, 
and  was  the  reputed  author  of  magical,  alchemical, 
and  astrological  works. 

II.  99-100.  The  three  great  subjects  of  the 
classical  drama,  of  which  IMilton  was  a  devoted 
admirer.  That  he  cared  less  for  the  Ehzabethan 
drama  appears  from  U.  101-102. 

I.  104.  See  note  on  Hero  and  Leander,  p.  706, 
above. 

II.  109-115.  Chaucer.  The  persons  named  are 
in  the  unfinished  Squire's  Tale,  to  which  Milton 
refers  perhaps  as  a  type  of  pvue  romance. 

P.  195.  11.  1 16-120.  Probably  The  Faerie 
Queene  which  Milton  admired  and  imitated. 

11.  156-160.  The  characteristic  features  of 
Gothic  architecture  :  the  cloister,  which  is  always 
attached  to  a  cathedral,  tlie  vaulted  roof,  pillars 
massive  and  strong,  and  stained-glass  windows. 
But  on  this  point  Milton  was  not  in  accord  with  the 
taste  of  the  times.  About  thirty  years  after  he 
wrote  these  lines.  Sir  Christopher  Wren  rebuilt 
many  of  the  churches  destroyed  by  the  Great 
Fire  of  London,  in  a  very  different  style  of  archi- 
tecture ;  and  it  was  not  until  a  century  later  that 
a  liking  for  the  Gothic  was  revived. 

Lycidas 

Contributed  for  the  memorial  volume  of  Latin 
poems  published  by  the  friends  of  Edward  King, 
whose  death  is  referred  to  in  the  note  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  poem.  Milton  had  been  five  years 
away  from  Cambridge,  with  which  King  was  still 
connected  at  the  time  of  his  death.  There  is  no 
evidence,  external  or  internal,  of  any  special 
friendship  between  the  men ;  and  almost  half  the 
poem  is' given  to  Milton's  own  ideas  and  affairs 
(11.  19-22  and  64-84),  a  lament  over  the  corruption 
of  the>church  (11. 11^131),  and  elaborate  embellish- 
ments in  imitation  both  of  classical  elegiasts  and 
of  Spenser. 

The  framework  of  Lycidas,  following  the  general 
conventions  of  the  Greek  pastoral,  is  as  follows : 


720 


ENGLISH   PROSE  AND   POETRY 


1.  Invocation  to  laurels,  ivy,  and  myrtles,  of 
which  the  poet  is  to  make  a  wreath  for  Lycidas 
(11.  1-14).  These  plants  may  be,  as  some  think, 
emblems  of  poetry,  learning,  and  beauty,  but  they 
have  no  such  significance  when  used  by  Theocritus 
and  Vergil. 

2.  Invocation  to  the  Muses  (II.  15-18),  and  a 
personal  digression  (11.  19-22). 

3.  Story  of  the  poet's  association  with  Lycidas 
(11.  23-36). 

4.  His  mourning  for  Lycidas  (11.  37-49)- 

5.  Appeal  to  the  nymphs  of  the  district  in  which 
Lycidas  died,  and  allusion  to  the  death  of  Orpheus 
(11.  50-63),  with  a  digression  on  the  lack  of  reward 
for  poetry  (11.  64-84). 

6.  Address  to  the  Arethusa  (a  river  in  Sicily, 
where  Theocritus  lived)  and  the  Mincio  (in  Italy, 
near  Vergil's  birthplace),  as  introductory  to  the 
story  of  Triton  (1.  89),  who  has  asked  about  the 
mishap  and  brought  answer  from  .<Eolus  (Hip- 
potades,  1.  96)  that  there  was  no  wind,  that  the 
sea-nymphs  (1.  99)  were  playing  about,  and  that 
the  fault  lay  in  the  ship  (11.  100-102). 

7.  The  lament  of  Camus  (god  of  the  river 
Cam),  representing  Cambridge  and  St.  Peter  (11. 
109-110),  representing  the  church  (11.  103-113). 
Digression  on  the  corruption  of  the  church  (11.  114- 

131). 

8.  Address  to  the  pastoral  streams  of  Arcadia 
and  Sicily  to  bid  the  valleys  bring  all  their 
flowers  for  Lycidas  (11.  132-15 1). 

9.  Lament  for  the  body  tossed  about  the  seas 
(11.  152-164). 

ID.  Comfort  that  Lycidas  is  in  heaven  (11.  165- 

185). 

II.  The  shepherd's  conclusion  (11.  186-193). 

Milton's  choice  of  the  name  Lycidas  may 
have  been  determined  by  several  considerations. 
Shepherds  of  that  name  are  celebrated  by  the  chief 
pastoral  poets,  Theocritus  {Idyls,  VII),  Bion 
{Idyls,  II  and  VI),  and  Vergil  {Eclogues,  IX). 
Moreover,  Lycidas  is  spoken  of  in  Theocritus' 
Idyl  as  "the  best  of  men"  and  is  addressed  thus: 
"Dear  Lycidas,  they  all*  say  that  thou  among 
herdsmen,  yea  and  among  reapers,  art  far  the  chief- 
est  flute-player;"  and  in  Bion's  sixth  Idyl  the 
poet  says  :  "If  I  sing  of  any  other,  mortal  or  im- 
mortal, then  falters  my  tongue,  and  sings  no  longer 
as  of  old,  but  if  again  to  Love  and  Lycidas  I  sing, 
then  gladly  from  my  lips  flows  forth  the  voice  of 
song." 

P.  196.  1.  36.  Damcetas  is  a  shepherd  in  Theoc- 
ritus, Idyls,  VI  and  in  Vergil,  Eclogues,  II,  III ;  in 
Eclogues,  II,  36-38,  Corydon  says  :  "  A  flute  is  mine, 
with  seven  unequal  hemlock  stalks,  which  Damcetas 


once  gave  me  as  a  present,  and  dying  said :  'That 
flute  has  now  for  its  master  you,  second  to  me 
alone.'" 

11.  50-55.  Imitated  from  Theocritus,  Bion, 
Moschus,  and  Vergil. 

U.  58-63.  The  Maenads  (Bacchantes)  tore  him 
to  pieces  for  indifference  to  women  after  the  death 
of  Eurydice  (Ovid,  Metamorphoses,  XI,  1-84) 
and  Vergil,  Georgics,  IV,  507-527). 

11.  68-69.  Conventional  expressions  for  a  life 
of  ease  and  pleasure.  Amaryllis  is  one  of  the 
nymphs  most  praised  in  Theocritus  and  Vergil  (esp. 
Idyls,  III,  I,  and  Eclogues,  I,  4  f.) ;  Neaera  is  men- 
tioned by  Vergil,  Eclogues,  III. 

1.75.  blindPury.  The  Fate,  Atropos,  is  called 
a  Fury,  because  she  has  slain  Lycidas. 

I.  77.  In  similar  manner  Phoebus  touches  the 
ear  of  the  poet  and  reproves  him  in  Vergil,  Eclogues, 

VI,  3  f. 

II.  85,  132.  The  story  of  the  river  god  Alpheus 
and  the  nymph  Arethusa  is  charmingly  told  in  the 
seventh  Idyl  of  Moschus,  and  at  greater  length  in 
Ovid,  Metamorphoses,  V,  572-661.  Less  simple  is 
SheUey's  Arethusa.  The  river  Arethusa  is  invoked 
by  Theocritus,  Moschus,  and  Vergil  as  being  to 
pastoral  poetry  and  poets  what  the  fountain  Hip- 
pocrene  was  to  epic  poetry  and  poets,  see  espe- 
cially Moschus,  Idyls,  III,  where  Homer  and 
Bion  are  compared. 

1.  106.  The  hyacinth,  on  the  leaves  of  which 
are  marks  said  to  be  AI,  AI  (alas) ;  cf .  Moschus, 
Idyls,  III,  "Now  thou  hyacinth,  whisper  the  let- 
ters on  thee  graven,  and  add  a  deeper  ai  ai  to 
thy  petals;  he  is  dead,  the  beautiful  singer." 

P.  197.  U.  130-131.  Three  interpretations  have 
been  given :  JJ 

1.  The   axe  of  the    Bible    {Matthew,    iii :     10,       9 
Luke,  iii: 9)  which  cuts  down  the  unrighteous — • 
identified  with  the  executioner's  axe. 

2.  St.  Michael's  two-handed  sword,  which 
finaUy  overcame  Satan  when  "with  huge  two- 
handed  sway  Brandisht  aloft  the  horrid  edge  came 
down  Wide  wasting  "  {Par.  Lost,  VI,  251-253). 

3.  Parliament,  with  its  two  Houses,  which  Mil- 
ton hoped  would  check  the  evils  of  episcopacy. 

I.  132.  Alpheus  is  invoked  as  the  lover  of  Are-  M 
thusa,  see  Moschus,  Idyls,  VII.  Alpheus  and  the  ^ 
Sicilian  Muse  (Arethusa)  are  called  on  to  return 
after  the  digression  and  resume  the  pastoral 
lament.  The  "dread  voice"  is  the  voice  of  de- 
nunciation that  has  just  shrunk  the  pastoral 
stream  of  verse. 

II.  159-162.  In  his  History  of  England,  Milton 
had  told  a  "fable"  of  the  wrestling  match  between 
a  British  hero  Corineus  and  a  giant  whom  he  over- 


NOTES 


721 


came  and  hurled  into  the  sea  off  the  Cornish  coast. 
The  name  Bellerus,  used  here  instead  of  Corineus, 
seems  to  be  coined  from  Bellerium,  the  Roman 
name  of  Land's  End.  St.  Michael  is  supposed  to 
have  appeared  in  a  vision,  seated  on  a  crag  of 
the  rocky  island  now  called  St.  ^Michael's  ilount. 
Milton  conceives  him  as  stiU  sitting  there  and 
looking  toward  Spain  (Namancos  and  Bayona, 
near  Cape  Finisterre).  In  1.  163,  Milton  bids  him 
look  back  towards  England  and  sympathize. 

1.  189.  Doric,  i.e.,  pastoral.  Apphed  to  the 
Sicilian  poets,  who  were  of  Dorian  extraction, 
and  characterizing  their  affectation  of  simpHcity. 

1.  190.  Perhaps  an  elaboration  of  what  Vergil 
says  of  the  shadows  of  the  hiUs  in  Eclogues,  I,  84, 
and  II,  67,  with  a  reminiscence  of  Hamlet's  ex- 
pression in  Hamlet  II,  ii,  270. 

1.  191.  western  bay,  perhaps  Chester  Bay,  from 
which  King  had  sailed. 


lar  to  the  one  just  disestablished,  and  the  sonnet 
is  a  plea  to  Cromwell  to  prevent  this. 
11.  13-14.     Compare  L>'a(/a^,  11.  119-131. 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont 

Written  in  1655  a-fter  the  Duke  of  Savoy  and 
Prince  of  Piedmont  had  cruelly  massacred  his 
Protestant  subjects,  the  Waldenses  or  Vaudois,  for 
refusing  to  turn  Roman  CathoHc.  Cromwell  as 
Lord-Protector  protested  so  strongly  that  the 
Vaudois  were  afterward  allowed  their  own  worship. 
Milton,  as  Cromwell's  secretary,  wrote  the  protests 
of  the  State;  this  sonnet  expresses  his  personal 
views. 

On  His  Blindness 

P.  199.  1.  2.  He  was  forty-five  years  old  when 
he  lost  his  sight  completely. 


Sonnets 

P.  198.  Milton's  sonnets  return  to  the  Italian 
form,  but  in  matter  they  are,  for  the  most  part, 
absolutely  original,  and  a  direct  expression  of 
strong  personal  feeling.  On  Milton's  relation  to 
the  earlier  sonneteers,  cf.  Wordsworth's  Scorn 
Not  the  Sonnet,  p.  396. 

When  the  Assault  was  Intended  to 
the  City 

Written  in  November,  1642,  when  an  attack  on 
London  by  the  Royalist  forces  was  expected.  As 
Milton  was  an  ardent  Parliamentarian  pamphlet- 
eer, his  house,  just  outside  one  of  the  city  gates, 
was  in  danger.  The  original  title  read:  "On  his 
dore  when  y®  city  expected  an  assault,"  as  if  the 
sonnet  had  been  really  intended  as  a  defence. 

1.  13.  A  chorus  from  the  Electra  of  Euripides, 
recited  by  a  ministrel  before  the  conquerors  of 
Athens,  caused  them  to  spare  the  city. 

To  THE  Lord  General  CROM^\TLL, 
May,  1652 

CromweU  had  completed  a  series  of  victories 
over  the  Roj'ahsts  on  the  river  Darwen,  and  at 
Dunbar  and  Worcester,  as  a  result  of  which 
Charles  II  was  driven  into  exile.  jNIeanwhile,  the 
committee  named  in  the  subtitle  was  proposing 
rehgious  reconstruction.  Milton  feared  that  the 
Presbyterians  would  establish  a  state  system  simi- 


To  Cyriack  Skinner 

1.  II.  His  blindness  had  been  hastened  by  his 
work,  Defensio  Prima  pro  Popiilo  Anglicano,  1651, 
in  reply  to  Salmasius,  a  Dutch  professor  who 
attacked  the  Commonwealth. 


Paradise  Lost 

The  thorough  fusion  in  JNIilton  of  the  spirit  of 
the  Renaissance,  the  love  of  classical  themes  and 
treatment,  and  the  spirit  of  Puritanism,  the 
struggle  towards  a  higher  ethical  plane  by  means 
of  a  revival  of  Hebraism,  is  unique  in  English  liter- 
ature. His  avowed  purpose  to  write  "Things  un- 
attempted  yet  in  prose  or  rime"  (1.  16),  in  order 
to  "justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men"  (1.  26),  is 
equalled  in  its  daring  only  by  the  plan  of  Dante's 
Divina  Commedia.  His  poetical  achievement, 
however,  is  quite  apart  from  his  theological  pur- 
pose, and  lies  in  his  marvellous  power  of  reproduc- 
ing in  sound  and  rhythm  the  visions  that  came  to 
his  imagination,  and  in  the  tremendous  swing  and 
wonderful  flexibility  of  his  blank  verse.  Note 
how  he  gets  variety  by  inverting  his  sentence  order, 
as,  for  instance,  in  U.  44-47,  and  by  varjang  the 
number  of  stressed  syllables  in  a  line,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, in  11.  209-215.  Cf.  Gray's  appreciation  of 
Milton  in  The  Progress  of  Poesy,  U.  95-102,  p.  318. 

jNIilton's  classical  training  and  his  many  years 
of  handling  oiEcial  correspondence  in  Latin  made 
him  so  familiar  with  that  language  that  he  con- 
tinually uses  words  derived  from  the  Latin  in  a 
sense  fully  warranted  by  their  origin  but  un- 
common in  English.     For  example,  in  1.  2,  mortal 


722 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


has  the  meaning  deadly,  not  the  more  usual  sense 
human;  in  1.  187,  ojfend  means  injure,  not  anger. 
For  this  reason  Milton's  vocabulary  must  be 
studied  with  the  greatest  care  if  his  meaning  is  to 
be  fully  understood. 

11.  1-6.  The  subject  of  the  poem  is  stated  at 
once,  as  in  the  opening  lines  of  the  Iliad  and  the 
Mneid. 

P.  201.  11.  197-209.  The  first  example  of  the 
elaborately  developed  classical  simile.  For  others, 
see  11.  230-238,  302-313,  338-346,  551-559,  768- 
775,780-792. 

P.  202.  11.  288-290.  Galileo  with  the  telescope 
discovered  the  uneven  surface  of  the  moon. 
Fesole,  or  Fiesole,  is  a  village  three  miles  from 
Florence,  and  Valdarno  is  the  valley  of  the  river 
y\rno,  which  flows  through  Florence.  This  is  a 
personal  reminiscence.  Milton  visited  Galileo 
who  lived  at  Arcetri,  just  outside  Florence,  and 
later  described  him  as  "a  prisoner  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion for  thinking  in  astronomy  otherwise  than  the 
Franciscan  and  Dominican  licensers  thought." 
Here  speaks  the  author  of  the  AreopagUka. 

Pp.  204  f.  11.  392-521.  Of  these  one  hundred 
and  thirty  lines  given  up  to  descriptions  of  Satan's 
host,  only  seven  name  Egyptian  gods  (11.  476-482), 
and  fourteen  Greek  (11.  508-521).  More  than  a 
hundred  hnes  are  devoted  to  the  various  Semitic 
gods  that  appear  in  the  Old  Testament.  Perhaps 
Milton's  early  love  of  the  Greek  deities  kept  him 
from  over-emphasizing  their  transformation  into 
devils ;  but,  in  any  case,  the  Semitic  gods  are  more 
in  harmony  with  his  theme,  and  after  nearly 
twenty  years  of  association  with  men  who  thought 
and  talked  in  terms  of  the  Old  Testament,  he  would 
naturally  have  drawn  most  of  his  material  from 
that  source.  Some  passages  contain  scarcely  a 
word  not  found  in  the  Bible.  For  instance,  11.  396- 
422  are  put  together  and  fused  out  of  /  Kings,  xi: 
5,7;  //  Kings,  xxiii :  4-14 ;  //  Samuel,  xii :  26-27  ; 
Judges,  xi :  13,  and  19-33  '■>  Isaiah,  xv-xvi;  Jere- 
miah, xlviii ;  Numbers,  xxv  :  1-5  ;  Deut.,  xxxii :  49. 
Lines  437-446  describe  the  idolatry  of  Solomon  as 
told  in  I  Kings,  xi :  4-8 ;  and  in  Jeremiah,  vii :  18. 
Lines  446-457  tell  about  the  worship  of  Thammuz 
(who  is  identified  with  the  Greek  Adonis,  1.  450) 
as  it  was  revealed  to  Ezekiel  (Esekiel,  viii :  6-14). 
Lines  457-466  refer  to  the  overthrow  of  Dagon  by 
the  ark  of  God  as  told  in  /  Samuel,  v.  Lines  467- 
471  tell  of  the  leper,  Naaman  the  Syrian,  //  Kings, 
V  :  1-18 ;  and  Hnes  471-476  of  the  idolatry  of  King 
Ahaz,  //  Kings,  xvi:7-i8.  Lines  482-489  refer 
to  the  worship  of  the  golden  calf  {Exod.,  xxxii :  i- 
6;  cf.  xi :  2),  Jeroboam's  Calves  (/  Kings,  xii),  and 
to  the  slaying  of  the  first-born  in  Egypt  {Exod., 


xii :  29,  51).  Lines  490-505  refer  to  the  sins  of  the 
sons  of  Eli  (/  Samuel,  ii :  12,  22),  to  the  purposed 
outrage  in  Sodom  {Gen.,  xix  :  4-11),  and  that  per- 
petrated at  Gibeah  {Judges,  xix  :  22-28).  In  1.  508 
Milton  connects  the  Ionian  gods  with  the  Old 
Testament  (cf.  Gen.,  x  :  2). 

P.  206.  11.  575-576.  Cf.  11.  780-781.  The 
pygmies  vv-ere  supposed  to  have  been  3I  inches 
tall.  Their  war  with  the  cranes  is  mentioned  by 
Homer,  Aristotle,  Ovid,  and  other  writers. 

11.  576-577..  Pldegra,  in  Thrace;  according  to 
Pindar  the  scene  of  the  battle  between  the  gods 
and  the  giants. 

U.  580-581.  King  Arthur  and  his  Round 
Table. 

11.  582-587.  Places  celebrated  in  French  and 
Italian  epics  and  romances  of  Charlemagne  and 
his  knights:  Aspramont,  in  Limburg;  Monlau- 
ban,  in  Languedoc;  Trebisond,  in  Cappadocia; 
Biscrla,  in  Tunis.  The  defeat  alluded  to  was  at 
Roncesvaux,  a  pass  in  the  Pyrenees,  in  778. 
Milton  is  wrong  in  saying  that  "  Charlemain  with 
all  his  peerage  fell" ;  the  fact  seems  to  have  been 
that  his  rearguard  was  attacked  and  routed  by 
Basque  mountaineers.  The  story  was  introduced 
into  literature  in  the  Chanson  de  Roland,  an  Anglo- 
Norman  epic  of  the  eleventh  century,  although 
ballads  on  the  subject  were  sung  earlier.  William 
the  Conqueror's  minstrel,  Taillefer,  chanted  a 
song  of  Roland  as  he  went  into  the  battle  of  Hast- 
ings (Senlac).  This  Roland,  who  in  the  Cltanson 
is  represented  as  Charlemagne's  nephew  and  the 
hero  of  Roncesvaux,  became  one  of  the  chief 
figures  in  the  medieval  French  epics.  As  Orlando 
he  became  in  Italy  the  hero  of  the  famous  poems 
of  Ariosto  and  Boiardo.  His  name  was  also 
introduced  into  English  literature  and  tradition 
(cf.  Browning's  poem,  p.  556,  the  title  of  which 
comes  from  an  old  song  alluded  to  in  King  Lear, 
III,  iv,  187).  i^ti«tora^6ia,  modern  Fuenterrabia, 
is  probably  introduced  for  the  beauty  of  the  name 
itself.  It  is  many  miles  from  RoncesvaiLX,  but 
far  more  musical  than  Burgnete,  which  is  geograph- 
ically correct. 

Milton's  Prose 

Pp.  208  ff.  ^lilton's  prose  has  more  movement 
and  color  than  Bacon's,  more  vigor  and  less  studied 
elaboration  than  Browne's.  He  writes  as  a  prac- 
tical man  whose  mind  is  burdened  with  what 
he  has  to  say.  His  long  years  of  secretarial  work 
for  Cromwell,  although  they  may  scarcely  be 
said  to  have  moulded  his  English  prose  style,  had 
the  effect  of  keeping  him  in  good  fighting  trim. 


I 


NOTES 


723 


Of  Education 

Milton's  essay  on  Education  is  a  small  tract  of 
eight  pages.  It  was  published  in  1644  in  response 
to  a  request  for  his  views  from  his  friend  Samuel 
Hartlib,  a  man  of  a  good  Polish  family  who  had 
come  to  England  about  1628  and  amid  all  the  civil 
strife  of  the  time  had  devoted  Jiimself  to  scientiiic 
studies  for  the  improvement  of  education,  agricul- 
ture, and  manufactures.  Alilton's  plan  of  study, 
as  set  forth  in  his  tractate,  is  too  ambitious  for  all 
but  students  of  extraordinary  abilities,  but  it  is 
noteworthy  that,  like  Hartlib's,  his  conception  of 
ecjucation  was  distinctly  modem.  Although  him- 
self a  great  classical  scholar  and  linguist,  he  treats 
of  the  languages  as  tools,  instruments  for  helping 
the  student  to  a  knowledge  of  things,  and  suggests 
that  most  of  them  can  be  learned  incidentally  in 
odd  moments  of  leisure.  He  emphasizes  the  study 
of  the  sciences  and  of  the  arts  (particularly  music) ; 
and  he  lays  great  stress  upon  training  students  as 
men  who  are  to  bear  a  responsible  part  in  the  life 
and  government  of  the  nation.  The  section  on 
Exercise  shows  that,  although  he  makes  little  pro- 
vision for  play,  —  aside  from  the  recreation  of 
music,  —  he  believed  in  the  cultivation  of  the 
body  as  well  as  of  the  mind.  But  in  this  he  was 
in  harmony  with  the  general  ideals  of  the  Renais- 
sance. 

Areopagitica 

Pp.  210  ff.  June  14,  1643,  Parliament  ap- 
pointed various  committees  to  control  the  licens- 
ing of  books.  This  restriction  of  the  freedom  of 
the  press  was  due  partly  to  the  desire  of  the  Pres- 
byterians in  power  to  prevent  such  publications  as 
Milton's  own  pamphlet  on  divorce,  for  example, 
and  partly  to  the  effort  of  the  Stationers'  Company 
(the  organization  of  printers  and  publishers)  to 
protect  their  copyrights.  iMilton  was  called  to 
accoimt  in  1644  for  disregarding  the  new  regula- 
tions, and  November  24  of  that  year  he  pub- 
lished the  Areopagitica,  itself  unlicensed.  The 
title  means :  matters  befitting  the  high  court  of 
the  Areopagus,  the  famous  Athenian  tribunal, 
here,  of  course,  referring  to  Parliament.  It  is 
easy  to  see  that  the  theme  was  one  after  Milton's 
own  heart. 

P.  210  a.  Cadmus  sowed,  at  Athene's  com- 
mand, the  teeth  of  a  dragon  that  he  had  slain  and 
so  obtained  a  crop  of  armed  men  to  help  him  with 
the  building  of  Thebes.  Cf.  0\ad's  Metamor- 
phoses, III,  1-137.  A  similar  story  is  told  of 
Jason. 

P.  210  b.     those  confused  seeds  which  were  im- 


posed on  Psyche.  Psyche  had  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  Venus,  who  punished  her,  for  having  won  the 
love  of  Cupid,  by  making  her  separate  seeds  of 
wheat,  millet,  poppy,  vetches,  lentils,  and  beans, 
mixed  aU  together.  She  was  to  place  each  kind  of 
seed  in  a  separate  heap  and  to  finish  the  task  by 
evening.  As  Psyche  sat  in  despair,  an  ant  took 
pity  on  her  and  summoning  the  whole  tribe  of  ants, 
accomplished  the  work  within  the  time  set.  The 
story  of  Cupid  and  Psyche  is  told  in  The  Golden 
Ass  of  Apideius,  Bks.  IV-VL 

P.  212  a.  tJie  old  philosophy  of  this  island. 
There  was  a  theory  that  the  P>i;hagorean  and  Zoro- 
astrian  doctrines  were  derived  from  the  wisdom 
of  the  Druids,  the  priesthood  of  the  earl}^  Britons. 

as  far  as  the  mountainous  borders  of  Russia 
and  beyond  the  Hercynian  wilderness.  The  moun- 
tains bordering  Transylvania  are  a  part  of  the 
Carpathians.  The  Hercjmian  wilderness  was  a 
mountainous  tract  of  forest  land  in  southern  and 
central  Germany  (the  name  surv-ives  in  Harz  and 
Erzgebirge),  many  miles  to  the  northeast  of 
Transylvania.  But  Milton's  geography  is  vague 
and  rhetorical ;  he  cared  more  for  the  sonority  and 
associations  of  a  geographical  name  than  for  its 
exact  significance. 

P.  212  b.  muing  her  mighty  youth,  etc.  Re- 
newing her  youth  as  an  eagle  renews  its  feathers 
by  moulting.  In  mediaeval  bird-fable  the  eagle's 
keen  sight  was  supposed  to  be  actually  kindled 
and  her  youth  renewed  bj'  flying  up  near  to  the 
sun,  as  Milton  says.  See  the  ISIiddle  English 
"Bestiary"  in  Emerson's  Middle  English  Reader, 
or  in  Morris  and  Skeat's  Specimens  of  Early  Eng- 
lish. In  Milton's  figure  the  sun  is  truth ;  in  the 
^Middle  English  poem  the  sun  is  God  and  the  eagle 
is  the  soul. 

P.  213  a.  Ye  cannot  make  us,  etc.  You  cannot 
make  us  again  as  we  were  before  you  ga\e  us 
liberty.  We,  with  our  finer  ideals,  are  the  result 
of  your  own  high  ideals  in  the  past,  and  to  undo 
your  good  work  now  would  be  like  a  reversion  to 
that  barbarous  ancient  law  which  permitted  par- 
ents to  kill  their  own  children.  If  you  did,  who 
would  stand  up  for  you  and  urge  others  to  do  so  ? 
Not  such  patriots  as  rose  against  illegal  taxation. 

Coat  and  conduct,  the  clothing  and  conveyance 
of  troops.  On  this  ground  taxes  were  unjustly 
levied. 

hisfour'nobles  of  Danegelt,  ship-money.  Danegelt 
means  Hterally  Dane-money,  and  in  Saxon  times 
was  a  tax  levied  to  protect  England  against  the 
invasions  of  the  Danes.  It  is  not  clear  why 
Milton  should  have  specified  four  nobles  (26.J. 
8(f.). 


724 


ENGLISH   PROSE   AND   POETRY 


Lord  Brook.  Robert,  second  Lord  Brooke, 
cousin  and  heir  of  Fulke  Greville,  Lord  Brooke, 
the  friend  of  Sidney  and  Spenser.  Milton  tells 
the  chief  facts  about  him.  He  was  killed  storm- 
ing Lichfield,  Jan.  7,  1643.  The  book  men- 
tioned is:  A  discourse  opening  the  nature  of  that 
Episcopacie  which  is  exercised  in  England. 
Wherein,  with  all  Humility,  are  represented  some 
considerations  tending  to  tfte  much  desired  Peace 
and  long  expected  Reformation  of  this  our  Mother 
Church. 

P.  214  a.  old  Proteus.  Cf.  note  on  Hero  and 
Leander,  1.  137,  and  especially  Vergil,  Georgics, 
IV,  387-414. 

SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING 

Cf.  note  on  Waller,  p.  717. 

RICHARD   CRASHAW 

In   the   Holy  Nativity  of   our  Lord 
God 

Crashaw  at  his  best  is  full  of  intense  religious 
fire  combined  with  some  degree  of  Milton's  power 
of  visualization ;  but  he  has  a  subtlety  quite  un- 
Miltonic  and  an  extravagance  of  imagery  that 
sometimes  mars  his  work.  See,  for  instance,  1.  87, 
describing  the  Virgin's  breast,  1.  90,  her  double 
nature;  also  11.  91-93,  describing  courtiers,  es- 
pecially the  extraordinary  figure  in  1.  93.  It  is 
interesting  to  compare  Crashaw's  Hymn  not 
merely  with  Milton's,  but  with  the  simplicity  of  the 
early  Christmas  carols  and  Southwell's  Burning 
Babe,  pp.  92-94  and  161  above. 

11.  15-16.  Observe  that  the  shepherds  have 
conventional  classical  names. 

P.  215.  1.  46.  The  phoenix  is,  because  of  its 
uniqueness,  a  frequent  symbol  of  Christ  in  early 
Christian  poetry.  According  to  fable,  the  phoe- 
nix lives  five  hundred  years,  and,  when  it  feels  the 
time  of  its  death  approaching,  gathers  spices  and 
fragrant  woods,  of  which  it  builds  a  nest ;  it  then 
sets  fire  to  the  nest  and  is  consumed  with  it,  but 
comes  out  from  the  ashes  a  young  phoenix,  new  and 
yet  the  same.  As  the  phoenix  builds  the  nest  for 
its  own  rebirth,  so  Christ  himself  chose  where  he 
would  be  born. 

JEREMY  TAYLOR 

Pp.  216  f .  Jeremy  Taylor  was  a  master  of  elab- 
orate and  involved  prose  rhythms  and  as  such  will 
always  retain  his  place  in  the  history  of  English 


literature.  Whether  his  fondness  for  themes  of 
decay  and  death  was  due  to  a  morbid  liking  for 
the  subjects  themselves,  or  to  the  value  which 
religious  teachers  in  general  at  that  time  attached 
to  the  contemplation  of  physical  corruption,  or 
whether  such  themes  offered  a  specially  favorable 
opportunity  for  lyrical  movements  in  prose  ending 
in  minor  cadences,  .may  admit  of  discussion.  Cer- 
tainly one  hears  even  in  the  most  soaring  strains 
of  his  eloquence  the  ground  tone  of  the  futility 
and  vanity  of  life. 

SIR  JOHN  DENHAM 

P.  218.  Denham  was  the  first  English  poet 
after  the  Restoration  who  set  out  to  be  delib- 
erately descriptive.  To-day  he  seems  colorless, 
but  he  was  greatly  admired  in  his  own  and  the 
succeeding  age,  not  so  much  for  the  descriptions 
themselves  as  for  his  moralization  of  his  theme. 
See  Pope's  Essay  on  Criticism,  II,  361. 

RICHARD   LOVELACE 

Cf.  note  on  Waller,  p.  717. 

The  Grasshopper 

Cf.  Keats's  sonnet  The  Grasshopper  and  the 
Cricket,  p.  478. 

ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

P.  219.  Cowley's  fame  was  greatest  in  his  life- 
time. His  contemporaries  buried  him  in  West- 
minster Abbey  by  the  side  of  Chaucer.  But 
almost  at  once  reaction  set  in,  and  he  came  to 
be  recognized  for  what  he  was,  a  good  verse- 
artisan  but  one  of  the  most  shallow  and  artificial 
thinkers  among  the  followers  of  Donne.  It  is 
supposed  that  it  was  his  precocity  which  Milton 
contrasted  with  his  own  late  and  slow  develop- 
ment (as  it  seemed  to  him)  in  the  sonnet  On  his 
Having  Arrived  at  the  Age  of  Twenty-three  (see  es- 
pecially 1.  8) . 

ANDREW  MARVELL 

Pp.  219  f.  As  Cowley  is  associated  with  the 
Stuart  court,  so  is  Marvell  with  Cromwell  and  the 
Protectorate.  The  vigor  so  striking  in  his  work 
as  a  satirist  and  pamphleteer  stifi'ens  his  lyrics 
and  makes  them  to-day  much  fresher  and  more 
interesting  than  Cowley's  work.  His  fancies  are 
original  and  often  quaint. 


NOTES 


725 


The  Gauden 

P.  220.  1.  32.  And  out  of  the  reed  he  made 
his  flute.  Cf.  note  on  Waller's  The  Story  of 
Phoebus  and  Daphne  Applied,  p.  717. 

11.  43-44.  The  idea  that  the  mind  contains  an 
image  of  each  external  thing  is  a  modification  of 
Platonism. 

To  HIS  Coy  Mistress 

Addison,  in  his  Hilpa  and  Shalum  (p.  269), 
developed  the  idea  of  this  amusing  extravaganza 
in  great  detail. 

HENRY  VAUGHAN 

P.  221.  A  Welsh  imitator  of  Herbert,  and  the 
most  purely  mystic  of  English  poets.  He  was 
practically  forgotten  when  Wordsworth  redis- 
covered him.  His  influence  on  the  Ode  on  the 
Intimations  of  Immortality  (p.  391)  is  noticeable. 
It  may  be  a  question  how  far  Wordsworth  has  im- 
proved upon  his  simple  model,  The  Retreat. 

The  Timber 

This  is  a  fanciful  conceit  which  is  redeemed  from 
absurdity  by  the  strength  of  the  feeling  that  per- 
vades it. 

The  tree  is  pictured  first  as  alive  in  the  forest 
(11.  1-8),  then  as  wood  built  into  a  house  (U.  9-12), 
which  creaks  in  a  storm  (1.  13-16) ;  and  this  "re- 
sentment after  death"  is  supposed  to  be  a  survival 
of  the  old  enmit}'  between  the  tree  and  the  winds 
(11.  17-20). 


THE   RESTORATION 

JOHN  DRYDEN 

Pp.  222  £f.  Dryden  was  to  the  men  of  letters  of 
the  time  of  Charles  II  about  what  Ben  Jonson  was 
to  those  of  Charles  I  —  the  dominant  literary 
figure,  yet  without  supreme  talent  in  either  prose 
or  verse.  He  left  a  large  body  of  work,  of  which 
the  prose  shows  him  to  have  been  possessed  of  a 
kind  of  ample  common  sense,  strikingly  evinced, 
for  example,  in  the  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy, 
while  the  verse  has  a  large,  easy  movement  with- 
out the  fire  and  force  of  the  best  of  the  Elizabethans. 
The  heroic  couplet  he  developed  and  popularized 
to  a  degree  that  made  it  the  chief  vehicle  of  narra- 
tive poetry  for  the  next  half  century  (cf.  Gray, 
The  Progress  of  Poesy,  11.  103-111,  p.  318). 


Dryden's  satire  is  effective  partly  because  of  its 
lack  of  exaggeration  and  heat,  its  tone  of  well- 
bred  superiority  and  amused  self-possession,  and 
partly  because  of  its  clearness,  its  rapidity,  and  its 
ease  of  movement.  It  was  well  fitted  to  be  read  and 
discussed  and  enjoyed  by  the  miscellaneous  assem- 
blies in  the  coffee-houses  (see  p.  516),  and  it  is 
still  his  chief  credential  to  a  high  place  in  the 
history  of  English  literature. 

Absalom  and  Achitophel 

Pp.  222  f.  July  2,  1681,  the  Earl  of  Shaftes- 
bury was  sent  to  the  Tower.  He  was  the  leader 
of  the  movement  to  have  the  Roman  Catholic 
Duke  of  York  barred  from  the  succession,  and  the 
illegitimate  Duke  of  Monmouth  recognized  as 
heir  to  Charles  II.  Dryden's  satire,  which  was 
not  improbably  written  at  the  King's  suggestion, 
was  published  only  a  few  days  before  Shaftesbury's 
indictment  and,  although  it  did  not  prevent  his 
acquittal,  had  an  enormous  popular  success. 

The  use  of  the  biblical  story  of  David  and  Absa- 
lom must  have  appealed  even  to  the  Dissenting 
party,  who  thought  in  Hebraic  terms,  the  more 
so  as  Shaftesbury  had  been  dubbed  Achitophel 
and  Monmouth  Absalom  before  the  poem  was  writ- 
ten. This  fact  suggests  that  Dryden  was  shrewd 
enough  to  follow  in  the  wake  of  popular  imagina- 
tion. 

In  the  second  selection,  Zimri  (1.  544)  is  the 
notorious  Duke  of  Buckingham,  against  whom 
Dryden  had  a  personal  grudge  for  ridicuUng  him 
in  the  famous  burlesque  called  The  Rehearsal. 

The  Hind  and  the  Panther 

Pp.  223  f.  A  religious  satire  in  the  form  of  a 
beast-fable,  written  after  Dryden  had  become  con- 
verted to  Roman  Catholicism.  The  key  to  the 
allegory  is : 

Hind  —  the  Church  of  Rome. 

Panther  —  the  Church  of  England. 

Bear  —  the  Independents. 

Quaking  Hare  —  the  Quakers. 

Ape  —  the  Free-thinkers. 

Lion  —  the  Court  party,  perhaps  including  the 
King. 

Boar  —  the  Anabaptists. 

Reynard  the  Fox  —  the  Unitarians,  called 
Arians  in  the  time  of  Athanasius,  and  Socinians 
after  the  early  sixteenth  century. 

11.  13-16.  Caledonian.  Not  Scottish,  but  Brit- 
ish. The  reference  is  to  the  Roman  Catholic 
martyrs. 


726 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


Alexander's  Feast 

Pp.  224  ff.  Dryden's  odes  are  cold  and  artificial, 
but  remarkable  for  their  sustained  adaptation  of 
sound  and  rhythm  to  produce  musical  quality. 

For  Pope's  eulogy  of  this  poem,  see  the  Essay 
on  Criticism,  II,  374-383. 

1.  9.  According  to  tradition  Alexander  was  in- 
duced by  Thais  to  set  fire  to  the  capital  Persepolis. 

I.  20.  Timotheus.  A  famous  Athenian  musi- 
cian who,  however,  died  just  before  Alexander 
was  born. 

P.  225.  11.  75-83.  The  particular  force  of 
this  passage  is  that  Alexander  himself  had  con- 
quered Darius  in  a  series  of  hard-fought  battles, 
and  that  his  own  memory  would  necessarily 
strengthen  the  impression  which  the  musician 
wished  to  produce  in  his  mind. 

II.  97-98.     Cf.  V Allegro,  11.  135-150  (p.   193). 
P.   226.     II.    161-165.     St.    Cecilia,    a   Roman 

martyr  of  the  third  century,  is  credited  with  the 
development  of  sacred  music.  Line  162  refers  to 
her  supposed  invention  of  the  organ. 


Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy 

Pp.  226  ff.  This  is  at  once  an  authoritative 
treatment  of  a  big  literary  problem,  a  summary 
of  dramatic  criticism  for  an  age,  and  a  monument 
of  common  sense.  The  subject  of  debate  is  the 
respective  merits  of  the  classic  (including  the 
French),  and  the  romantic  (especially  the  Enghsh) 
ideals  of  the  drama.  Dryden  presents  each  side 
with  a  fine  balance  and  discrimination,  but  is 
obviously  in  sympathy  with  the  English  ideal. 

The  four  talkers  are  Eugenius  (?  Lord  Buck- 
hurst,  later  Earl  of  Dorset,  himself  a  keen  critic, 
to  whom  the  essay  was  dedicated),  Crites  (?  Sir 
Robert  Howard,  author  of  some  successful  plays), 
Lisideius  (Sir  Charles  Sedley,  a  well-known  poet 
and  wit,  —  the  anagram  of  Sidleius  makes  this 
identification  certain),  and  Neander  (Dryden  him- 
self). To  give  informality  to  their  discussion,  the 
friends  are  represented  as  on  a  pleasure  trip  in  a 
barge  on  the  river.  The  supposed  date  of  the 
excursion  is  June  3,  1665,  when  the  Dutch  and 
Enghsh  fleets  were  engaged  in  battle;  but  the 
setting  is,  of  course,  a  mere  device  for  making  the 
presentation  of  all  sides  of  the  question  more  con- 
vincing and  more  entertaining. 

P.  233  a.  Mr.  Hales  of  Eton,  John  Hales,  a 
famous  scholar  of  his  day.  It  is  said  that  in  an 
actual  debate  in  Hales's  chamber  at  Eton,  to 
which  many  "persons  of  wit  and  quality"  were 
invited,   his   opponents   produced   from   a   large 


number  of  authors  the  most  striking  expressions 
of  many  various  subjects,  and  that  he  immediately 
produced  from  Shakespeare  a  better  expression  of 
each. 

SAMUEL  PEPYS 

Pp.  234  ff.  The  Diary  of  Samuel  Pepys  is  prob- 
ably the  most  honest  and  unsophisticated  self- 
revelation  ever  given  to  the  world.  This  is  due 
partly  to  the  fact  that  Pepys  did  not  suppose  that 
it  would  ever  be  read  by  any  one  but  himself,  and 
partly  to  an  intellectual  clearness  and  candor  which 
enabled  him  to  describe  his  actions  and  feelings 
without  self-deception.  Other  autobiographies 
—  even  the  most  famous  —  have,  without  excep- 
tion, been  written  with  half  an  eye  on  the  public; 
either  the  author  has,  consciously  or  half-con- 
sciously,  posed  to  excite  admiration  for  his  clever- 
ness or  to  shock  by  his  unconventionalities,  or 
he  has  become  secretive  at  the  very  moment  when 
he  was  beginning  to  be  most  interesting.  But 
Pepys  shows  himself  exactly  as  he  was  —  an  ex- 
traordinarily human  mixture  of  worldliness  and 
religion,  of  loyalty  and  intrigue,  of  jealousy,  im- 
morality, good-heartedness,  pettiness,  generosity, 
weakness,  and  substantial  personal  worth.  Yet 
the  reader  would  judge  unjustly  who  estimated 
Pepys's  character  solely  on  the  basis  of  the  Diary. 
He  was  in  his  own  day  regarded  as  a  model 
of  propriety  and  respectability  and  a  man  of  un- 
usual business  capacity.  He  may  be  said,  indeed, 
with  little  exaggeration,  to  have  created  the  Eng- 
lish navy :  when  he  became  Secretary  to  the  Gen- 
erals of  the  Fleet,  the  Admiralty  Office  was  prac- 
tically without  organization ;  before  the  close  of 
his  career  he  had  organized  it  and,  as  a  recent  Lord 
of  the  Admiralty  says,  provided  it  with  "the 
principal  rules  and  establishments  in  present  use." 
That  he  was  not  altogether  averse  to  what  we  now 
call  "graft,"  is  true;  but  in  an  age  of  vmiversal 
bribery  he  was  a  notably  honest  and  honorable 
official,  and  he  never  allowed  his  private  interests 
to  cause  injury  or  loss  to  the  service.  No  other 
document  of  any  sort  gives  us  so  full  and  varied 
and  vivid  an  account  of  the  social  life  and  pursuits 
of  the  Restoration  period ;  Pepys  is  often  ungram- 
matical,  but  he  is  never  dull  in  manner  or  unpro- 
vided with  interesting  material. 

The  carelessness  of  his  style  is  due  in  no  small 
measure  to  the  nature  of  his  book.  He  wrote  for 
his  own  eye  alone,  using  a  system  of  shorthand 
which  was  not  deciphered  until  1825.  That  he 
was  a  man  of  cultivation  is  proved  by  the  society 
in  which  he  moved,  by  his  interest  in  music  and  the 
drama,   by   the    valuable  library  of    books    and 


NOTES 


727 


prints  which  he  accumulated  and  bequeathed  to 
jNIagdalene  College,  Cambridge,  by  his  interest 
in  the  Royal  Society,  by  the  academic  honors 
conferred  upon  him  by  the  universities,  and  by 
his  official  writings. 

SAMUEL  BUTLER 

Pp.  237  f.  For  an  account  of  his  career,  see 
Oldham's  Satire,  p.  238,  11.  175-190.  Butler 
himself  wrote  a  quatrain  saying  that  Charles  II 
was  never  without  his  Uiidibras. 

JOHN  OLDHAM 
A  Satire  Dissuading  from  Poetry 

P.  238.  The  passage  quoted  illustrates  the 
distressing  financial  condition  of  writers  in  the  time 
between  the  decay  of  the  system  of  private  patron- 
age and  the  development  of  business  relations 
with  publishers  which  made  it  possible  for  authors 
to  live  upon  the  results  of  their  labor.  The  term 
"Grub  Street,"  given  to  writers  who  are  struggling 
for  a  bare  existence,  arose  during  this  time  from  the 
name  of  a  street  in  which  many  of  the  hack  writers 
actually  lived. 

JOHN  LOCKE 
The  Conduct  of  the  Understanding 

Pp.  238  f.  John  Locke  first  extended  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  inductive  method  in  philosophy  into 
the  field  of  mental  phenomena.  By  his  discussion 
of  the  nature  and  origin  of  ideas  and  the  necessary 
limits  of  human  knowledge,  he  introduced,  not 
only  into  philosophy,  but  into  the  common  think- 
ing of  educated  men  conceptions  which  have  been 
fruitful  ever  since.  Locke  is  also  notable  as  a 
pioneer  in  the  cause  of  civil  and  religious  liberty 
and  in  more  rational  methods  of  education. 

His  style  is  not  distinguished,  but  it  has  the  great 
merits  of  clearness  and  of  intelligibility  to  the 
general  reader. 


JOHN  BUNYAN  '^ 

Pp.  239  ff.  Written  in  an  age  of  subtleties  and 
extravagances  of  style,  Bunyan's  prose  is  so  simple 
and  straightforward  that  children  to-day  can 
understand  and  enjoy  it.  A  naturally  vivid  imagi- 
nation strengthened  by  keen  observation  of  life, 
intense  religious  feeling  quickened  by  persecu- 
tion, and  much  reading  of  the  Bible  are  some  of 
the  factors  that  entered  into  the  creation  of  his 
masterpiece,  The  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


P.  241  b.  Vanity  Fair.  If  instead  of  the  alle- 
gorical Vanity,  we  substitute  Stourbridge,  or  Soiith- 
wark,  or  the  name  of  some  other  town,  we  find 
in  this  passage  a  vivid  and  accurate  description  of 
the  old-time  fair,  with  only  slight  exaggeration 
for  the  purpose  of  the  allegorj-.  Fairs  lasted 
usually  only  a  day,  or  a  few  days,  although  at 
Stourbridge,  on  the  outskirts  of  Cambridge, 
where  a  fair  was  held  in  September,  after  the  har- 
vest was  in,  it  continued  for  three  weeks.  At  such 
a  fair  ever>'  article  used  in  England  could  be 
bought,  and  merchandise  was  imported  from  the 
Continent  and  the  Far  East.  As  Bunj'an  shows, 
there  were  also  associated  with  the  bartering  all 
sorts  of  amusements,  and  much  license  and  crime 
developed.  Cf.  Ben  Jonson's  amusing  play, 
Bartholomew  Fair. 

MINOR  LYRISTS 

Pp.  243  f.  See  the  discussion  under  Waller, 
p.  717. 


THE    CLASSICAL   AGE 

DANIEL   DEFOE 

Pp.  245  fif.  Defoe  had  the  ty-pe  of  mind,  the 
training,  and  the  experience  that  make  a  success- 
ful newspaper  man.  His  invincible  curiosity  and 
love  of  experiment,  his  willingness  to  take  risks, 
his  argumentative  ability,  his  instinct  for  what  the 
people  think  and  want,  his  memory  for  details, 
and  his  marvelous  ability  to  add  circumstantial 
evidence  to  make  his  fictions  convincing,  his  tal- 
ent as  a  "story-teUer,"  and  his  keen  eye  to  the  main 
chance  commercial!}'  —  all  these  qualities  would 
have  helped  him  to  success  under  any  conditions ; 
and,  considering  his  time  and  his  temperament,  he 
made  a  considerable  figure.  He  was  not  an  origi- 
nator, but  by  reason  of  his  lucid  and  forceful 
English,  he  was  a  good  disseminator  of  current 
ideas.  His  project  for  the  education  of  women, 
for  instance,  was  not  original,  but  it  reflects  the 
most  advanced  thought  of  his  time  on  the  subject, 
and  in  a  way  that  could  not  have  failed  to  interest 
a  wide  public.  The  selection  does  not  show  De- 
foe's peculiar  genius  for  making  fiction  read  like 
fact,  but  it  does  show  him  as  a  man  able  to  make 
English  ser\-e  his  ends. 

JONATHAN   SWIFT 

Pp.  248  ff.  Swift's  satire  is  supreme  by  virtue 
of  his  style  and  his  constructive  imagination.    The 


728 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


latter  shows  itself  chiefly  in  his  abihty  to  assume 
a  certain  attitude  toward  a  problem  or  a  situation 
and  carry  out  this  attitude  to  its  logical  conse- 
quences in  even  the  minutest  details.  Thus  in 
Gulliver's  Travels  he  shows  human  life  as  looked 
at  successively  by  beings  smaller  than  men,  by 
beings  larger  than  men,  and  by  beings  of  other 
standards  and  ideals.  In  his  Modest  Proposal  he 
emphasizes  the  low  value  set  on  human  life  —  on 
the  lives  of  children  in  Ireland  —  by  assuming  that 
they  are  worth  only  what  they  will  fetch  in  the 
market,  and  consistently  pushing  that  assumption 
to  its  logical  but  horrible  consequences.  The 
effectiveness  of  his  method  depends  upon  the  fact 
that,  whereas  in  most  of  our  thinking  inherited 
views  and  conventional  opinions  on  particular 
points  rise  up  to  prevent  us  from  developing  any 
principle  with  relentless  logic,  this  method  pre- 
sents a  principle  under  such  a  form  that  our 
inherited  views  and  conventional  reactions  are 
not  aroused  until  after  we  have  committed  our- 
selves to  what  the  simple  logic  of  the  principle 
implies. 

His  style  is  devoid  of  grace  and  charm  because 
it  is  so  set  upon  practical  results  and  so  direct  and 
simple.  He  uses  words  with  an  exact  sense  of 
their  intellectual  values  and  force  rarely  equalled ; 
but  his  clearness  and  simplicity  are  deceptive.  A 
second  meaning  lurks  always  beneath  the  plain 
and  simple  surface. 

A  Tale  of  a  Tub 

Pp.  248  ff.  Swift  himself  explains  his  title 
thus : 

"The  wits  of  the  present  age  being  so  very 
numerous  and  penetrating,  it  seems  the  grandees 
of  Church  and  State  begin  to  fall  under  horrible 
apprehensions  lest  these  gentlemen,  during  the 
intervals  of  a  long  peace,  should  find  leisure  to 
pick  holes  in  the  weak  sides  of  religion  and  govern- 
ment. To  prevent  which,  there  has  been  much 
thought  employed  of  late  upon  certain  projects  for 
taking  off  the  force  and  edges  of  those  formidable 
inquirers  from  canvassing  and  reasoning  upon 
such  delicate  points.  .  .  .  To  this  end,  at  a 
grand  committee,  some  days  ago,  this  important 
discovery  was  made  by  a  qertain  curious  and  re- 
fined observer,  that  seamen  have  a  custom  when 
they  m.eet  a  Whale  to  fling  him  out  an  empty  Tub, 
by  way  of  amusement,  to  divert  him  from  laying 
violent  hands  upon  the  Ship.  .  .  .  The  Ship  in 
danger  is  easily  understood  to  be  its  old  antitype, 
the  commonwealth."  But  this  explanation  is  a 
part  of  Swift's  jest;    "a  tale  of  a  tub"  had  long 


been  a  proverbial  expression  for  an  absurd  or 
nonsensical  story. 

The  tre^atise  as  a  whole  is  a  satire  on  the  three 
great  branches  of  the  Christian  Church :  the 
Catholic  (represented  by  Peter),  the  Church  of  the 
Reformation,  including  the  English  and  the 
Lutheran  branches  (represented  by  Martin, 
i.e.,  Luther),  and  the  Presbyterians,  Inde- 
pendents and  other  Dissenters  (represented  by 
Jack,  i.e.,  Calvin).  The  coats  represent  Primitive 
Christianity  as  delivered  by  Christ  to  his  follow- 
ers. The  successive  sections  of  the  main  satire 
describe  allegorically  the  various  changes  which 
have  been  made  in  Christian  doctrine  and  insti- 
tutions from  time  to  time.  The  section  given  in 
this  volume  is  devoted  entirely  to  the  history  of 
the  Church  before  the  split  caused  by  the  Reforma- 
tion. A  later  section  teUs  how  Peter,  claiming 
to  be  the  oldest,  assumed  authority  and  kicked  his 
brothers  out  of  the  house  which  he  had  taken  pos- 
session of  (see  p.  252,  last  paragraph) ;  and  other 
sections  narrate  the  adventures  and  deeds  of  the 
brothers  after  their  separation. 

That  this  satire  should  have  given  great  offence 
to  Protestants  as  well  as  to  Catholics  and  effec- 
tually prevented  Swift  from  ever  attaining  such  a 
rank  and  position  in  the  English  Church  as  his 
intellectual  ability  clearly  entitled  him  to,  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at.  It  has  been  said  that  he  was 
more  favorable  to  Martin  —  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land —  than  to  the  others ;  but  no  good  Church 
of  England  man  can  have  been  pleased  with  the 
treatment  Martin  receives,  especially  in  the  brief 
section  entitled  The  History  of  Martin  which  Swift 
added  in  some  editions  of  the  work.  The  fact  is 
that  every  deviation  from  Primitive  Christianity 
is  represented  as  arbitrary,  fraudulent,  and  ludi- 
crous. 

Some  details  of  the  allegory  may  assist  the 
reader : 

The  seven  years  of  obedience  and  the  travels  and 
exploits  (p.  248  a)  refer  to  the  early  centuries  and 
the  spreading  of  Christianity  in  foreign  lands. 
The  three  ladies  with  whom  the  brothers  fell  in 
love  (p.  248  b)  are  covetousness,  ambition,  and 
pride,  the  great  vices  which  caused  the  first 
corruptions  of  the  Church ;  and  the  social  climb- 
ing (p.  248  b)  represents  the  rise  of  Christian- 
ity to  dominant  power  in  the  Roman  Empire. 
The  whole  of  p.  249  —  in  which  readers  of 
Carlyle  will  recognize  the  germ  of  his  Clothes 
Philosophy  in  Sartor  Resartus  —  is  a  general 
satire  on  mankind  for  its  worship  of  exter- 
nals, such  as  rank,  wealth,  etc.,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  special  satire  on  the  Church  for  the 


NOTES 


729 


development  of  an  elaborate  hierarchy  and  elab- 
orate ceremonies.  The  idol  sitting  crosslegged 
(249  a)  is  in  primary  intention  a  tailor  and  second- 
arily, perhaps,  the  Pope,  the  origin  of  whose 
dignity  and  title  some  deduced  from  the  Roman 
system  of  religion.  Hell  (ibid.)  was  a  term  ap- 
plied in  Swift's  day  to  a  box  beneath  the  tailor's 
work-bench  into  which  scraps  were  thrown,  and 
also,  say  the  satirists,  such  pieces  of  cloth  as  the 
tailor  wished  to  steal  from  his  customers.  I  do 
not  understand  the  s>Tnbolism  of  the  goose  or  of 
the  yard-stick  and  the  needle  (ibid.).  The 
shoulder-knots  (p.  250  b)  and  the  gold  lace  (p. 
251  a)  are  symbolical  of  the  additions  made  to 
the  simple  doctrines  of  early  Christianity,  and  the 
discussions  are  a  satire  on  the  methods  by  which 
authority  for  these  innovations  was  adduced. 
The  nuncupatory  will  (ibid.)  is  tradition,  to  which 
the  Catholics  allow  great  authority.  The  flame- 
colored  satin  (p.  251  b)  is  the  doctrine  of  Pur- 
gatory, which,  according  to  views  in  vogue  in 
Swift's  day,  had  already  appeared  in  Jewish  rab- 
binical doctrine  (my  Lord  C )  and  in  IMoham- 

medanism  (Sir  J.  W.).  The  advice  "  to  take  care  of 
fire  and  put  out  their  candles  before  they  went  to 
sleep"  {ibid.)  means  to  shun  hell  and,  in  order  to 
do  so,  to  subdue  and  extinguish  their  lusts.  The 
codicil  (ibid.)  figures  the  Apocr^-phal  books  of  the 
Bible,  and  the  dog-keeper  is  said  to  be  an  allusion 
to  the  Apocr>phal  book  of  Tobit.  The  inter- 
pretation of  "fringe"  as  "broom-stick"  (p.  252  a) 
alludes  to  mediaeval  methods  of  interpreting 
scripture.  The  embroidered  figures  (ibid.)  are 
images  of  Christ  and  the  saints.  The  strong 
box  in  which  the  v\ill  was  locked  up  (p.  252  b) 
signifies  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages,  and  the 
power  of  adding  clauses  (ibid.)  to  the  will  signifies 
the  Pope's  power  to  issue  bidls  and  decretals. 
The  lord  whose  house  was  usurped  (ibid.)  means 
the  Emperor  Constantine,  from  whom  the  Church 
was  said  to  have  received  the  donation  of  St. 
Peter's  patrimony,  the  foundation  of  the  temporal 
power  of  the  Church. 

A  Modest  Proposal 

Pp.  253  f.  Written  in  Swift's  bitterest  mood, 
to  show  the  terrible  condition  of  the  poor  in  Ire- 
land, and  the  utter  heartlessness  of  the  EngHsh 
in  deahng  with  the  situation.  The  terrific  force 
of  the  satire  is  due  largely  to  the  matter-of-fact 
handUng  of  details  in  a  proposition  subversive  of 
all  civilization.  Some  simple-minded  persons  have 
failed  to  understand  Swift's  irony  and  supposed 
him  to  be  really  in  favor  of  the  plan  he  advocates. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  AND  RICHARD  STEELE 

Pp.  254  flf.  Addison  and  Steele  are  as  com- 
monly thought  of  as  inseparable  as  are  Beaimiont 
and  Fletcher,  and  the  two  are  as  different  as  tlie 
earlier  pair.  Addison  is  always  cool,  level-headed, 
with  a  keen  eye  for  the  humorous  side  of  life,  and 
an  occasional  flight  of  fancy.  Steele  is  usually 
hot-headed  and  warm-hearted,  inclined  to  preach 
and  to  sentimentalize,  at  times  rather  in  the 
manner  of  Thackera}'.  These  differences  are  very 
evident  in  the  passages  chosen.  Both  writers 
owe  much  of  their  charm  to  their  ease  and  unaf- 
fectedness,  and  to  the  sense  of  leisure  —  the  play 
element  —  that  pervades  their  work. 

In  No.  ID  of  the  Spectator,  Addison  is  at  his 
best,  chatting  with  his  readers  as  if  they  were  all 
personal  friends ;  in  No.  26,  he  is  the  man  of  taste 
(cf.  Sir  Thomas  Browne  on  a  similar  theme,  pp. 
181-184,  above) ;  in  No.  98,  he  is  the  satirist,  amus- 
ing yet  never  sharp ;  in  No.  159  and  Nos.  584-585, 
he  turns  his  imagination  into  Oriental  fields  and 
produces  phantasies  which  show  that  even  the 
most  classical  age  has  its  romantic  moods. 

In  No.  95  of  the  Tatler  and  No.  11  of  the  Specta- 
tor, Steele  shows  himself  as  a  warm-hearted  senti- 
mentahst ;  in  No.  167  of  the  Tatler,  as  a  critic  and 
philanthropist ;  and  in  No.  264,  as  a  genial  humor- 
ist. 

The  Campaign 

P.  262.  Addison  was  asked  to  celebrate  in 
verse  the  Battle  of  Blenheim  for  the  sake  of  help- 
ing the  poUtical  party  with  which  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  was  connected.  When  he  produced 
his  Campaign,  Godolphin,  IMarlborough's  son-in- 
law,  and  the  other  leaders  were  so  pleased  that 
they  gave  him  a  political  post  made  vacant  by  the 
death  of  John  Locke,  the  philosopher  (see  p.  238). 
Later,  as  the  poem  was  an  immediate  and  pro- 
nounced success,  they  made  him  mider-secretary 
of  state.  One  of  the  most  admired  passages  was 
the  simile  of  the  angel,  11.  287-292,  which  taken  in 
connection  with  a  terrible  storm  that  passed 
over  England  in  November,  1704,  was  obvious  and 
commonplace  enough  to  hit  the  popular  fancy. 
I  have  quoted  a  short  passage  from  the  work  as  a 
good  specimen  of  utilitarian  verse.  To-day  it  is 
of  historical  value  only. 

HILPA    AND    SHALUM 

Pp.  269  S.  The  idea  of  this  extravaganza  was 
perhaps  suggested  by  Marvell's  poem,  To  His  Coy 
Mistress,  p.  220. 


730 


ENGLISH  PROSE   AND   POETRY 


MATTHEW  PRIOR 

P.  272.  Although  Prior  lived  well  into  the 
Classical  Age,  he,  like  Swift,  began  to  write  while 
Dryden  was  still  at  the  height  of  his  power.  His 
first  production,  indeed,  was  a  parody,  —  such  as 
any  clever  school  boy  might  write,  —  written  in 
collaboration  with  Charles  Montague  (later  Earl 
of  Halifax),  upon  Dryden's  The  Hind  and  the 
Panther.  It  was  entitled  The  Hind  and  the  Panther 
Transversed  to  the  Story  of  the  Country  Mouse 
and  the  City  Mouse  and  began  : 

"A  milk-white  mouse,  immortal  and  unchanged, 
Fed  on  soft  cheese  and  o'er  the  dairy  ranged : 
Without  unspotted,  innocent  within, 
She  feared  no  danger,  for  she  knew  no  gin." 

Later  he  wrote  a  successful  travesty  of  Boileau's 
Pindaric  ode  in  praise  of  Louis  XIV.  Most  of 
his  writing  was  called  out  by  some  special  occasion 
and  is  distinguished  by  playfulness  and  wit, 
as  are  the  brief  selections  here  chosen  to  represent 
him.  That  he  was  capable  of  more  serious  efforts 
is  shown  by  his  Carmen  Saculare,  an  ode  in 
praise  of  King  William,  but  his  life  was  devoted 
chiefly  to  politics  and  diplomacy. 


ALEXANDER   POPE 

Pp.  273  ff.  Pope  was  avowedly  the  pupil  of 
Dryden,  but  within  his  more  limited  field,  he  far 
excelled  his  master.  His  immediate  success  was 
due  not  only  to  the  fact  that  he  voiced  most  per- 
fectly the  predominant  spirit  of  the  cultivated 
classes  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived  —  the  age  of 
obedience  to  rule,  and  worship  of  form  —  but  also 
to  his  remarkable  faculty,  however  unconscious, 
of  advertising  himself  by  means  of  a  host  of  friends 
and  an  even  greater  host  of  rivals  and  foes.  His 
enduring  success  is  based  upon  qualities  very  dif- 
ferent from  those  so  admired  by  his  contemporaries. 
His  ideas  in  criticism,  which  they  regarded  as  in- 
fallible axioms,  seem  to  us  partly  commonplace, 
and  partly  false ;  his  theory  of  metaphysics, 
which  they  regarded  with  admiring  awe,  we  smile 
at  as  superficial,  and  even  so,  as  borrowed  from 
Bolingbroke ;  his  satires  we  are  likely  to  read 
with  half-irapatient  amusement,  because  they  are 
so  largely  works  of  personal  spite,  and  so  often 
ascribe  to  his  enemies  qualities  which  they  did  not 
possess.  But  with  all  his  glib  superficiality  and 
his  petty  malice,  Pope  has  two  cjualities  more 
highly  developed  perhaps  than  they  are  found  in 
any  other  English  poet :    one  is  almost  inexhaus- 


tible wit,  which  spices  his  dullest  subjects  and  his 
most  objectionable  satires ;  the  other  is  an  amaz- 
ing instinct  for  the  minor  perfections  of  form. 

An  Essay  on  Criticism 

1, 11.  68-91.  The  doctrine  that  creative  artists 
should  take  Nature  as  their  guide  is  one  of  the 
most  astonishing  doctrines  of  the  critical  theory  of 
Pope  and  his  fellows  —  the  so-called  classicists ; 
for  it  seems  to  us  that  this  is  precisely  the  thing 
which  they  did  not  do,  and  the  thing  by  doing 
which  the  leaders  of  romanticism,  Thomson, 
Cowper,  Wordsworth  and  others,  introduced  new 
subjects  and  new  methods  into  English  hterature. 
The  difficulty  is  cleared  up,  however,  when  we 
learn  (from  11.  88-89,  126,  135,  and  especially 
139-140)  that  the  way  to  "follow  Nature"  is,  not 
to  observe  things  as  they  are,  but  to  imitate  and 
defer  to  the  "ancients"  —  Homer  (124),  Vergil 
(129-130),  and  Aristotle  (138). 

That  this  official  doctrine  did  not  entirely  satisfy 
Pope's  native  impulses  may  be  seen  from  11.  146- 
155,  where  he  represents  Pegasus,  the  winged 
horse  of  poesy,  as  boldly  deviating  "from  the 
common  track."  See  also  the  romantic  senti- 
ments expressed  in  Elo'isa  to  Abelard.  In  land- 
scape gardening  Pope's  tastes  were  decidedly  ro- 
mantic. _  The  classicism  of  his  writings  was 
therefore  not  so  much  the  expression  of  anything 
fundamental  in  his  nature  as  the  result  of  deliber- 
ate conformity  to  a  critical  theory. 

P.  274.  1.  180.  Horace,  in  his  Ars  Poetica, 
had  admitted  that  even  Homer  sometimes  nods; 
Pope  suggests  that  when  we  suspect  a  good  writer 
of  writing  poorly,  the  fault  may  be,  not  his,  but 
our  own. 

P.  275.  II,  U.  374-383.  Compare  Alexander's 
Feast,  p.  224.  Pope  heightens  the  compUment  by 
recalling  the  phrasing  of  the  original. 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock 

Pope's  mocking  spirit  made  him  particularly 
successful  in  dealing  with  this  petty  quarrel  as  if 
it  were  a  matter  of  national  importance.  The 
occasion  of  the  poem  was  this :  A  young  nobleman 
named  Lord  Petre  had  stolen  a  lock  of  hair  from 
a  well-known  beauty,  Miss  Arabella  Fermor,  and 
a  quarrel  arose.  Their  common  friend,  John 
Caryll,  suggested  to  Pope,  whom  he  also  knew  well, 
that  the  poet  write  something  to  make  peace. 
The  first  version  of  The  Rape  of  the  Lock  was  the 
result.  At  first,  all  parties  to  the  quarrel  were 
incensed  by  the  satire,  but  eventually  they  were 


NOTES 


73i 


placated,  and  Miss  Fermor  allowed  Pope  to  dedi- 
cate the  second  edition  of  the  poem  to  her.  In 
the  first  form  the  "machinery"  of  the  sylphs  was 
absent.  In  order  that  the  reader  may  compare 
the  two  versions,  Pope's  later  additions  are  shown 
within  brackets ;  aside  from  these  additions  and  a 
few  minor  verbal  changes,  the  poems  are  identical. 

The  charm  of  the  poem  comes  from  its  mock 
solemnity,  its  sudden  bits  of  bathos,  its  delicious 
wit  and  sparkle,  its  light  sketching  of  human 
vanities  and  foUies,  and  the  perfect  art  of  its  verse 
and  phrasing. 

1, 1.  32.  5J/i'erio^ew,  the  silver peimy  which  super- 
stition said  the  elves  would  drop  into  the  shoe  of 
a  maid  who  was  tidy  about  her  work.  Circled 
green,  the  fairy  ring  (cf.  the  song  from  A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  (p.  143),  1.  8). 

P.  278.  II,  11.  112-115.  Note  that  the  fanciful 
name  in  each  case  tells  the  sylph's  occupation: 
Zepiiyretta,  Uttle  breeze;  Brillanle,  shining  one 
(for  Belinda's  earrings) ;  Mo-inentilla,  little  mo- 
ment, i.e.,  timekeeper;  Crispissa,  curly  one  (cf. 
IV,  99-102,  from  which  it  appears  that  Belinda's 
hair  did  not  curl  by  nature). 

11,11. 134-135,  and  III,  1. 106.  The  drinks  served 
were  chocolate  and  coffee.  '  The  chocolate  was 
evidently  brought  in  a  hard  ball  or  cake,  as  it  is 
still  prepared  in  the  West  Indies,  and  was  ground 
in  a  hand  mill,  as  were  the  roasted  coffee  berries. 

Pp.  279  f.  Ill,  11.  25^100.  The  popular  Spanish 
game  of  ombre.  Evidently  Pope's  description  is  ac- 
curate (cf .  Lamb's  Mrs.  Battle's  Opinions  on  W/tist, 
p.  426).  Most  commonty  it  was  played  by  three 
persons,  one  of  whom  made  the  trump  and  played 
against  the  other  two.  Nine  cards  were  dealt 
(11.  29-30).  The  Matador es  (1.  33)  were  the 
principal  trumps,  in  the  order  of  importance  (1.  34) 
as  follows:   (i)  Spadillio  (1.  4.g),  the  a.ceoi  spades; 

(2)  Manillio  (1.  51),  with  a  black  trump,  the  deuce 
(as  here,  cf.  11.  46-47),  with  a  red  triunp,  the  seven ; 

(3)  Basto  (1.  53),  the  ace  of  clubs;  (4)  Pam  (U. 
61-62),  the  knave  of  clubs. 

The  game  runs  thus :  Belinda  leads  successively 
the  ace  of  spades  (1.  49),  the  deuce  of  spades  (1.  51), 
the  ace  of  clubs  (1.  53),  the  king  of  spades  (1.  56), 
and  takes  four  tricks:  (i)  two  trumps  (1.  50), 
(2)  two  trumps  (1.  51),  (3)  a  trump  and  another 
card  (1.  54),  (4)  Pam  and  another  card  (11.  61,  64). 

Then  she  leads  the  king  of  clubs  (1.  69)  and 
loses  the  trick  because  the  baron  plays  the  queen 
of  spades  (11.  66-68).  The  baron  then  has  the 
lead  and  takes  three  more  tricks  with  the  king, 
queen,  and  knave  of  diamonds  (the  last  trick  in- 
cluding Belinda's  queen  of  hearts,  11.  75-76,  87-88). 

As  Belinda  and  the  baron  have  four  tricks  each, 


the  next  trick  will  determine  who  wins  the  deal. 
The  baron  leads  the  ace  of  hearts  (1.  95),  but 
Belinda  has  the  king  (11.  95-96),  which,  except 
when  hearts  are  trumps,  outranks  the  ace.  Ac- 
cordingly, she  is  saved  from  codille  (1.  92),  the 
failure  of  the  person  who  makes  the  trump  (Span- 
ish: "yo  suy  hombre,"  "I  am  the  man,"  which 
gives  the  name  to  the  game)  to  take  more  tricks 
than  her  opponents. 

P.  280.  11.122-124.  Scy  11a  stole  for  her  lover 
Minos  the  purple  lock  of  hair  of  her  father  Nisus, 
on  which  depended  the  safety  of  his  city.  For 
this  she  was  scorned  by  Minos  and  changed  by 
the  gods  into  a  bird  (Ovid,  Metamorphoses,  VIII, 

6-151)- 

P.  281.  IV,  1.  20.  In  England,  the  rav/  wind 
that  makes  people  blue  and  irritable.  In  Dick- 
ens's Bleak  House,  Mr.  Jarndyce  commented  on 
all  misfortunes  with  "The  wind  is  in  the  East 
again." 

P.  282.  U.  127-132.  The  irony  of  1.  132  is 
pointed  by  the  proportion  of  oaths  and  expletives 
used,  fully  half  of  the  four  lines. 

P.  284.  V,  11. 1 25-1 26.  Romulus,  the  founder  of 
Rome,  was  believed  by  the  Romans  to  have  been 
carried  up  to  heaven  by  his  father  jVIars,  while 
he  was  reviewing  his  troops  during  a  thunderstorm. 
He  was  said  to  have  appeared  in  a  vision  to  Procu- 
lus,  and  to  have  bidden  him  tell  the  Romans  that 
their  city  would  become  the  greatest  in  the  world. 

Eloisa  to  Abelard 

Pp.  285  f.  This  poem  is  a  highly  romantic 
effort  in  itself,  and  surprising  as  coming  from  the 
pen  of  the  leading  poet  of  the  age  of  common  sense. 
It  is  based  upon  an  English  translation  made  by 
Hughes  in  1714  of  a  French  version  published  in 
1693  of  the  famous  correspondence  of  Abelard  and 
Heloise.  With  the  original  Latin  letters,  the 
authenticity  of  which  has  been  questioned,  Pope's 
version  has  practically  nothing  to  do. 

The  story,  however,  is  as  follows :  Abelard,  a 
famous  scholar  and  teacher  of  the  twelfth  century, 
fell  in  love  with  his  pupil  Heloise ;  but  the  lovers 
were  separated  by  her  uncle  and  both  entered  the 
religious  life.  The  letters  are  supposed  to  have 
been  written  some  years  later,  when  Abelard  was 
Abbot  of  St.  Gildas  in  Brittany  and  Heloise  Abbess 
of  the  convent  of  the  Paraclete. 

Essay  on  Man 

Pp.  286  flf.  Whether  or  not  Pope  actually  had 
in  his  hands  a  manuscript  embodying  the  ideas 


732 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


of  his  friend  Henry  St.  John,  Lord  Bohngbroke, 
his  poem  is  little  more  than  a  skilful  paraphrase 
of  the  deistic  philosophy  of  the  eighteenth  century 
as  expressed  by  him.  It  was  at  first  published 
anonymously,  and  Pope  took  great  delight  in 
hearing  the  various  comments  upon  it.  Not 
until  it  had  reached  its  fourth  edition  did  he 
acknowledge  authorship  of  it. 

The  poem  had  as  great  a  success  in  Germany  and 
France,  in  translations,  as  it  had  in  England  and 
America,  where,  notwithstanding  its  deism,  it 
long  remained  a  favorite  with  orthodox  Christians 
of  a  mildly  speculative  turn.  It  was  regarded  as 
a  model  of  cogent  reasoning  in  verse. 

Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot 

Pp.  288  ff.  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  Queen  Anne's 
physician,  was  one  of  Pope's  most  faithful  friends. 
He  also  was  a  man  of  some  literary  skill,  though  he 
took  no  pains  to  preserve  his  writings  —  it  was 
said  that  he  let  his  children  make  kites  of  them. 
According  to  his  contemporaries,  he  was  one  of 
the  most  brilliant,  witty,  and  genial  members 
of  the  famous  Scriblerus  Club.  Cf.  Dr.  Johnson's 
opinion  of  him,  p.  343. 

The  Epistle  is  interesting  not  merely  as  a  satire 
on  Pope's  enemies  but  also  as  a  defence  of  his  own 
position  and  a  study  of  his  own  character  as  he 
saw  himself.  It  is  impossible,  however,  to  take 
him  precisely  at  his  own  estimate.  He  had  the 
double  sensitiveness  of  the  poet  and  the  hunch- 
back, which  made  him  unable  to  bear  the  slightest 
unfavorable  criticism,  however  good-natured,  of 
his  work  or  of  himself.  While  it  is  true  that  many 
of  his  enemies  deserved  what  he  said  of  them, 
it  is  also  certain  that  he  was  in  most  instances 
provoked  by  their  failure  to  approve  of  him.  For 
instance,  the  three  singled  out  in  1.  146  had  all 
written  against  Pope.  Thomas  Burnet,  son  of  the 
Bishop  of  Salisbury  (satirized  in  The  Dunciad,  as 

G [Gilbert  Burnet],  IV,  1.  608),  had  pubhshed 

Homerides ;  or  a  letter  to  Mr.  Pope  occasioned  by  his 
intended  translation  of  Homer,  by  Sir  Iliad  Doggrel, 
and  Pope  suspected  him  (wrongly)  of  writing  Pope 
Alexander's  Supremacy.  Pope  retaliated  upon 
him  also  in  The  Dunciad.  Oldmixon  was  a 
Grub  Street  writer,  one  of  the  many  who  replied 
to  The  Dunciad,  and  had  criticised  Pope  on  other 
occasions.  Cooke,  who  himself  translated  Hesiod, 
abused  Pope  in  an  article  called  the  Battle  of  the 
Poets.  Again,  "gentle  Fanny,"  1.  149  (Lord 
Hervey),  had  infuriated  Pope  by  ridiculing  his 
deformity  and  his  birth.  The  passage  in  11.  305- 
333  (not  given  here)  is  one  of  the  bitterest  denun- 


ciations in  all  literature.  It  should  be  noted,  how- 
ever, that  Pope,  for  reasons  unknown,  opened 
the  war  in  his  Imitations  of  Horace  by  scoffing  at 
Lord  Hervey  for  both  his  good  looks  and  his  pre- 
tensions to  verse.  In  1.  15 1,  he  expressed  his  opin- 
ion that  Gildon  had  been  paid  by  Addison  to  de- 
fame him.  In  1.  153,  what  he  says  of  Dennis 
might  as  justly  have  been  applied  to  himself. 
Dennis  had  found  fault  with  Pope's  Pastorals; 
Pope  ridiculed  him  in  his  Essay  on  Criticism; 
Dennis  retorted  in  a  violent  pamphlet.  The  com- 
ments on  Bentley  and  Tibbalds  (Lewis  Theobald), 
1.  164,  were  drawn  by  the  "slashing"  that  the 
famous  classical  scholar  gave  to  Pope's  Iliad  in 
calling  it  "a  very  pretty  poem  but  not  Homer"; 
while  the  "piddling"  (trifling)  of  Theobald  refers 
to  his  objections  to  Pope's  Shakespearean  emen- 
dations and  guesses.  Theobald  later  brought  out 
a  much  better  edition  of  Shakespeare  than  Pope's. 
Pope's  contempt  for  Ambrose  Phillips  (11.  179-180) 
seems  to  be  a  case  of  sheer  jealousy  of -the  praise 
bestowed  upon  Phillips's  Pastorals  and  of  Addi- 
son's friendship  for  him. 

Over  against  these  evidences  of  pettiness  must 
be  placed  not  only  the  list  of  men  of  letters  and  of 
social  eminence  by  whom  Pope's  genius  had  been 
recognized  and  with  whom  he  was  on  friendly 
terms  (11.  135-141),  but  also  his  own  defence  in  U. 
125-134,  with  the  tragic  implications  of  1.  132. 
Granville,  Baron  Lansdowne  (1.  135),  was  a  states- 
man and  himself  a  verse-writer  and  dramatist. 
He  said  of  Pope  when  the  poet  was  only  seventeen 
or  eighteen  years  of  age  that  he  promised  "mira- 
cles." Pope  dedicated  to  him  his  Windsor  Forest. 
Walsh  (1.  136)  and  Garth  (1.  137)  were  themselves 
poets  and  men  of  taste.  Congreve  (1.  138)  was 
one  of  the  leading  dramatists  of  the  Restoration. 
Talbot  (1.  139),  Earl  and  Duke  of  Shrewsbury, 
rose  to  be  lord  chamberlain.  He  was,  according 
to  Swift,  one  of  the  most  popular  men  of  the  time 
and  also  "the  finest  gentleman  we  have."  Lord 
Somers  (1.  139),  lord  chancellor,  was  a  member 
of  the  Kit  Kat  Club  and  a  patron  of  various  mein- 
bers  of  it.  He  gave  Addison  his  pension,  and  to 
him  Swift  dedicated  his  Tale  of  a  Tub.  Sheflield 
(1.  139),  Earl  of  Mulgraveand  afterward  Dulce  of 
Buckingham  and  Normanby,  was  a  munificent 
patron  to  Dryden.  He  wrote  in  both  prose  and 
verse,  and  his  Essay  on  Poetry  was  praised  by 
Dryden  and  Pope.  Pope  edited  his  collected 
works.  Rochester  (1.  140)  was  Francis  Atter- 
bury.  Bishop  of  Rochester,  one  of  Pope's  special 
friends  and  himself  a  writer  of  polished  prose. 
St.  John  (1.  141)  was  Lord  Bolingbroke,  by  whom 
the  Essay  on  Man  was  largely  inspired. 


NOTES 


733 


I.  igo.  Pope  uses  Tate  merely  as  a  type.  He 
has  been  described  as  the  "author  of  the  worst 
alterations  of  Shakespeare,  the  worst  version  of 
the  Psalms  of  David,  and  the  worst  continuation 
of  a  great  poem  {Absalom  and  Achitophel)  ex- 
tant." 

II.  193-214.  The  three  enemies  of  whom  Pope 
drew  elaborate  pen  pictures  were  Addison,  Lord 
Hahfax,  and  Lord  Hervey.  Against  Lord  Hervey 
he  seems  to  have  cherished  some  strong  personal 
grudge  (see  note  on  1.  149,  above) ;  he  railed 
against  Halifax  not  only  because  the  First  Lord 
of  the  Treasury  failed  to  bestow  the  pension  he 
had  promised,  but  also  because  Halifax  had  the 
bad  taste  to  approve  of  the  poet  Tickell.  While 
his  attacks  on  these  two  men  are  marked  by  the 
most  undignified  vituperation,  the  lines  on  Addi- 
son show  a  certain  restraint,  as  if  Pope  stood  in 
some  awe  of  the  Atticus  (Addison  was  already  so 
called  for  his  supposedly  flawless  style)  of  his 
age;  a  certain  unwilling  respect  shows  through 
his  taunting  phrases.  We  have  omitted  the  por- 
traits of  Halifax  and  Hervey. 

The  D  unci  ad 

p.  290.  The  Dunce-epic  had  as  its  hero  in  the 
first  edition  (1728)  Lewis  Theobald,  who  had 
pointed  out  the  faults  in  Pope's  edition  of  Shake- 
speare. The  poem  was  written  in  imitation  of 
Dryden's  MacFlecknoe,  which  deals  with  the  ap- 
poiiitment  of  Shadwell  (who  supplanted  Dryden  as 
poet  laureate  in  1688)  to  succeed  Flecknoe,  an 
obscure  poet,  as  monarch  of  the  kingdom  of  Dul- 
ness.  Pope  represented  Dulness  as  a  goddess  who 
chooses  Tibbald  (Theobald)  to  succeed  Settle 
(Elkanah  Settle,  a  third-rate  dramatist  who  had 
become  a  hack  writer  and  died  in  1724)  as  ruler 
of  her  land.  In  1741  Pope  added  a  fourth  book; 
and  in  1743,  he  published  a  revised  edition  with 
Colley  Gibber,  the  actor-dram.atist,  as  hero.  The 
change  was  due  to  one  of  Pope's  many  quarrels. 
Gibber  had  introduced  into  a  play  some  lines  ridi- 
cuhng  a  play  that  had  failed,  in  which  Pope  had 
had  a  hand.  For  this  reason  Pope  had  satirized 
Gibber  in  the  fourth  book  added  to  the  original 
Duiiciad.  Gibber  replied  in  a  printed  letter,  but 
in  a  spirit  of  good-humored  raillery.  Pope  was 
roused  by  this  to  the  point  of  fury  which  is  re- 
flected in  the  revised  Dunciad. 

The  passage  quoted  concludes  the  poem.  It 
tells  how  the  reign  of  Dulness  becomes  uni\'ersal 
and  absolute,  even  the  poet's  Muse  yielding  to 
her  power.  It  is  often  cited  as  the  most  eloquent 
passage  in  all  Pope's  writings. 


The  Iliad 
Cf.  note  on  Ghapman,  p.  710,  above. 

JOHN   GAY 

Pp.  291  f.  Gay,  at  the  request  of  Pope,  set  out 
to  burlesque  the  Pastorals  of  Ambrose  Phillips, 
but  having  an  eye  for  reality  and  a  genuine  though 
slig'nt  poetic  talent,  he  produced  in  his  Shepherd's 
Week  a  work  of  some  interest  and  vitality.  The 
same  sense  of  reality  and  lightness  of  touch  are 
displayed  in  his  Trivia,  or  Art  of  Walking  the 
Streets  and  in  his  Fables. 

His  Black-eyed  Susan  connects  him  with  the 
romantic  movement,  in  that  it  is  an  early  eight- 
eenth century  song  dealing  sympathetically 
though  artificially  with  the  hves  and  emotions  of 
the  lowly. 

His  greatest  success  and  his  main  claim  to  a 
place  in  the  history  of  Erighsh  literature  came  from 
his  composition  of  the  Beggar's  Opera,  a  burlesque 
of  fashionable  Italian  opera,  in  which  the  prin- 
cipal characters  are  thieves  and  vagabonds.  It 
is  in  a  sense  the  ancestor  of  modem  comic  opera. 

EDWARD   YOUNG 

Pp.  292  f.  Young's  poetry  has  now  entirely 
lost  its  appeal,  but  it  is  important  historically. 
The  tide  of  the  Romantic  Movement  was  rising 
when  he  began  to  write,  and  he  was  carried  on 
with  it  so  that  his  mediocre  talent  brought  him  a 
disproportionate  success.  His  sententious  moral- 
izing, and  his  religious  sentimentality  appealed 
strongly  to  an  age  of  rigid  theoretical  conventions 
and  actual  license. 

His  early  satires  were  in  the  manner  and  form  of 
the  classical  age ;  his  later  poems,  from  which  our 
extracts  are  taken,  are  romantic,  not  merely  in 
their  background  and  emotion,  but  in  their  use  of 
blank  verse,  the  great  vehicle  of  those  writers  who 
rebelled  against  the  couplets  of  Dryden  and  Pope. 


THE   TRANSITION 

LADY  WINGHILSEA 

P.  294.  Lady  Winchilsea  finds  a  place  here 
because  of  recent  years  the  romantic  qualities  of 
her  work,  noted  long  ago  by  Wordsworth,  have 
met  with  general  recognition  and  have  received 
special  significance  from  their  existence  at  a  time 
when  the  Glassical  ^lovement  seemed  supreme. 

Her  sketch  of  the  sights  and  sounds  of  night 


734 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


(11.  23-36)  shows  observation  and  simplicity 
worthy  almost  of  Wordsworth  himself. 

ROBERT  BLAIR 

Pp.  294  f .  Blair's  one  poem  gave  rise  to  a  series 
of  mortuary  poems,  and  is  important  because  it 
appealed  to  the  same  taste  that  took  delight  in 
Young's  Night  Thoughts,  and  so  belongs  to  the 
same  phase  of  the  romantic  movement. 

JAMES  THOMSON 

Pp.  296  ff.  Thomson  is  one  of  the  earliest 
romantic  poets  to  make  the  different  aspects  of 
Nature  his  main  theme.  The  extracts  from  his 
Seasons  show  that  he  had  really  observed  what  he 
described,  although  he  is  not  free  from  such 
indirectness  of  phrasing  for  mere  effect  as  the 
bleating  kind  =  sheep,  soft  fearful  people  =  sheep, 
plumy  people  =  birds,  watery  gear  =  fishing  taclde, 
in  which  the  classical  school  of  poets  delighted. 
He  was  preeminently  the  poet  of  the  English 
middle  classes  until  the  nineteenth  century,  when 
Scott  and  then  Tennyson  took  his  place. 

Pp.  298  ff.  His  Castle  of  Indolence,  like  Shen- 
stone's  Schoolmistress  (pp.  312  f.)  and  other 
eighteenth  century  imitations  of  Spenser's  Faerie 
Queene,  was  intended  to  be  at  least  mildly  hu- 
morous. Thomson  uses  comparatively  few  ar- 
chaic words  or  constructions  —  just  enough, 
perhaps,  to  secure  the  effect  of  quaintness  and 
remoteness  at  which  he  aimed.  It  is  hardly  neces- 
sary to  add  that  neither  he  nor  any  other  eight- 
eenth century  writer  was  always  accurate  in  his 
use  of  such  words  and  constructions. 

JOHN   DYER 

Pp.  300  f .     Dyer  wrote  little  but  he  had  the  eye 

of  a  careful  observer  and  lover  of  Nature.  For 
this  he  was  perhaps  indebted  to  his  having  been 
bom  and  brought  up  in  Wales  among  the  moun- 
tains and  dales  of  which  he  sings.  It  is  just  possi- 
ble that  the  word  "van"  —  rather  curiously  used 
in  1.  3  —  may  have  been  suggested  by  the  name 
of  a  mountain  famihar  to  him  —  the  Carmarthen 
Van,  the  second  highest  peak  in  southwest  Wales. 

DAVID    MALLET 

Pp.  301  f .  David  Mallet  —  his  name  was  origi- 
nally Malloch  —  lives  in  literary  history  by  virtue 
of  three  rather  curious  circumstances :  the  title 
of  one  of  his  poems  {The  Excursion)  had  the 


honor  of  being  used  later  by  Wordsworth ;  the 
famous  song,  Rule  Britannia  !  (p.  300),  was  first 
sung  in  a  musical  comedy  called  Alfred,  a  Masque, 
composed  by  him  and  James  Thomson  ;  and 
he  was  the  reputed  author  of  William  and 
Margaret  (p.  301),  the  most  important  ballad 
in  the  history  of  the  Romantic  Movement. 
Fate  favored  him  in  Wordsworth's  choice  of  a 
title  for  his  poem.  She  favored  him  in  the 
second  instance  by  letting  the  poet  James 
Thomson  die  before  Alfred  Avas  printed  and 
before  any  public  claim  had  been  made  to 
the  great  song  which  all  scholars  now  as- 
cribe to  Thomson.  She  favored  him  the  third 
time  by  allowing  him  to  retain  for  over  one 
hundred  and  fifty  years  credit  in  literary  circles 
for  the  authorship  of  William  and  Margaret, 
a  ballad  which  we  now  know  to  have  been 
printed  in  slightly  different  form  and  sold 
about  the  streets  of  London  while  he  was  still  a 
child.  The  importance  of  the  ballad  for  the  his- 
tory of  Romanticism  lies  partly  in  its  real  beauty, 
partly  in  the  early  date  at  which  it  attracted  public 
attention  and  interest,  and  partly  in  the  large 
amount  of  discussion  to  which  it  gave  rise. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

Pp.  302  ff.  Boswell's  incomparable  accoimt 
of  the  life  and  conversation  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson 
not  only  proves  that  his  personal  supremacy  in 
the  literary  society  of  his  day  was  deserved,  but 
also  exhibits  in  almost  bewildering  detail  the  in- 
dependence of  character,  the  courage,  the  strong 
and  clear  common  sense,  the  freedom  from  cant, 
the  wit,  and  the  personal  vigor,  by  virtue  of 
which  he  dominated  all  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact.  All  these  qualities  are  exhibited  also 
in  Johnson's  writings,  though  his  wit  is  sometimes 
made  clumsy  by  an  aft'ected  ponderosit}^  of  dic- 
tion, and  his  common  sense  sometimes  sounds  to 
our  modern  ears  like  oracular  emptiness  in  the 
elaborate  artificiality  of  his  balanced  clauses 
and  phrases. 

CONGREVE 

In  his  Lives  of  the  English  Poets,  which  were 
written  when  he  was  nearly  seventy  years  old, 
Johnson's  style  is  seen  at  its  best.  His  diction 
has  become  more  simple  and  natural  and  the 
structure  of  his  sentences  more  varied  and  flexible. 

These  essays  are  still  valuable.  Since  they 
were  written,  research  has  cleared  up  many  points 
which  were  then  doubtful  and  has  supplied  much 
information  which  was  then  inaccessible ;  but  in 


NOTES 


735 


his  judgments  of  men  and  affairs  and  his  criticisms 
of  the  purely  intellectual  qualities  of  the  writings 
he  discussed  Johnson  has  rarely  been  equalled. 
He  was,  however,  not  endowed  with  poetic  imagi- 
nation, and  he  had  little  sensitiveness  to  some 
of  the  finer  aspects  of  beauty.  Consequently, 
while  he  is  nearly  always  right  and  convincing 
in  his  attacks  on  poor  verse,  his  judgment  as  to 
what  is  best  is  not  trustworthy.  The  passage  in 
The  Mourning  Bride  which  he  declares  the  most 
poetical  paragraph  in  the  whole  mass  of  English 
poetry  has  impressed  most  good  judges  as  mere 
rhetorical  declamation  —  and  not  of  the  highest 
order  at  that. 

P.  307  h.  ozir  Pindaric  madness.  Cowley  was 
blamed  by  his  successors  for  introducing  into 
English  a  Pindaric  ode  that  did  not  conform  to  the 
plan  of  Pindar,  but  in  metre  and  rhythm  was  gov- 
erned only  by  the  writer's  caprice.  For  the  struc- 
tural scheme  of  the  classical  Pindaric  ode,  cf. 
note  on  Gray's  Progress  of  Poesy,  pp.  736  f. 

The  Rambler 

Pp.  308  f .  The  Rambler  was  a  periodical  mod- 
eled on  the  Taller,  the  Spectator,  and  their  like. 
Johnson  was  unable  to  give  his  essays  the  grace, 
ease,  playfulness,  and  infinite  variety  of  tone  and 
manner  which  made  the  success  of  Steele  and  Addi- 
son. His  diction  is  here  at  its  worst  and  his  sen- 
tences, though  clear  and  strong,  rumble  and  creak ; 
but  even  here  the  fine  qualities  of  his  mind  are 
displayed.  The  subject  and  the  ideas  of  the 
essay  we  have  chosen  as  representative  are  from 
time  to  time  re-discovered  by  social  philosophers 
and  exploited  as  a  new  contribution  to  human 
knowledge. 

London 

Pp.  309  f.  This  is  an  imitation  of  the  third 
satire  of  Juvenal.  It  was  published  in  1738  and 
in  its  bitterness  bears  evidence  of  the  poverty, 
struggles,  and  lack  of  success  which  marked  John- 
son's life  at  that  time.  Satires  were  then  much 
in  vogue.  An  ambitious  young  author  of  that 
period  wrote  a  satire  as  naturally  and  inevitably 
as  he  now  writes  a  short  story.  This  one  is 
notable  only  for  the  author's  sympathy  with  the 
poor  and  his  expression  of  personal  feeling  in  1.  173, 
which  he  caused  to  be  printed  in  capital  letters. 
In  style,  it  shows  many  of  the  qualities  and  tricks 
which  especially  characteiize  his  work,  though 
they  are  not  so  fuUy  developed  as  in  the  Rambler 
and  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes. 

11.  158  f.     Even  the  sedate  tradesman,  at  the 


sight  of  a  tattered  cloak,  wakes  from  his  dream  of 
wealth  and  labors  to  make  its  wearer  the  object 
of  a  scornful  jest. 

11.  162-165.  The  thought  was  suggested  by  Ju- 
venal. 

P.  310.  1.  169.  Spain,  under  authority  of  a 
papal  grant  of  the  sixteenth  century,  claimed  all 
lands  more  than  470  leagues  west  of  the  Azores. 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes 

This  is  an  imitation  of  the  tenth  satire  of  Ju- 
venal. It  was  published  in  1 749  and  shows  in  style 
the  further  development  of  the  qualities  of  sono- 
rousdiction  and  balanced  sentence  structure  exhib- 
ited in  London.  The  first  couplet  is  often  quoted 
as  an  example  of  tautology  disguised  bj'-  verbosity. 
The  general  theme  of  the  satire  is  stated  in  the 
title.  The  method  is  to  present  successively 
examples  of  great  ambitions  unfulfilled  or,  when 
fulfilled,  the  soiurce  of  disappointment. 

11.  191  ff.  The  meteoric  career  of  Charles  XII 
of  Sweden  was  fresh  in  mind  when  Johnson  wrote, 
and  had  been  brilliantly  described  by  Voltaire. 
Charles  invaded  Denmark,  defeated  the  Russians, 
the  Poles,  and  the  Saxons,  and  conceived  the 
design  of  overthrowing  the  Russian  Empire.  WTien 
the  Czar  wished  to  negotiate  peace,  he  declared, 
"I  will  treat  with  the  Czar  at  Moscow."  From 
this  time  his  career  was  a  succession  of  misfortunes 
and  failures.  His  army,  weakened  by  famine  and 
cold  (11.  207-208),  was  defeated  and  scattered  at 
Pultowa,  July  8,  1709,  and  he  fled  into  Turkey, 
where  he  attempted  by  bribes  and  intrigues  to 
enlist  Turkey  in  his  designs.  But  the  Czar  bribed 
and  intrigued  more  effectively,  and  Charles  was 
imprisoned.  He  escaped  in  disguise  in  1714  and 
fled  to  Norway,  where  he  was  killed,  at  Fredericks- 
hall,  Dec.  II,  1 7 18,  by  some  unknown  person 
(1.  220). 

P.  311.  11.  313  f.  Solon  is  said  to  have  told 
Croesus  to  count  no  man  happy  tUl  his  death. 

U.  317-318.  The  duke  of  Marlborough,  the 
greatest  general  of  his  time,  was  paralyzed  in  1716, 
six  years  before  his  death,  and  spent  his  last  days 
playing  with  his  grandchildren,  being  quite  out 
of  pubhc  affairs.  He  was  talked  about  for  his 
petty  economies ;  it  was  said  that,  old  and  infirm 
as  he  was,  he  would  walk  to  sa\e  the  expense  of 
sixpence  for  a  sedan  chair. 

Swift's  mind  began  to  fail  in  1738,  and  he  sub- 
sequently had  paralysis  and  aphasia;  in  1 741  he 
was  insane  beyond  hope  and  so  continued  till  his 
death  in  1745,  four  years  before  Johnson  wrote 
these  lines. 


736 


ENGLISH  PROSE   AND   POETRY 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE 

Written  in  an  Inn  at  Henley 

P.  311.  These  lines  in  praise  of  the  comfort 
and  freedom  from  care  to  be  found  in  an  old  Eng- 
lish inn  have  been  much  praised  and  the  last 
stanza  often  quoted.  Dr.  Johnson  was  especially 
fond  of  them. 

The  School-Mistress 

Pp.  312  f.  Thomson's  imitation  of  Spenser, 
in  his  Castle  of  Indolence,  has,  as  he  intended,  the 
effect  of  remoteness  and  dreaminess.  Shenstone 
mixes  realism  and  pseudo-archaisms  to  secure  a 
playful  picturesqueness  which  perhaps  justifies 
his  method,  though  his  ignorance  of  archaic  Eng- 
lish may  cause  distress  to  the  student  of  language. 
Shenstone  had  seen  such  a  school-mistress  and  such 
a  school  as  he  describes.  He  spent  his  life  in  the 
country  and  is  mainly  notable  for  his  romantic 
taste  in  gardening  and  his  sacrifice  of  his  fortune 
to  his  hobby. 

11.  136-139.  The  Coronation  Chair  of  Great 
Britain,  which  contains  the  ancient  "stone  of 
destiny"  brought  from  Scone,  in  Scotland,  where 
it  formed  part  of  the  seat  in  which  the  kings  of 
Scotland  were  crowned. 

P.  313.  11.  156-158.  A  hornbook  was  a  card  on 
which  were  printed  the  letters. of  the  alphabet,  a 
few  simple  syllables  and  words,  the  nine  digits,  and 
the  Lord's  prayer ;  this  was  covered  with  a  thin 
transparent  sheet  of  horn  and  set  in  a  frame  with  a 
handle.  Later  the  term  was  used  loosely  for  a 
primer  of  any  sort. 

11.  165-167.  In  his  Fame  ^«fewe  Spenser  often 
expresses  his  sorrow  and  pity  for  the  characters  of 
his  poem  when  they  are  in  distress  or  danger ;  cf. 
I,  iii,  1-18  (p.  114). 

THOMAS   GRAY 

Pp.  313  flf.  Gray  is  the  best  type  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  scholar-poet,  important  for  his 
influence  in  the  Romantic  Movement,  though  in 
his  own  poetry  less  interesting  than  some  poets 
of  less  authority.  His  work  is  always  artistic, 
often  artificial,  never  s}X)ntaneous,  and  it  abounds 
in  abstractions  and  personifications  of  abstractions 
(cf.  11.  61-70  in  the  Ode  on  .  .  .  Eton  College, 
p.  314).  It  shows,  however,  a  wide  range  of  in- 
terests, of  subjects,  and  of  metres ;  and  he  was  a 
pioneer  in  many  fields.  He  was  one  of  the  first 
poets  in  his  time  to  write  sympathetically  of  the 
hfe  of  the  poor  villager ;    he  experimented  in  the 


classical  form  of  the  ode,  with  the  regular  strophe, 
antistrophe,  and  epode;  he  translated  from  the 
Norse  at  a  time  when  Norse  literature  was  un- 
known in  England ;  he  enjoyed  romantic  scenery 
at  a  time  when  it  was  unfashionable  to  do  so ;  he 
was  interested  to  write  of  the  misfortunes  of  the 
Welsh  nation  in  The  Bard  and  he  gave  practical 
aid  to  the  Welsh  poet,  Llewellyn  Jones. 

On  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  Col- 
lege 

As  a  child  Gray  was  sent  to  school  at  Eton 
College,  and  he  seems  always  to  have  retained  his 
interest  in  that  place  and  the  beautiful  country 
about  it.  This  poem,  written  when  he  was  twenty- 
six,  reviews  the  sports  and  probable  future  des- 
tinies of  the  boys  who  play  there  as  he  played  when 
a  child.  In  the  churchyard  at  Stoke  Pogis,  only 
a  few  miles  from  Eton,  is  shown  an  ancient  yew- 
tree  beneath  which  tradition  says  he  wrote  his 
famous  Elegy,  and  his  own  grave  there  bears  the 
epitaph  with  which  the  Elegy  closes. 

The  Ode  shows  the  fondness  for  personified 
abstractions,  for  apostrophes  to  inanimate  objects, 
for  "elegance"  of  diction,  and  for  moralization, 
characteristic  of  the  so-called  Age  of  Classicism. 
The  Elegy  still  retains  the  fondness  for  abstrac- 
tions, but  shows  in  other  respects  distinct  tenden- 
cies toward  saner  ideals  of  style.  Both  poems 
exhibit  that  taste  for  melancholy  which  was  a 
marked  feature  of  the  early  productions  of  Ro- 
manticism. 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Coitntry  Church- 
yard 

Pp.  314  ff.  This  poem  has  always  been  popular 
because  of  the  combination  of  universality  and 
democracy  in  its  theme ;  but  because  by  the  neat- 
ness of  its  form  it  has  lent  itself  to  over-quotation, 
it  has  lost  much  of  its  freshness  for  us.  None  the 
less,  it  is  sincere  and  touched  with  real  feeling. 

P-  315-  1-  57-  Some  viUage-Hampden.  Some 
one  who  will  stand  up  for  the  rights  of  his  neighbors 
against  the  injustice  of  a  local  landowner,  as  John 
Hampden  stood  up  for  the  rights  of  his  country- 
men against  the  unjust  taxation  of  King  Charles  I. 

The  Progress  of  Poetry 

A  Pindaric  Ode 

Pp.  316  ff.  Cf.  note,  p.  735  above,  on  Cowley's 
treatment  of  the  Pindaric  Ode.     Gray  had  too 


NOTES 


737 


exacting  a  sense  of  scholarship  not  to  adopt  the 
genuine  classical  form.  The  present  poem  consists 
of  three  strophes  and  antistrophes,  each  contain- 
ing twelve  lines,  and  of  three  epodes,  each  contain- 
ing seventeen  lines.  The  parts  are  balanced 
in  rhythm  and  in  the  various  rhyme  schemes. 

/.  Strophe  :  invocation  to  music. 

Antistroplie :  the  power  of  music  (the  lyre,  which 
was  inv^ented  by  stretching  strings  across  a 
tortoise  shell)  to  soothe  all  cares  and  passions,  and 
to  subdue  the  god  of  war,  and  even  the  eagle  of 
Jove,  the  ruler  of  storms. 

P.  317.  Epode :  the  v-oice  and  the  dance  are 
obedient  to  music,  together  with  all  the  Loves  and 
Graces  who  dance  before  Venus  to  its  strains. 

//.  Strophe :  the  ills  to  which  mankind  is  sub- 
ject and  the  question  whether  music  can  lessen 
them. 

Antistrophe  :  the  power  of  music  from  the  Pole 
(the  Eskimos)  to  the  Equator  (Chili). 

Epode  :  the  passing  of  music  from  Greece  to 
Rome  and  from  Rome  to  England. 

///.  Strophe  :  Shakespeare  as  the  poet  of  Na- 
ture who  can  play  upon  the  human  heart. 

P.  318.  Antistrophe  :  Milton  as  the  poet  of  the 
supernatural,  and  Dryden  as  a  lesser  poet  but  still 
great  in  the  management  of  the  heroic  couplet 
(11.  103-106). 

Epode:  Dryden  as  a  lyric  poet  (11.  107-111); 
Gray's  own  ambitions.  Though  he  cannot  equal 
Pindar,  he  has  cultivated  verse  since  childhood, 
and  he  will  mount  higher  than  "  the  Great " 
(who  are  not  poets),  simply  because  of  his  calling 
as  poet. 

The  Fatal  Sisters 

Pp.  318  f .  In  his  simplicity  and  directness  Gray 
has  caught  something  of  the  Norse  spirit ;  and  the 
form  he  has  chosen,  with  its  short  lines  broken  up 
by  alternating  rhyme,  bears  out  the  general  effect. 

The  chief  importance  of  this  poem  and  of  several 
of  Gray's  later  compositions  is  that  in  them  were 
introduced  to  English  readers  new  and  fruitful 
sources  of  poetic  themes.  The  Descent  of  Odin, 
The  Triumphs  of  Owen,  and  The  Bard  all  testify 
to  the  range  of  Gray's  studies  and  the  catholicity 
and  unconventionality  of  his  taste. 

This  poem  is  supposed  to  be  addressed  to  her 
sisters  bj-  one  of  the  Valkyries  or  Battle  Alaidens  of 
Norse  mythology.  They  are,  as  their  name 
indicates,  "choosers  of  the  slain"  (see  11.  33-34) 
and  they  hasten  with  joy  to  the  battle. 

The  battle  was  fought  in  the  eleventh  century 
between  Sigurd,  earl  of  the  Orkneys,  and  Brian, 
King  of  Dublin. 


WILLIAM   COLLINS 

Pp.  319  ff.  Collins  wrote  little,  but  his  verse 
is  simple,  natural,  and  of  exquisite  poetic  quality. 
His  work  is  in  general  free  from  the  affectations 
and  conventionalities  of  his  time.  His  Ode  on  the 
Popular  Superstitions  of  the  Highlands  especially 
shows  his  abihty  to  break  away  from  the  con- 
ventional in  the  choice  of  poetical  material. 

Ode  Written  in  the  Beginning  of  the 
Year  1746 

The  occasion  was  the  loss  of  a  large  number  of 
English  soldiers  in  the  autumn  of  1745  and  Janu- 
ary 1746,  in  the  War  of  the  Austrian  Succession. 

Ode  to  Evening 

This  is  a  notable  example  of  an  unrhymed  stan- 
zaic  poem. 

The  influence  of  Milton's  minor  poems  is  appar- 
ent in  such  lines  as  11,  12  and  31,  yet  the  picture 
itself  is  freshly  imagined  and  original. 

The  Passions 

Pp.  320  f.  Like  Dryden's  Alexander's  Feast 
(pp.  224  ff.),  this  is  an  ambitious  attempt  to  suit 
the  verse  and  style  to  the  sentiments,  varying  them 
according  to  each  passion  described.  It  concludes 
with  a  tribute  to  the  power  of  music  in  inspiring 
emotions.  The  poem  is  not  entirely  free  from  the 
conventional  diction  and  rhetorical  figures  of  the 
time. 

THOMAS  WARTON 

P.  322.  Thomas  Warton  owes  his  position  in 
the  history  of  English  poetry,  not  to  the  fact  that 
he  was  poet  laureate,  but  to  his  having  contributed, 
both  by  his  own  verse  and  by  his  History  of  English 
Poetry,  to  the  triumph  of  Romanticism.  His 
History  of  English  Poetry,  which  is  still  a  standard 
treatise,  brought  to  the  attention  of  the  reading 
public  the  rich  but  forgotten  fields  of  English 
poetr>'  from  the  twelfth  to  the  close  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  the  influence  of  which  became  dominant 
in  the  Romantic  revival.  His  best  poetry  also 
expresses  two  of  the  principal  characteristics 
of  Romanticism  —  love  of  antiquit^^  and  love  of 
nature.  He  is  further  notable  as  having  helped 
to  revive  the  sonnet  as  a  form  of  English  verse. 

Sonnet  IV 

In  Salisbury  Plain  stand  many  gigantic  stones 
set    in    two   concentric    circles   surrounding    two 


738 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


ellipses  and  a  central  altar,  which  have  aroused 
much  speculation  as  to  their  origin  and  purpose. 
Scholars  now  believe  that  they  are  in  fact  —  as 
they  were  long  ago  reported  to  be  —  ruins  of  a 
temple  of  the  Druids,  remnants  of  that  ancient 
system  of  religion  held  by  the  Celts  in  all  parts  of 
Europe  in  prehistoric  times. 

1.  5.  Hoi  gist  and  his  brother  Horsa  were  the 
traditional  leaders  of  the  first  bands  of  Saxons 
that  came  from  Germany  to  Britain  and,  with  the 
aid  of  later  reinforcements,  conquered  Vortigern, 
King  of  Britain. 

1.  II.  Brutus  was,  in  the  legendary  history  of 
Britain,  a  descendant  of  ^neas  and  the  colonizer 
of  the  island  Britain,  which  took  its  name  from 
him. 

OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 

Pp.  322  flf.  Whatever  may  be  the  truth  about 
Goldsmith's  character,  —  and  he  seems  to  have 
been  misrepresented  by  Boswell  and  misunder- 
stood by  most  of  his  biographers,  —  his  writings 
are  usually  full  of  sensible  and  independent  thought 
as  well  as  of  grace  and  charm.  His  kindliness  and 
his  humor  are  all-pervasive,  and  the  quality  of  his 
work,  considering  the  amount  he  wrote  and  the 
conditions  under  which  he  worked,  is  amazing. 

Letters  from  a  Citizen  of  the  World 

In  1 72 1,  Montesquieu  made  a  sensation  and 
started  a  literary  fashion  with  his  Persian  Letters 
(Lettres  Persanes),  in  which  he  criticised  French 
society  with  much  wit  and  efi'ectiveness.  Gold- 
smith in  1760  contributed  to  the  Public  Ledger,  a 
daily  paper,  a  series  of  letters  purporting  to  be 
written  by  a  Chinese  to  inform  his  friends  of  the 
manners  and  customs  of  the  English.  Two  years 
later  they  were  gathered  into  a  book  and  published 
under  the  title  given  above.  This  device  for  criti- 
cism has  been  revived  with  success  more  than  once 
in  our  own  time. 

The  Deserted  Village 

Pp.  324  ff.  Although  Goldsmith  was  theoreti- 
cally attached  to  the  views  held  by  the  classicists, 
and  although  his  first  poem.  The  Traveller,  is  of 
the  same  general  tyi^e  as  the  philosophical  dis- 
quisitions which  so  many  of  his  predecessors 
published  in  verse,  when  he  came  to  write  about 
his  own  recollections  and  sensations  his  work  is 
so  simple  and  unaffected  and  his  emotion  so  genu- 
ine that  he  achieves  a  permanent  interest. 

The  Deserted  Village  is  of  course  a  highly  ideal- 


ized picture,  based  probably  upon  memories  of 
his  childhood  in  Ireland  and  of  the  village  Lissoy, 
where  his  brother  lived ;  but  it  has  a  convincing 
naturalness,  unforced  humor  and  pathos,  and  it 
is  as  successful  in  the  sketches  of  character  as  in 
the  pictures  of  idylHc  village  scenes.  Here  and 
there  we  see  the  influence  of  his  romantic  contem- 
poraries (cf.  especially  11.  344  and  418),  and  here 
and  there  we  have  traces  of  traditional  conven- 
tionality (cf.  swain,  1.  2,  unwieldy  wealth,  1.  66, 
mantling  bliss,  1.  248,  shouting  Folly,  1.  270,  fair 
tribes,  1.  338,  and  especially  11.  97-112). 

11.  137-192.  Cf.  Chaucer's  sketch  of  the  faith- 
ful parson.  Prologue,  11.  477-528  (pp.  64-65). 

11.  275-280.  a.  Thomson's  Autumn, 11.  350-359 
(p.  298). 

Retaliation 

Pp.  329  ff.  In  February,  1774,  two  months 
before  Goldsmith's  death,  he  and  some  of  his  circle 
■ — Dr.  Barnard,  dean  of  Derry  (1.  23),  Edmund 
Burke  (1.  29),  Townshend,  later  Lord  Sydney 
(1.  34),  Cumberland,  a  dramatist  (1.  61),  Garrick, 
the  great  actor-manager  (1.  93),  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds (1.  137),  and  others  —  were  having  dinner  at 
the  St.  James  Coffee-house  when  some  one  pro- 
posed that  they  write  mock  epitaphs  for  one 
another.  Although  the  accounts  differ  in  detail, 
it  appears  that  several  members  of  the  company 
continued  the  contest  after  the  evening  was  over, 
and  Goldsmith  finally  provided  the  epitaphs  he 
had  written  with  a  humorous  introduction.  His 
poem  was  passed  about  in  manuscript  but  was  not 
published  until  after  his  death.  It  was  the  last 
thing  he  wrote. 

P.  331.  1.  137.  Reynolds.  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds was  greatly  beloved  by  the  Johnson  group, 
to  which  Goldsmith  belonged.  His  pictures  are 
gentle  rather  than  "striking,"  persuasive  rather 
than  "resistless,"  and  noble  rather  than  "grand" 
(1.  130).  He  is  not  to  be  compared  with  Raphael 
or  Correggio.     But  Goldsmith  was  no  critic  of  art. 

1.  146.     trumpet.     Reynolds  was  deaf. 

EDMUND   BURKE 

Speech    on    the    Nabob    of    Argot's 
Debts 

Pp.  331  flf.  The  passage  quoted  is  from  a  speech 
against  government  support  of  graft  in  the  East 
India  Company.  The  circumstances  under  which 
it  was  delivered  were  these :  The  company  incor- 
porated in  1600  for  trading  purposes  in  India  had 
gradually  acquired  greater  powers  until    in    the 


NOTES 


739 


eighteenth  centuty  it  could  make  war  and  peace 
independently  of  the  British  government.  In 
1749  it  began  a  series  of  conquests,  but  with  these 
came  a  degree  of  mismanagement  that  led  to  the 
passing  of  several  bills  in  Parliament  and,  in  1784, 
to  the  establishment  of  a  parliamentary  board 
of  control.  For  some  years  it  had  been  known 
that  officers  and  members  of  the  company  had  been 
making  fortunes  by  helping  the  Nabob  of  Arcot 
to  plunder  his  neighbors,  receiving  from  him  in 
return,  not  merely  money  to  an  extent  impossible 
to  estimate,  but  also  the  promise  to  pay  se\eral 
million  pounds  acknowledged  as  debt  on  his  part 
to  various  individuals.  Parliament  demanded  an 
investigation,  and  this  was  undertaken  by  the 
Directors  of  the  East  India  Company  and  certain 
conclusions  were  reached.  The  Ministry,  however, 
introduced  another  bill  providing  that  the  sup- 
posed debts  of  the  Nabob  to  members  of  the  Com- 
pany should  be  raised  out  of  the  province  governed 
by  the  Company  and  paid,  practically  without 
investigation.  Fox  challenged  this  bill,  February 
28,  1785,  and  there  was  a  debate,  in  which  Burke's 
was  the  last  speech.  The  bill  was  lost  b}'  a  large 
majority. 

WILLIAM   COWPER 

Pp.  336  ff.  Cowper's  Task  is  a  narrative  poem 
in  six  books,  of  which  the  only  interest  lies  in  the 
digressions  from  the  su+jject.  Having  been  chal- 
lenged by  a  friend,  Lady  Austen,  to  write  a  poem 
in  blank  verse  on  the  subject  of  a  sofa,  Cowper 
set  out  upon  his  "task,"  and  developed  the  work 
as  a  sort  of  poetical  commonplace  book  into  which 
he  put  his  various  experiences,  impressions,  emo- 
tions, and  ideas.  He  touches  the  Romantic  Move- 
ment in  several  ways  :  in  his  realistic  descriptions 
of  nature  and  of  humble  life  (cf.  the  woodman 
and  his  dog,  V,  41-57),  in  his  democratic  ideals 
(cf.  his  attitude  toward  slavery,  II,  1-47),  and  in 
the  unaffected  simplicity  of  his  style. 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 

P.  338.  August  29,  1788,  while  the  flagship 
Royal  George  was  being  refitted  at  Spithead, 
through  the  shifting  of  the  weight  of  the  guns  (of 
which  she  carried  108),  she  suddenly  keeled  over, 
and  about  eight  hundred  of  the  thousand  sailors 
aboard  were  drowned.  Admiral  Kempenfelt  him- 
self was  among  the  lost. 

JAMES  MACPHERSON 

Pp.  340  f.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  real 
basis  for  Macpherson's  so-caUed  translation  of  the 


Poems  of  Ossian,  the  work  exercised  a  great,  and, 
indeed,  almost  immeasurable,  influence  upon 
English  and  other  literatures.  The  question 
as  to  Macpherson's  responsibility  for  the  poems 
will  probably  never  be  entirely  resolved.  Celtic 
ix>em5  bearing  some  resemblance  to  his  translations 
undoubtedly  existed  in  considerable  number,  but  it 
seems  certain  that  his  work  was  in  no  case  merely 
that  of  a  translator. 

The  Bailie  of  Loda  relates  an  adventure  of  Fingal, 
father  of  the  poet  Ossian,  who,  according  to  Mac- 
pherson,  composed  the  Gaelic  original.  Fingal, 
king  of  Morven  in  Scotland,  was  shipwrecked  on 
the  coast  of  Norway  and  his  men  fought  a  skirmish 
with  the  people  of  that  country  in  which  his 
friend,  Duth-maruno,  was  kiUed.  During  the 
night,  while  the  two  hosts  were  encamped  face  to 
face,  and  Fingal  himself  was  stiU  mourning  at  the 
grave  of  his  friend,  Starno,  the  king  of  Norway, 
told  his  son  Swaran  a  story  of  his  youth.  He  said 
that  when  the  chief,  Corman-tnmar,  came  to  the 
hall  of  his  father  Annir,  his  sister,  Foina-bragal, 
fled  with  him.  Annir  and  Starno  pursued,  but 
Corman-trunar  prevailed  in  battle.  Then  Starno 
went  in  disguise  to  the  lovers,  and  said  that  Annir 
was  slain  and  that  Starno  had  sent  him  to  make 
a  truce  until  Annir  was  buried.  Being  kindly  re- 
ceived, he  waited  until  the  lovers  were  asleep  and 
then  killed  them  both,  to  the  great  rejoicing  of 
his  father.  Starno  then  asks  Swaran  thus  to  steal 
upon  Fingal  and  kill  him.  As  Swaran  indignantly 
refuses  the  treachery-,  Starno  himself  undertakes 
the  task,  is  overcome  and  made  captive,  but  is 
released  when  Fingal  sees  that  his  foe  is  Starno, 
the  father  of  x\gandecca,  whom  he  had  loved  and 
lost  in  his  youth. 

JAMES   BOSWTELL 

Pp.  341  fif.  Boswell  was  a  good  observ^er  and 
perhaps  the  best  note-taker  the  world  has  ever 
known.  Some  persons  have  thought  his  accom- 
plishment in  the  Life  of  Dr.  Johnson  one  of  so 
mechanical  a  nature  as  to  deserve  little  credit; 
but  none  of  his  many  imitators  has  approached 
him  in  effectiv-eness,  and  it  is  now  admitted  that 
although  he  was  a  faithful  reporter  and  tran- 
scriber, he  used  no  little  artistic  skill  in  the  selec- 
tion and  organization  of  the  events  and  conversa- 
tions he  reported,  and  in  the  management  of  the 
vast  company  of  figures  among  which  the  Doctor 
moves.  Boswell  had  strong  prejudices  and  he  was 
ob\iously  unjust  to  Goldsmith,  of  whom  he  was 
jealous ;  but  his  faithfulness  to  his  task  of  display- 
ing Johnson  exactly  as  he  was,  is  such  that  he 


740 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


does  not  suppress  even  the  occasional  manifesta- 
tions of  narrowness,  prejudice,  bigotry,  brutality, 
and  coarseness.  It  is  indeed  just  because  we  get 
Johnson  as  a  whole  that  we  are  able  to  realize  his 
greatness  of  heart  and  mind,  his  dauntless  courage 
in  facing  life  and  its  ills,  and  the  robust  individual- 
ity that  challenged,  aroused,  and  dominated  his 
age. 

P.  346  a.  For  three  years  Voltaire  lived  with 
Frederick  the  Great  as  his  friend  and  literar}^  ad- 
viser, but  they  quarrelled  and  parted. 

Robert  Levitt,  a  friend  and  dependent  of  Dr. 
Johnson's,  was  originally  a  waiter.  He  had  picked 
up  some  kriowledge  of  medicine  and  practised 
among  the  poor. 

P.  348  a.  Great  kings  have  always  been  social; 
cf.  what  Bacon  says  on  pp.  156  f. 

JUNIUS 

Pp.  351  ff.  The  Letters  of  Junius  produced  in 
their  day  a  very  great  sensation,  and  their  fame 
has  been  heightened  by  the  mystery  surrounding 
their  authorship.  Many  of  the  prominent  men  of 
the  time  were  accused  of  writing  them,  and  not  a 
few  either  shyl}^  admitted  or  boldly  claimed  the 
credit  and  the  infamy.  The  reason  why  the  real 
author  did  not  appear  and  establish  his  claims 
was,  as  De  Quincey  long  ago  pointed  out,  that  he 
could  not  assert  his  right  to  the  literary  fame 
without  at  the  same  time  convicting  himself  of 
having  made  improper  use  of  his  oiificial  position 
under  the  government  to  obtain  the  information 
which  made  his  attacks  so  effective.  Historians 
of  English  literature  have  long  accustomed  us  to 
beHeve  that  these  letters  depended  for  their  suc- 
cess solely  upon  their  literary  style,  their  bitterness 
of  invective,  and  their  sardonic  irony;  but,  al- 
though they  are  remarkable  as  literature,  the 
special  feature  which  aroused  the  fears  of  the 
government  was  the  fact  that  no  state  secret 
seemed  safe  from  the  author  and  that  he  might 
at  any  moment  reveal  matters  which  it  was  im- 
portant to  keep  unknown.  Recent  researches 
have  made  it  practically  certain  that  Junius  was 
Sir  Philip  Francis,  who  was  a  clerk  in  the  war 
office  during  the  period  of  the  publication  of  the 
letters. 

The  Duke  of  Grafton  was  leader  of  the  Whig 
party  and  prime  minister  in  1769.  Junius  sums 
up  the  political  situation  on  p.  352.  Lord  Bute 
had  been  the  favorite  of  George  HI  and  exerted 
enormous  influence  over  him  as  Prince  of  Wales  — 
an  influence  that  persisted  long  after  he  was  out 
of  office. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Pp.  353  ff.  Thomas  Chatterton  wrote  under  his 
own  name  some  poems  of  great  promise  for  a  boy  (he 
was  only  eighteen  when  he  died),  but  his  most  im- 
portant and  interesting  poems  he  pretended  not  to 
have  written  but  to  have  discovered.  Most  of  them, 
he  said,  were  composed  by  a  monk  named  Rowley 
in  the  second  half  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and 
had  been  found  by  himself  among  old  papers  in 
the  church  of  St.  Mary  Redchffe  at  Bristol.  In 
the  present  state  of  knowledge  of  the  English 
language  it  is  easy  for  any  scholar  to  see  that  these 
poems  could  not  possibly  have  been  written  in  the 
fifteenth  century.  They  are  full  of  false  archaisms 
and  eighteenth  century  contractions,  and  other 
forms  not  in  early  use.  Some  persons  suspected 
them  when  they  were  first  produced;  but  to  the 
majority  even  of  the  scholars  of  that  day  any  imi- 
tation of  old  manuscripts,  old  writing,  and  old 
spelling  was  good  evidence  of  age,  and  it  seemed 
absolutely  impossible  that  so  young  a  boy  —  he 
was  only  twelve  or  thirteen  when  he  began  to 
produce  these  poems  —  could  have  composed  the 
poems  and  fabricated  the  manuscripts.  When 
the  imposture  was  discovered,  the  critics,  making 
no  allowance  for  its  having  been  the  work  of  a  mere 
child,  were  filled  with  high  moral  indignation,  and 
the  poor  boy  was  allowed  to  starve,  until,  being 
able  to  endure  his  neglect  no  longer,  he  took  poison 
and  died.  It  has  been  thought  strange  that  the 
poems  written  in  this  "fake"  old  English  are 
better  than  those  in  the  English  of  his  own  day ; 
but  the  explanation  seems  easy  psychologically. 
The  imagination  of  the  boy  was  specially  excited 
both  by  the  idea  of  the  imposture  he  was  carrying 
on  and  by  the  odd  forms  of  words  which  he  used. 
He  felt  himself  transported  to  the  times  and  scenes 
he  was  trying  to  reproduce  and  wrote  with  th.e 
picturesqueness  and  vigor  which  belong  to  such 
excited  states  of  mind.  Professor  Skeat,  in  his 
edition  of  Chatterton,  changed  the  old  spelling 
of  the  poems  to  modern  spelling,  on  the  ground 
that  the  boy  reaUy  thought  in  eighteenth  century 
English  and  ought  to  be  so  represented.  This 
sounds  logical,  but  really  is  not.  He  may  have 
thought  thus,  but  we  may  be  sure  that  he  felt  and 
imagined  in  these  pseudo-archaic  forms  which 
made  the  antique  world  live  again  for  him.  Chat- 
terton's  method  of  old  spelling  is  so  simple  also 
that  it  will  give  hardly  any  trouble.  His  first 
principle  is  to  double  letters  as  often  as  possible; 
his  second  is  not  to  be  too  regular  even  in  doing 
this;  his  third,  to  use  any  genuine  old  spellings 
that  he  happens  to  remember. 


NOTES 


741 


Bristowe  Tragedie 

Sir  diaries  Bawdin.  It  has  been  supposed  that 
the  story  was  suggested  to  Chatterton  by  some  ac- 
count of  the  execution  at  Bristol  in  1461  of  Sir 
Charles  Fulford,  a  zealous  Lancastrian.  Kynge 
Edwarde  (1.  5)  is  Edward  IV;  Canterlone  (1.  17)  is 
Chatterton's  mistake  for  Cantlow  or  Cantelowe; 
Canynge  (1.  45)  was  mayor  of  Bristol  under  Henry 
VI  and  Edward  IV. 


The  Accounte  of  W.  C-\nynges  Feast 

P.  358.  Chatterton  picked  out  archaic  words 
from  dictionaries  and  old  glossaries,  and  as  he 
did  not  know  the  connection  in  which  they 
were  used,  he  sometimes  made  rather  ludicrous 
mistakes.  In  this  poem  he  makes  an  unusual 
effort  at  archaism  and  consequently  fails  oftener 
than  usual. 

Somide,  1.  i,  cannot  be  a  past  participle ;  Byele- 
coyle,  1.  2,  is  a  bad  spelling  of  the  French  name  of 
one  of  the  allegorical  characters  in  the  translation 
of  the  Roman  de  la  Rose,  the  name  in  English 
being  Fair-Welcoming,  i.e.,  Favorable-Reception; 
doe,  1.  2,  cannot  be  singular;  cheorte,  1.  4,  properly 
means  "dearness,  scarcity,"  but  Chatterton 
thought  it  could  be  used  as  an  adjective  meaning 
"dear,  delicious";  lyche,  1.  5,  is  improperlj^  used 
for  "Hke  "  or  "  as" ;  coyne,  1.  7,  is  used  by  Spenser 
to  mean  food  for  man;  heie,  1.  9,  is  an  impossible 
form  for  "  they  " ;  ha  ne,  1.  9,  is  not  good  English  for 
"have  nothing";  echone,  1.  11,  is  wrongly  used 
for  "each";  and  deene,  1.  11,  is  not  proper  for 
"dine."  I  have  passed  over  some  of  the  minor 
errors.  WTiat  Chatterton  intended  this  to  mean 
may  be  given  thus : 

Through  the  hall  the  bell  has  sounded ; 
A  fair  welcome  befits  these  serious  men ; 
The  aldermen  sit  around  the  table 
And  snuff  up  the  delicious  aroma 
As  wild  asses  in  the  desert  waste 
Do  sweetly  taste  the  morning  air. 

Such  food  they  ate ;   the  minstrels  play  — 

A  sound  as  of  angels  do  they  make ; 

Then  they  become  silent;    the  guests,  however, 

have  nought  to  say 
But  nod  their  thanks  and  fall  asleep. 
Thus  everyday  it  is  my  habit  to  dine 
If  one  of  my  friends,  Rowley,  Iscamm  or  Tyb 

Gorges,  is  not  seen  {i.e.,  does  not  come  to  dine 

with  me). 

AE 


GEORGE   CRABBE 

Tales 

The  Lover's  Journey 

Pp.  358  f.  Cf.  Cowper's  Task,  I,  557-591,  for 
a  similar  picture  of  gypsies.  Cowper  pities  them 
and  is  not  unaware  of  their  picturesque  qualities ; 
Crabbe  is  unsympathetically  realistic  and  throws 
a  stone  at  each  member  of  the  group. 

WILLIAM   BLAKE 

Pp.  359  f.  Blake  was  an  artist  as  well  as  a 
poet,  and  in  both  characters  vision  is  the  quality 
that  distinguishes  him  —  vision  of  invisible  forms 
and  relationships  —  what  Pater  calls  "preponder- 
ating soul."  Both' his  painting  and  his  poetry 
are  full  of  symbolism,  but  they  represent  very 
different  phases  of  his  personalitj^  The  pictures 
are  extravagant  to  the  point  of  madness;  the 
poems,  which  are  so  misleadingly  simple  in 
phrasing  that  they  have  been  abused  by  insertion 
into  school  readers,  are  extraordinarilj^  subtle  and 
elusive.  The  poet  who  most  resembles  Blake 
in  this  subtle  simplicity  is  Emily  Dickinson.  To 
understand  Blake's  exquisiteness,  compare  his 
"To  see  the  world  in  a  grain  of  sand"  (p.  360) 
with  Tennyson's  coarser,  more  obvious,  hence 
popular,  "Flower  in  the  crannied  wall,"  which 
phrases  the  same  thought. 

MINOR   SCOTTISH  POETS 

Pp.  361  f.  The  Minor  Scottish  Poets  here 
represented  are  mainly  interesting  as  a  back- 
ground to  Burns.  In  methods  and  ideals  he  was 
not  an  isolated  phenomenon ;  freedom  and  in- 
dividuality had  not  perished  entirely.  In  London 
literary  circles  and  throughout  Great  Britain 
wherever  people  tried  to  write  or  to  criticise  as 
they  thought  all  "up-to-date"  people  were  writing 
and  criticising,  the  prevailing  fashion  of  "classi- 
cism" was  omnipotent.  But  wherever  people 
wrote  for  the  pleasure  of  saying  a  thing  as  they 
wished  to  say  it,  hfe,  with  its  old  joys  and  hopes 
and  sorrows  and  fears  and  desires,  ran  fresh  and 
strong,  as  an  immediate  fount  of  inspiration. 

ROBERT  BURNS 

Pp.  362  flf.  In  reading  Bums,  it  is  easy  to  be- 
lieve that  poetry  is  indeed  a  matter  of  instinct 
and  not  of  acquirement.  On  his  own  ground  and 
in  his  own  tongue,  Burns  rarely  failed  to  find  that 


742 


ENGLISH  PROSE   AND   POETRY 


perfect  correspondence  of  sound  to  sense,  that 
perfect  suffusion  of  thought  with  emotion,  which 
together  create  poetry ;  but  as  soon  as  he  strayed 
from  his  "Scotsdom"  in  material,  attitude,  or  lan- 
guage, he  became  commonplace  and  conventional. 
Compare,  for  instance,  the  last  nine  stanzas  of  the 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night  with  those  that  precede 
them.  Compare  the  perfection  of  To  a  Mouse  with 
the  four-stanza  lapse  in  To  a  Daisy  (11.  31-54). 

Lines  to  John  Lapraik 

P.  364.  Lapraik  was  himself  a  minor  poet  as 
well  as  a  friend  of  Burns. 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 

Pp.  365  ff.  The  scene  descr-ibed  is  Burns's  own 
home  and  his  father  is  the  Cotter.  After  his 
father's  death.  Burns  himself  led  family  prayers  — 
impressively,  it  is  said. 

Robert  Aiken  was  a  lawyer  in  Ayr,  the  market 
town  near  which  Burns  was  born. 

Tam  O'Shanter 

Pp.  370  ff.  The  peculiar  quality  of  this  poem  is 
its  blending  of  the  humorous  and  the  horrible 
in  a  way  that  is  characteristically  Scottish. 

BONIE    DOON 

P.  372.  The  Doon  is  a  little  river  in  Ayrshire 
near  Burns's  home.  Burns  made  another  version 
of  this  poem,  more  regular  and  literary  and  much 
less  beautiful  than  this. 

Ae  Fond  Kiss 

P.  373.  Sent  to  a  Mrs.  McLehose,  of  Edin- 
burgh, with  whom  he  had  a  love  affair  just  before 
his  marriage  with  Jean  Armour. 

Bonie  Lesley 

Bonie  Lesley  was  Miss  Lesley  Baillie,  daughter 
of  Mr.  Baillie  of  Ayrshire.  He,  on  his  way  to 
England  with  his  two  daughters,  called  on  Burns 
at  Dumfries.  When  they  left.  Burns  accompanied 
them  fifteen  miles  on  their  way  and  composed  the 
song  as  he  rode  home. 

Highland  Mary 

Mary  Campbell  was  a  young  nursemaid  whom 
Bums  met  in  the  spring  of  1786.     In  a  time  of 


reaction  against  Jean  Armour,  whom  he  afterwards 
married.  Burns  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  she  prom- 
ised to  marry  him,  but  she  died  in  the  autumn 
of  that  year.  Burns  never  talked  about  her,  but 
he  seems  to  have  felt  her  loss  deeply,  and  some  of 
his  most  beautiful  poems  are  addressed  to  her. 

Duncan  Gray 

P.  374.  Cf.,  for  spirit,  with  Suckling's  Why 
So  Pale  and  Wan?  (p.  214,  above). 

Scots  Wha  Hae 

This  celebrates  the  Battle  of  Bannockburn, 
fought  in  1314,  between  the  Scots  and  the  English. 
The  Scots  had  been  struggling  for  independence 
from  England  since  1296.  Their  leader.  Sir 
William  Wallace,  had  at  first  considerable  success, 
but  was  reduced  to  fighting  a  sort  of  guerilla  war- 
fare, and  was  finally  betrayed  by  one  of  his  coun- 
trymen and  executed  in  London  in  1305.  The 
struggle  was,  however,  continued  by  Robert 
Bruce,  who  was  crowned  King ;  and  at  Bannock- 
burn he  won  a  victory  that  made  Scotland  free 
and  independent  until  the  kingdoms  were  united 
under  James  I  (James  VI  of  Scotland),  son  of 
Mary  Stuart. 

The  poem  is  supposed  to  be  spoken  by  Bruce 
himself  just  before  the  battle,  as  he  stood  on  the 
hill  where  to-day  the  "bore-stone"  is  still  pointed 
out  as  his  standard  holder.  The  English  at- 
tacked from  the  lower  land  by  the  river,  where 
the  softness  of  the  ground  contributed  to  their 
defeat. 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  A'  That 

This  sums  up  the  democratic  attitude  which 
Burns  consistently  maintained.  The  ideas  which 
came  to  practical  pohtical  expression  in  the  Dec- 
laration of  Independence  and  in  the  French  Revo- 
lution were  making  progress  in  Scotland  and 
England  also. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

The    Preface  to  the  "Lyrical  Bal- 
lads " 

Pp.  376  ff.  This  Preface  was  printed  with  the 
second  edition  of  Lyrical  Ballads  (1800)  and  later 
expanded.  By  accident,  one  of  the  cuts  made  in 
our  reprint  is  not  indicated;  there  should  be 
asterisks  to  indicate  an  omission  on  p.  378  h,  after 
the  words  Milton  himself. 


NOTES 


743 


In  connection  with  this  epoch-making  essay, 
Jeffrey's  criticism  of  Wordsworth's  success  in 
carrj'ing  out  his  theory  (p.  416),  and  Coleridge's 
statement  of  a  view  opposed  to  the  theory  itself 
(p.  398)  should  be  read. 

The  famous  Preface  is  much  more  than  a  defence 
of  the  particular  poems  that  it  introduced ;  it  is 
a  protest  against  the  entire  method  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  poets,  and  a  statement  of  the 
principles  which  Wordsworth  believed  should 
govern  poetry,  and  which  his  own  theory  and  prac- 
tice did  actually  introduce  into  the  work  of  his 
contemporaries  and  successors. 

The  four  points  in  which  Wordsworth  regarded 
his  work  as  ful&lling  the  essential  requirements  of 
poetry  are  carefully  stated  in  the  opening  sentence 
of  our  selection.  The  rest  of  the  essay  is  devoted 
to  explaining,  illustrating,  expanding,  and  de- 
fending these  principles.  Particular  attention 
should  be  given  to  Wordsworth's  note  on  p.  378, 
as  it  shows  that  he  was  not  unaware  or  neglectful 
of  the  distinction  between  poetry  and  non-poetry 
(science,  as  he  calls  the  latter)  whether  in  verse 
or  prose.  It  is  in  this  sense  that  poetry  is  to  be 
taken  in  some  of  those  fine  aphorisms  which  give 
to  this  essay  so  much  of  its  value,  as,  for  example : 
"All  good  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of 
powerful  feelings;"  "Poetry  is  the  breath  and 
finer  spirit  of  all  knowledge ;  it  is  the  impassioned 
expression  which  is  in  the  countenance  of  all 
Science;"  and  many  others.  What  seems  to  be 
lacking  in  this  exposition  of  Wordsworth's  theory 
and  what  was  sometimes  lacking  in  his  practice 
is  that  activity  of  the  poet  stated  by  Coleridge 
in  the  following  terms  (p.  399  b)  :  "He  diffuses  a 
tone  and  spirit  of  unity,  that  blends,  and  (as  it 
were)  fuses,  each  into  each  by  that  synthetic 
and  magical  power,  to  which  we  have  exclusively 
appropriated  the  name  of  imagination." 

Wp  ARE  Seven 

Pp.  382  f.  In  a  passage  omitted  from  our  re- 
print of  the  Preface  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads  Words- 
worth explains  that  he  intended  in  this  poem  "to 
illustrate  the  manner  in  which  our  feelings  and 
ideas  are  associated  in  a  state  of  excitement"  by 
showing  "the  perplexity  and  obscurity  which  in 
childhood  attend  our  notion  of  death,  or  rather  our 
utter  inability  to  admit  that  notion." 

Although  the  theme  is  also  stated  explicitly 
in  the  first  stanza  of  the  poem  itself,  the  poem 
contains  no  explicit  moralizing,  but  the  poet  un- 
doubtedly wished  his  readers  to  feel,  as. did  the 
little  girl,  that  loved  ones  are  not  separated  from 


us,  even  when  their  bodies  are  laid  in  earth,  and 
their  spirits  have  passed  to  heaven.  There  is,  of 
course,  no  logical  transition  to  this  conclusion  from 
the  utterances  of  an  ignorant  child,  but  the  emo- 
tions may  make  the  transition,  if  they  have  been 
sympathetically  stirred.  The  main  reason  why  the 
poem,  for  all  its  popularity,  does  not  rank  high  as 
poetry  is  that  it  exhibits  no  "spontaneous  overflow 
of  powerful  emotions,"  or,  to  use  Coleridge's  terms, 
that  the  images,  thoughts  and  emotions  are  not 
fused  by  "  that  synthetic  and  magical  power  to 
which  we  have  exclusively  appropriated  the  name 
of  imagination."  In  other  words  we  have  here 
perhaps  raw  materials  for  a  poem,  but  the  poem 
itself  remains  unwritten.  The  prosaic  blemishes 
which  Wordsworth  sometimes  allowed  to  creep 
into  his  poetry  may  be  illustrated  b}^  the  original 
form  of  1.  I :  "  .\  little  child,  dear  brother  Jim." 
The  verse,  appropriately  to  the  subject  and 
material,  is  simple  and  familiar,  —  a  four-hne 
stanza,  such  as  is  used  in  many  baUads,  with  four 
and  three  iambic  feet  in  alternate  Hnes,  and  with 
alternate  rhymes.  The  only  features  worthy  of 
special  note  are  the  first,  tenth,  and  last  stanzas* 
The  incompleteness  of  1.  i  and  the  lack  of  rhyme 
between  it  and  1.  3  —  both  due  to  the  omission  of 
words  from  the  original  line  —  cause  this  stanza 
to  stand  off  from  the  rest  of  the  poem,  as  the  pro- 
logue should.  The  middle  rhyme  of  11.  37  and  39 
is  in  imitation  of  many  lines  in  the  old  ballads  and 
contributes  to  the  inartificiality  characteristic  of 
the  poem.  The  extra  line  in  the  last  stanza  gives 
to  it  a  slower  and  more  dignified  movement  and 
causes  the  reader  to  reflect  upon  the  stor}^  and  its 
implications. 

In  reading  this  poem,  one  is  inevitably  reminded 
of  the  very  different  attitude  toward  the  loss  of  a 
lo\-ed  one  by  death  expressed  in  the  three  poems 
on  p.  386.  It  is,  as  has  often  been  -remarked, 
entirely  uncertain  whether  the  Lucy  of  these 
poems  was  a  real  person,  or  a  creature  of  the  poet's 
imagination.  But  certainly  the  tone  of  the  con- 
cluding stanza  of  each  poem  suggests  that  she 
really  existed  and  that  the  poems  were  written 
before  the  poet  had  recovered  from  the  shock  of 
personal  loss  and  while  his  sensations  of  bereave- 
ment were  still  in  entire  control  of  his  mind  and 
heart.  This  is  especially  notable  in  the  third 
poem,  where  the  poet's  thought  dwells  upon  the 
purely  physical  aspect  of  death,  and  he  thinks  of 
the  beloved  body  that  seemed  to  defy  the  forces 
of  change  and  death  as  now  senseless  clay, 

"  Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course 
With  rocks  and  stones  and  trees." 


744 


ENGLISH   PROSE  AND   POETRY 


Expostulation    and    Reply,   and   The 
Tables  Turned 

Pp.  383  f.  In  a  note,  Wordsworth  tells  us  that 
these  two  poems  "arose  out  of  conversation  with  a 
friend  who  was  somewhat  unreasonably  attached 
to  modern  books  of  moral  philosophy."  They 
are  companion  poems,  though  they  do  not  present, 
as  the  titles  might  lead  one  to  expect,  different 
phases  of  the  same  subject.  The  tables  are  turned 
only  in  the  sense  that,  whereas  in  the  first  poem  the 
poet's  friend  had  expostulated  with  him,  in  the 
second  the  poet  takes  his  turn;  but  in  both  the 
poet  makes  his  own  ideas  and  attitude  prevail. 

The  subject  of  both  poems  is  Wordsworth's 
favorite  doctrine  of  the  powerful  moral  influence 
of  nature  —  of  birds  and  trees  and  flowers  and 
beautiful  streams,  of  sunrise  and  sunset  and  star- 
light —  upon  the  character  of  any  one  who  loves 
these  things  and  lives  in  sympathetic  communion 
with  them.  In  another  beautiful  poem  {Three 
Years  She  Grew,  p.  386)  he  carries  the  doctrine 
still  further  and  asserts  that  grace  of  form  and 
.beauty  of  face  will  pass  from  the  graceful  and 
beautiful  objects  of  nature  to  the  child  who  grows 
up  among  them  (see  especially  11.  19-24  and  29-30 
of  that  poem). 

If  there  is  any  difference  at  all  between  the  doc- 
trine set  forth  in  Expostulation  and  Reply  and  that 
in  The  Tables  Turned,  it  is  merely  that  the  influ- 
ence of  nature  upon  the  passive  mind  is  empha- 
sized in  the  former,  while  in  the  latter  a  more 
active  attitude  is  suggested  by  the  words  "That 
watches  and  receives,"  1.  32. 

Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  Above 
Tintern  Abbey 

Pp.  384  ff.  Wordsworth  had  visited  the  valley 
of  the  Wye,  one  of  the  most  picturesque  spots  in 
England,  in  1793  —  five  years,  as  he  tells  us,  before 
the  visit  in  company  with  his  sister  recorded  in  this 
poem.  A  little  below  Monmouth  the  valley  of  the 
Wye  contracts  and  is  enclosed  by  steep,  wooded 
hills.  Lines  10-22  (especially  lo-ii  and  14-16) 
indicate  that  he  is  on  the  cliffs,  with  the  valley 
spread  out  beneath  him.  The  poem  is  notable  not 
so  much  because  it  gives  explicit  expression  to  the 
three  phases  of  the  love  of  nature  recognized  by 
Wordsworth,  as  because  it  is,  in  intensity  of  spirit- 
ual emotion,  in  the  novelty  and  truth  of  its  poetical 
ideas,  and  in  beauty  and  suggestiveness  of  phras- 
ing, one  of  the  most  perfect  poems  ever  written. 
In  connection  with  it,  the  reader  should  by  all 
means  consult  other  passages  in  which  Words- 


worth has  dealt  with  the  same  themes,  notably  The 
Prelude,  Bk.  1, 11.  401-463  ;  Bk.  VIII,  11.  340-356 ; 
and  The  Recluse  (cf.  especially  the  extract  in  this 
book,  pp.  387  f.).  It  may  aid  the  reader  in  follow- 
ing the  course  of  the  poet's  thought  to  note  that 
11.  1-22  are  devoted  to  his  return  to  the  scene  after 
a  long  absence;  11.  22-57  express  the  influence  of 
these  beauteous  forms  in  absence  upon  his  feelings 
and  his  insight  into  the  meaning  of  life ;  in  11.  57-65 
he  expresses  the  hope  that  this  visit,  by  renewing 
the  memories  of  these  forms,  may  supply  "life 
and  food"  in  future  years;  11.  65-85  paint  his 
feeling  for  nature  at  the  time  of  his  former  visit 
(age  23) ;  11.  85-1 11,  his  maturer  feeling;  11.  iii- 
119  tell  how  his  former  pleasures  revive  in  the 
influence  of  nature  upon  his  sister;  in  U.  1 19-134 
he  prays  that  this  influence' may  continue,  and  sets 
forth  the  elevating  and  soothing  power  of  nature ; 
in  11.  134-146  he  exhorts  his  sister  to  experience  all 
these  sweet  sensations  and  store  them  in  memory 
as  antidotes  for  future  sorrows;  and  in  11.  145- 
159  bids  her  then  remember  him  and  his  love  for 
this  landscape. 

I.  29.     Why  '^ purer  mind"? 

II.  25-30.  Compare  The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan 
and  The  Prelude,  Bk.  VII,  especially  the  last  two 
paragraphs. 

11.  38-40.  Compare  The  Prelude,  Bks.  XI  and 
XIII. 

11.  43-46.  Note  the  mysticism  of  this  passage 
and  compare  it  with  the  Ode  on  Intimations  of  Im- 
mortality, 11.  141-145,  and  the  notes  on  Tennyson's 
St.  Agnes'  Eve. 

P.  385.  1.  54.  hung  upon  is  used  rather 
curiously.  It  does  not  mean  "depended  upon," 
but  "weighed  upon." 

11.  93-102.  These  lines  have  sometimes  been 
taken  as  pantheistic,  but  pantheism  was  not 
Wordsworth's  creed ;  they  express  rather  the  pres- 
ence of  an  immanent  deity. 

P.  386.  1.  149.  past  existence  refers  here  to 
past  experiences  of  this  life,  mSt  to  preexistence. 

Lucy 

This  and  the  two  following  poems  form  a  series 
devoted  to  the  same  person.  Cf.  what  is  said 
about  them  above  in  connection  with  We  Are 
Seven  and  Expostulation  and  Reply. 

Lucy  Gray;  or,  Solitude 

Pp.  386  f.  Like  We  Are  Seven,  this  presents 
a  simple  story  almost  without  comment.  This 
theme,  however,  is  better  suited  to  the  ballad- 


NOTES 


745 


like  simplicity  of  treatment,  and  it  contains  a  few- 
memorable  phrases.  The  secondary  title  has 
little  to  do  with  the  theme. 

The  Recluse 

Pp.  387  f .  The  Recluse  is  a  part  of  a  great  philo- 
sophical poem  upon  which  Wordsworth  worked 
at  intervals  for  many  years  but  which  he  never 
completed.  The  e.xtract  here  given  expresses  in 
poetic  forms  his  plans  and  aspirations  as  a  poet. 

By  some  oversight  the  lines  of  our  selection 
were  numbered  without  reference  to  their  posi- 
tion in  the  poem;  they  come  at  the  very  end 
and  the  first  line  should  be  1.  754. 

To  THE  Cuckoo 

Pp.  388  f.  In  beauty  of  conception  and  magic 
of  phrasing  few  poems  surpass  or  even  equal  this. 
It  is  very  simple  in  subject  and  structure  and  needs 
only  to  be  read  thoughtfully  and  sympathetically 
to  be  fully  understood.  Its  theme  is  the  emotions 
of  wonder  and  delight  the  author  feels  in  hearing 
again  the  song  of  the  bird  and  recalling  the  sensa- 
tions with  which  it  had  been  heard  in  boyhood. 
All  poets  are  perhaps  endowed  with  keener  memo- 
ries of  past  sensations  than  ordinarj^  people.  How- 
large  a  part  such  memories  played  in  Wordsworth's 
life  may  be  noted  not  only  in  The  Prelude, 
The  Recluse,  and  Tlw  Excursion,  but  in  many 
occasional  poems  such  as  this  and  the  Lilies 
Composed  above  Tinier n  Abbey.  Even  details,  such 
as  the  peculiarity  of  the  cuckoo's  song  referred 
to  in  11.  3-4,  7-8,  15-16,  and  29-32,  are  recalled 
more  than  once  (cf.  The  Recluse,  11.  90-94). 

"Where'er  my  footsteps  turned, 
Her  voice  was  like  a  hidden  bird  that  sang. 
The  thought  of  her  was  like  a  flash  of  light, 
Or  an  unseen  companionship,  a  breath 
Of  fragrance  independent  of  the  wind." 

The  Solit.\ry  Reaper 

P.  389.  This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  fol- 
lowing words  in  Thomas  Wilkinson's  Tour  in 
Scotland :  "  Passed  a  female  who  was  reaping  alone ; 
she  sung  in  Erse,  as  she  berided  over  her  sickle; 
the  sweetest  human  voice  I  ever  heard ;  her  strains 
were  tenderly  melancholy,  and  felt  dehcious  long 
after  they  were  heard  no  more."  Again,  as  in 
the  poem  To  the  Cuckoo,  we  have  the  w-itchery 
of  music  and  myster>'  wonderfull}'  rendered  by 
the  art  of  the  poet.  And  here  in  addition  we 
have  a  picture  sketched  without  detail  yet  as 


vivid  to  the  imagination  and  as  lasting  in  the 
memory  as  Millet's  "  Angelus."  Perhaps  the  only 
obscurity  in  the  poem  —  the  reason  why  the  poet 
does  not  know  what  she  sings  —  is  removed  by 
Wilkinson's  statement  that  she  sang  in  Erse,  the 
language  of  the  Gaelic  Highlanders. 

Ode  :       Intimations     of     Immortality 

from  Recollections  of  Early 

Childhood 

Pp.  391  ff.  Although  this  poem  has  long  been 
a  fa\orite  of  lovers  of  Wordsworth  and  though  no 
one  can  deny  the  beauty  of  it,  some  of  the  Ortho- 
dox have  objected  to  the  doctrine  that  souls  have 
a  conscious  existence  in  another  world  before  being 
united  with  the  body  in  this.  Wordsworth  him- 
self is  careful  to  disclaim  this  doctrine  as  a  creed 
and  to  insist  only  upon  his  right  to  treat  it  poet- 
ically. It  seems  clear,  however,  that  the  doctrine 
made  a  powerful  appeal  to  his  imagination  and 
affections.  The  beauty  of  the  poem,  both  in  parts 
and  as  a  whole,  will  be  felt  by  every  reader,  but 
as  the  exact  relation  of  some  of  the  parts  to  the 
general  theme  seems  to  have  been  missed  by  some, 
it  may  be  well  to  give  a  closer  analysis  than  usual 
of  the  course  of  thought. 

I,  II.  Even  though  the  poet  sees  and  feels 
the  beauty  of  the  earth,  he  misses  in  it  a  glory  it 
once  possessed. 

Ill,  IV.  W'hile  birds  and  beasts  are  full  of  joy, 
he  alone  feels  sad,  but  utterance  gives  relief  and 
he  determines  to  share  in  the  general  joy  and  enu- 
merates the  sources  of  pleasure.  But  in  vain, 
for  the  sight  of  a  tree,  a  field,  a  flower,  recalls 
thoughts  of  "the  glory  and  the  dream"  that  are 
gone  and  makes  him  ask  what  has  become  of 
them. 

V,  \T,  VII,  VIII.  He  expounds  the  theory 
that  the  new-born  soul  coming  to  earth  from 
heaven  brings  a  part  of  the  glory  of  heaven  with 
it  and  envelops  in  it  aU  the  sights  and  sounds  of 
earth,  but  loses  it  as  it  journeys  through  the 
world.  The  whole  theory  is  expHcitly  stated  in  V. 
The  efforts  of  Earth  to  win  her  foster-child  Man 
to  love  her  alone  are  given  in  \T.  The  earthly 
attractions  and  interests  that  successively  capture 
his  heart  and  fill  his  life  are  set  forth  in  VII. 
"Wh}',  O  Child,  do  you  —  endowed  as  j'ou  are 
with  heavenly  knowledge  and  glory  ■ —  stri\-e  to 
become  the  slave  of  Earth?"  is  the  substance  of 
\TII. 

IX.  The  poet  utters  thanks  for  the  indestructi- 
ble traces  of  our  heavenly  origin. 


746 


ENGLISH   PROSE   AND   POETRY 


X.  He  reverts  to  the  joy  theme  of  III,  IV, 
with  recognition  of  the  compensations  afforded 
by  "the  philosophic  mind"  for  the  lost  splendor 
and  glory. 

XI.  He  appeals  to  Nature  whom  he  now  loves 
even  more  deeply,  because  more  seriously  and 
maturely. 

The  argument  in  favor  of  immortality  from 
hints  of  preexistence  forms  the  principal  subject 
of  Plato's  Phcedo,  and  is  also  finely  set  forth  in 
The  Banquet  and  PhcBdrus.  The  argument  as 
given  in  the  Meno  is  more  sophistical  and  less 
interesting. 

P.  392.  1.  28.  the  fields  of  sleep.  Professor 
Hales  is  probably  wrong  in  explaining  this  as  "the 
yet  reposeful,  slumbering,  countryside,"  for  not 
only  the  poet  and  the  birds,  but  the  shepherd  boy 
of  1.  35,  the  children  of  1.  45,  and  the  whole  coun- 
tryside are  awake.  To  the  west  of  the  poet,  of 
course,  the  sun  has  not  yet  reached  and  awakened 
the  people.  The  winds  are  therefore  the  western 
winds. 

11.  58-76.  Compare  Vaughan's  beautiful  poem 
The  Retreat,  p.  221. 

1.  67.     prison-house,  life;   cf.  Phado,  62. 

I.  68.  Note  the  stages  of  change  indicated  by 
infancy  (66),  hoy  (68),  youth  (71),  man  (75). 

1.  81.  Earth  is  conceived  as  the  nurse  of  Man, 
not  as  his  mother ;    his  ancestry  is  divine. 

P.  393.  1.  103.  humorous  stage.  The  general 
conception  comes  from  the  speech  of  Jaques  in  As 
You  Like  It,  II,  vii,  139  iif.  According  to  the 
ancient  physiology  a  man's  tastes  and  tendencies 
were  determined  by  his  predominant  humor.  "  Hu- 
morous stage"  therefore  means  here  the  part  in 
life  to  which  his  nature  impels  him. 

I.  124.     yoke,  of  custom.     Cf.  1.  127. 

II.  141-165.  Wordsworth  himself  explained 
that  these  lines  refer  to  peculiar  experiences  much 
like  those  which  we  shall  have  occasion  to  note  in 
connection  with  Tennyson's  St.  Agnes'  Eve.  He 
says,  "There  was  a  time  in  my  hfe  when  I  had 
to  push  against  something  that  resisted,  to  be  sure 
that  there  was  anything  outside  of  me.  I  was 
sure  of  my  own  mind;  everything  else  fell  away 
and  vanished  into  thought."  Such  experiences 
suggested,  of  course,  the  unreaHty  of  the  external 
world  and  the  real  existence  of  the  soul. 

1.  166.  The  poet  has  changed  his  imagery  some- 
what and  speaks  as  if  souls  were  brought  to  this 
world  by  the  sea  of  immortality  {immortal  sea, 
1.  163).  The  children  are,  therefore,  near  the 
shore,  while  youths  and  men  are  further  inland 
(cf.  1.  162). 


P.  394.  1.  198.  It  is  the  poet's  eye  that  hath 
kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality,  and  he  therefore 
sees  with  a  soberer  coloring  the  clouds  which  to  the 
child  were  brilliant  with  the  light  of  the  setting 
sun  and  the  "visionary  gleam."  || 

I.  199.     This  is  rather  obscure,  but  seems  to    jj 
mean  that  in  one  more  contest  man  has  been  vic- 
torious, in  the  sense  that  he  has  attained  to  a 
deeper,  more  philosophic  love  of  nature. 

II.  202-203.  It  cannot  too  often  be  insisted 
that  the  meaning  of  these  lines  is  distorted  if 
they  are  taken  out  of  connection  with  11.  200-201. 
It  is  not  because  of  the  love  of  nature,  but  because 
of  the  love  of  man  that  a  flower  cAn  give  the  poet 
"  thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

To  A  Sky-Lark 
Cf.  Shelley's  To  a  Skylark,  p.  465. 

On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian 
Republic 

Venice,  during  the  Middle  Ages  and  early 
modern  times  one  of  the  richest  and  most  power-  1 
ful  cities  of  the  world,  began  to  lose  its  power 
soon  after  the  discovery  by  the  Portuguese  of 
the  route  to  India  and  China  round  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope.  In  the  eighteenth  century  it  had 
become  a  city  of  idle,  unenterprising,  pleasure-  , 
loving  people.  But  its  final  humiliation  came  in 
1797  when  it  was  conquered  by  Napoleon  and  by 
him  turned  over  to  the  rule  of  Austria.  Very 
similar  to  the  feelings  of  Wordsworth  are  those 
expressed  by  Byron  some  years  later  in  the  first 
canto  of  his  Ode  (p.  455). 

In  structure  this  sonnet  varies  from  the  regular 
Petrarchan  model,  as  the  octave  falls  into  two 
quatrains,  independent  in  rhyme  and  in  syntax.  | 
Contrast  with  it  in  structure  the  sonnet  London, 
1S02,  which  is  perfect  both  as  to  the  structure  of 
the  octave  and  the  division  of  the  theme  between 
the  octave  and  sestet,  and  that  Composed  Upon 
Westminster  Bridge,  which,  though  metrically 
perfect,  continues  the  theme  of  the  octave  into 
the  sestet. 

Lines  7-8  refer  to  the  well-known  annual  cere- 
mony in  which  the.  Doge  of  Venice  dropped  a 
ring  into  the  sea  in  token  of  the  wedding  of  the 
city  to  it. 

To  Toussaint  L'Ouverture 

Dominique  Francois  Toussaint  L'Ouverture, 
one  of    the  most  remarkable  negroes  known   to 


NOTES 


747 


history,  was  born  in  Haiti  in  1743.  Although  a 
slave,  he  received  an  elementary  education  and 
attained  prominence.  He  took  part  in  the  revo- 
lutions of  1791-94  and  in  the  latter  year  became 
commander-in-chief ;  in  1801  he  was  made  presi- 
dent for  life  with  the  power  of  nominating  his 
successor.  After  a  series  of  battles  with  the 
French  forces  sent  by  Bonaparte,  he  capitulated 
and  was  pardoned  (May  i,  1802),  but  the  next 
month  he  was  arrested  on  a  charge  of  conspiracy, 
sent  to  France,  and  imprisoned  in  the  Castle  of 
Joux,  where  he  died  in  April,  1803.  Wordsworth 
wrote  this  sonnet  in  August,  1802.  Toussaint  was 
notable  for  his  protection  of  the  whites  and  his 
attempts  to  give  the  negroes  liberty  and  a  stable 
organization  of  industry. 

Thought  of  a  Briton  on  the  Subjuga- 
tion OF  Switzerland 

Cf.  Byron's  Ode,  especially  section  IV  (pp. 
455  ff-)- 

The  World  is  too  Much  with  Us 

P.  395.  This  is  a  passionate  outcry  against  the 
absorption  of  men  in  worldl\-  business  and  their 
lack  of  interest  in  Nature  and  its  inspiring  in- 
fluences. The  poet  declares  that,  rather  than  be 
so  absorbed,  he  would  prefer  even  to  be  a  pagan, 
that  thus  imagination  might  at  times  give  him 
glimpses  of  the  gods  of  nature,  such  as  Proteus  and 
Triton  —  gods  of  the  sea. 

To  Sleep 

Cf.  the  sonnets  of  Daniel  (p.  147)  and  Keats 
(p.  478). 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet 

P.  396.  Cf.  Rossetti's  sonnet  on  the  soimet 
(p.  630).  Dante,  Petrarch  and  Tasso  were  Itahan 
writers  who  cultivated  the  sonnet ;  Camoens  was 
a  Portuguese. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR   COLERIDGE 
BlOGRAPHIA   LiTERARIA 

Pp.  396  ff.  In  his  Biographia  Liter  aria  Cole- 
ridge gives  an  interesting  account  of  his  literary 
career  and  opinions.  Chapter  XIV  is  especially 
valuable  for  its  relation  of  the  origin  of  the  Lyrical 
Ballads,  the  joint  volume  in  which  he  and  Words- 
worth gave  to  the  world  the  first  proofs  of  their 


great  poetic  powers,  and  also  for  its  exposition  of 
Coleridge's  theor\^  of  poetry.  It  should  be  read 
in  connection  with  Wordsworth's  Preface.  Char- 
acteristically, Coleridge  is  concerned,  not  with  the 
external  form,  but  with  the  nature  of  poetry. 

Bathyllus  and  Alexis  (p.  398  b)  are  revolting 
subjects.  Petronius  Arbiter  (p.  399  a)  was  a 
Roman  author  of  the  time  of  Nero;  he  was  re- 
nowned for  his  wit  and  his  taste.  Bishop  Taylor 
{ibid.)  is  Jeremy  Taylor,  the  celebrated  pulpit 
orator ;  for  an  example  of  his  poetic  prose,  see  pp. 
216  f.  Thomas  Burnet  (1635  ?-i7i5),  an  English. 
scholar,  wrote  a  Sacred  Theory  of  the  Earth 
{TeUuris  Theoria  Sacra)  in  Latin,  in  which  he 
argued  eloquently  that  the  earth  was  originally 
constructed  like  an  egg  and  that  at  the  Flood 
the  shell  broke  and  let  out  the  inner  fluid  and  that 
the  mountains  are  fragments  of  the  shell. 

KuBLA  Khan 

Pp.  399  f.  This  poem,  Coleridge  tells  us,  he 
composed  in  a  dream,  when  he  had  dropped  asleep 
while  reading  a  passage  in  Purchas  his  Pilgrimage. 
The  passage  is  as  follows  :  "In  Xaindu  did  Cublai 
Can  build  a  stately  Pallace,  encompassing  six- 
teene  miles  of  plaine  ground  with  a  wall,  wherein 
are  fertile  Meddowes,  pleasant  Springs,  delightful 
Streames,  and  all  sorts  of  beasts  of  chase  and 
game,  and  in  the  middest  thereof  a  sumptuous 
house  of  pleasure."  He  goes  on  to  say  that  he 
"continued  for  about  three  hours  in  a  profound 
sleep,  at  least  of  the  external  senses,  during  which 
time  he  has  the  most  vivid  confidence  that  he  could 
not  have  composed  less  than  from  two  to  three 
hundred  hnes;  if  that  indeed  can  be  called  com- 
position in  which  aU  the  images  rose  up  before 
him  as  things,  with  a  parallel  production  of  the 
correspondent  expressions,  without  any  sensation 
or  consciousness  of  efi^ort.  On  awaking  he  ap- 
peared to  himself  to  have  a  distinct  recollection  of 
the  whole,  and  taking  his  pen,  inlc,  and  paper,  in- 
stantly and  eagerly  wrote  down  the  lines  that  are 
here  preserved.  At  this  moment, "he  was  unfor- 
tunately called  out  by  a  person  on  business  from 
Porlock,  and  detained  by  him  above  an  hour,  and 
on  his  return  to  his  room,  found,  to  his  no  small 
surprise  and  mortification,  that  though  he  still 
retained  some  vague  and  dim  recollection  of  the 
general  purport  of  the  vision,  yet,  wnth  the  excep- 
tion of  some  eight  or  ten  scattered  lines  and 
images,  aU  the  rest  had  passed  away  like  the 
images  on  the  surface  of  a  stream  into  which  a 
stone  had  been  cast,  but,  alas !  without  the  resto- 
ration of  the  latter." 


748 


ENGLISH   PROSE   AND   POETRY 


The  lines  from  Piirchas  seem  indeed  inade- 
quate to  the  result,  but  great  transformations  are 
possible  to  dreamers  and  poets.  Whether  Cole- 
ridge, in  writing  down  his  dream  poem,  merely 
transcribed  what  he  could  remember,  or  recom- 
posed  it,  may  perhaps  be  doubted.  He  calls  it  a 
fragment,  but  it  has  unity  and  even  a  certain 
completeness.  If  he  merely  transcribed  his 
memories,  he  apparently  recalled  the  dream  lines 
without  a  break  or  omission.  Undoubtedly  a 
continuation  of  the  poem  is  conceivable,  in  which 
case  the  continuation  would  doubtless  consist  of  a 
romantic  narrative  set  against  the  background  of 
these  introductory  lines. 

The  poem,  as  we  have  it,  is  a  remarkable  ex- 
ample of  romantic  description.  The  mysterious 
Kubla  Khan,  the  sacred  river,  the  measureless 
caverns,  the  sunless  sea,  the  ancient  forests,  the 
sunny  spots  of  greenery,  the  cedarn  cover,  the  sav- 
age place,  holy  but  enchanted,  and  many  other  de- 
tails which  will  at  once  impress  the  reader,  con- 
tribute to  the  establishment  of  an  atmosphere  of 
mystery  and  charm.  The  presence  of  caves  of  ice 
seems  to  have  troubled  some  of  the  critics,  who 
even  go  so  far  as  to  suggest  that  the  poet  may  have 
thought  of  marble  or  alabaster.  But  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  he  was  really  thinking  of  caves 
of  ice,  and  that  he  did  not  regard  them  as  poeti- 
cally impossible  in  such  a  landscape  (cf.  11.  35,  36). 

Other  critics  have  been  disturbed  by  the  intro- 
duction of  an  Abyssinian  maid  in  connection  with 
a  scene  in  Tartary.  But  Coleridge  does  not 
connect  the  Abyssinian  maid,  who  belongs  to 
another  vision,  with  the  Tartar  landscape,  except 
as  he  might  connect  any  other  recollection  with 
it.  In  this  last  stanza  of  the  poem,  he  is  con- 
cerned entirely  with  the  possibility  of  the  poet's 
rebuilding  with  his  music  the  beauties  of  the 
stately  pleasure  dome.  This  he  says  he  might 
accomplish  if  he  could  revive  within  him  the 
symphony  and  song  which  he  once  heard  in  a 
dream.  To  produce  such  an  effect  the  music 
must  obviously  be  wild  and  exotic,  and  the  poet 
has  therefore  chosen  as  the  musical  instrument 
the  dulcimer,  which,  though  he  probably  had  only 
a  vague  idea  of  it,  suggests  by  its  very  name  infi- 
nite and  mysterious  possibilities.  That  the  player 
was  an  Abyssinian  maid  and  that  she  sang  of 
Mount  Abora  may  possibly  be  due  to  the  poet's 
vague  recollections  of  other  passages  in  Pur- 
chas.  But  the  matter  of  real  importance  to  the 
poet  and  the  reader  is  that  Abyssinia  and  Mount 
Abora  are  poetic  words  of  vague  connotation 
which  suit  the  general  atmosphere  of  the  poem. 
For  both  poet  and  reader  the  poem  is  merely 


an  effort  to  re{>roduce  in  verse  a  vision  of  sensuous  . 
and  mysterious  beauty,  and  anything  which  inter- 
feres with  the  reader's  emotional  response  to  it  is 
not  only  superfluous,  but  injurious. 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 

Pp.  400  ff.  This  is  also  a  poem  which  depends 
for  its  effect  mainly  upon  the  creation  of  an  at- 
mosphere of  mystery.  It  deals  with  the  super- 
natural, though  it  owes  much  of  its  power  to  its 
descriptions  of  the  effects  of  the  supernatural  upon 
man  and  nature.  It  contains  few  difficulties.  In 
the  second  edition  of  it,  the  poet  added  to  it  an  out- 
line of  the  narrative,  printed  in  the  margin.  The 
I)urpose  of  this  addition  was  probably  not  to  aid 
the  reader  in  understanding  the  story,  but  to 
increase  the  strangeness  and  weirdness  of  the 
poem.  The  archaic  diction  and  syntax  contribute 
to  the  same  effect:  cf.  may'st,  1.  8,  din,  1.  8, 
cflsoons,  1.  12,  kirk,  1.  23,  bassoon,  1.  32,  sheen,  1. 
56,  swoimd,  1.  62,  thorough,  1.  64,  /  ivist,  1.  152, 
Gramercy,  1.  164,  gossamcres,  1.  184,  quoth,  I.  198, 
etc.  Notice  also  the  effect  of  the  repetition  of 
words  and  lines. 

But  independently  of  its  uncanny  atmosphere, 
the  poem  possesses  other  merits  of  the  highest 
order.  The  narrative  holds  the  reader  as  the 
Mariner's  eye  held  the  restive  wedding  guest. 
The  events  and  scenes  are  presented  as  vividly  as 
pictures,  and  the  phrasing  is  so  perfect  that  much 
of  it  has  passed  into  common  currency.  Notable 
lines  are  15,  34,  103-104,  105-106,  109-110,  117- 
118,  121-122,  125-126,  127-128,  200,  226-227, 
232-233,  236-239,  292-293,  369-372,  404-405, 
414-417,  498-499,  568-569,  586-587,  599-600, 
612-617,  624-625 ;  but  there  are  many  others  of 
less  general  application  that  are  for  the  poem 
itself  of  equal  effectiveness. 

Christabel 

Pp.  415  f.  The  subject  and  title  were  sug- 
gested to  Coleridge  by  the  old  ballad  Sir  Cauline. 
He  wrote  the  first  part  of  it  in  1 797-98  —  that  brief 
period  in  which  he  produced  all  his  greatest 
poems:  Genevieve,  The  Dark  Ladie,  Kubla  Khan, 
and  The  Ancient  Mariner.  He  took  it  up  again 
in  1800,  but  it  was  never  finished  and  was  pub- 
lished as  a  fragment  in  1816.  It  is  interesting,  not 
only  as  one  of  Coleridge's  most  successful  treat- 
ments of  the  mysterious  and  uncanny,  but  also 
because  it  introduced  a  new  type  of  verse  into 
modern  poetry.  Scott,  who  heard  the  poem 
recited,  adopted  the  verse  for  his  Lay  of  the  Last 


NOTES 


749 


Minstrel.  The  theme  of  Christabel  is  the  struggle 
of  the  heroine  against  the  powers  of  evil  embodied 
in  a  wicked  enchantress,  whom,  in  the  form  of  a 
beautiful  maiden,  she  rescues  and  brings  into  her 
father's  castle.     We  give  only  the  opening  episode. 

FRANCIS  JEFFREY 

Pp.  416  f.  If  Francis  Jeffrey  was  onjust  in 
his  reviews  of  Wordsworth,  lovers  of  Words- 
worth —  and  who  is  not  ?  —  have  been  at  least 
equally  unjust  in  their  treatment  of  Jeffrey.  Sen- 
tences have  been  quoted,  often  in  garbled  form 
and  always  without  the  context,  to  illustrate  the 
unfairness  and  stupidity  and  poetic  insensibility 
of  Jeffrej'.  ilost  sane  critics  of  the  present  day 
differ  from  Jeffrey  mainly  in  emphasis ;  they  recog- 
nize that  Wordsworth  really  had  the  defects  which 
Jeffrey  pointed  out,  and  that  they  are  grave.  But 
in  literature  only  the  successes  count,  the  failures 
fall  away  and  should  be  forgotten.  The  selection 
here  printed  presents  Jeffrey  in  his  most  truculent 
mood ;  another  selection,  the  review  of  the  Excur- 
sion, was  planned  for  this  volume,  but  the  limita- 
tion of  our  space  necessitated  its  omission. 

SIR  W.\LTER   SCOTT 
The  Lay  of  Rosabelle 

.  Pp.  417  f.  In  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  this 
poem  is  supposed  to  be  sung,  after  the  espousal 
of  Margaret  of  Buccleuch  to  Lord  Cranstoun,  by 
Harold,  the  minstrel  of  the  house  of  St.  Clair. 
It  is  composed  in  imitation  of  the  ancient  bal- 
lads and  tells,  dramaticall}^  but  simply,  the 
death  of  Rosabelle  in  the  Firth  of  Forth  as  she 
was  returning  from  Ravensheuch  Castle  to 
Roslin,  and  the  supernatural  prodigies  which 
preluded  it.  The  time  is  perhaps  conceived  as 
the  fifteenth  century. 

The  difficulties  of  the  poem  lie  mainly,  if  not 
exclusively,  in  the  diction ;  for  the  superstitions, 
if  not  well  known,  are  at  least  easily  understood. 
The  words  for  which  the  dictionary  may  need  to 
be  consulted  are :  firlh,  1.  8,  inch,  1.  lo,  panoply, 
1.  36,  sacristy,  1.  38,  pale,  1.  38,  pinnet,  1.  41,  and 
sea-mews,  1.  10;  copse-wood,  1.  30,  battlement,  1. 
41,  buttress,  1.  42,  are  known  to  most  of  us  only 
from  Hterature. 

The  first  stanza  gives,  in  the  ancient  manner, 
the  minstrel's  appeal  for  attention,  and  the 
nature  and  subject  of  his  lay. 

In  the  next  five  stanzas  the  minstrel  presents 
dramatically  the  vain  effort  to  persuade  the  lady 


not  to  tempt  the  storm,  the  real  motive  for  her 
going  being  suggested  by  her  protests  (11.  17,  22). 

The  next  five  describe  the  blazing  portents 
above  the  castle  and  chapel  of  RosUn. 

The  last  two  tell  the  fate  of  the  lady. 

The  poem  has  no  other  motive  than  that  of 
causing  our  sj^mpathies  to  dwell  lightly  for  a 
moment  upon  an  ancient  tragic  episode.  An 
air  of  remoteness  and  unreality  is  produced  by 
the  archaic  spellings  ladye,  chapeUe,  by  the  poetic 
syntax,  and  by  the  light  versification. 

1.  21.  Riding  the  ring  was  a  favorite  sport  of 
knights  as  late  as  the  seventeenth  century.  The 
competitors,  riding  on  horseback  at  full  speed, 
tried  to  thrust  a  lance  through  a  ring  suspended 
at  the  proper  height  and  carry  it  away.  He  who 
succeeded  most  often  was  the  winner.  The  sport 
required  fine  horsemanship  and  an  accurate  aim. 
A  form  of  it  is  practised  nowadays  at  country 
fairs  by  the  riders  of  the  wooden  horses  of  a 
merry-go-round  —  the  same  sport,  but  "Oh,  how 
changed !   how  fallen  ! " 

1.  32.  Hawthornden  —  where  Ben  Jonson 
visited  the  poet  Drummond  in  1618  —  is  famous 
for  its  caves.  There  are  two  sets,  the  upper  and 
the  lower,  both  of  them  artificial,  but  of  unknown 
date  and  purpose.  The  upper,  and  larger,  con- 
sists of  a  gallery  75  feet  long,  a  passage  24  feet 
long  leading  to  a  well,  and  two  roughly  shaped 
rooms  9  feet  and  15  feet  long  respectively,  —  aU 
of  these  6|  to  7  feet  wide  and  about  5  feet  8  inches 
high. 

1.  39.  Roslin  chapel  is  still  a  place  of  exquisite 
beauty.  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  Dorothy 
visited  it  September  17,  1803,  and  both  were  im- 
pressed with  the  abundance  of  carven  foliage  on 
walls  and  roofs  and  pillars.  See  her  journal  for  an 
interesting  account  of  this  visit,  and  his  sonnet, 
recording  another  visit  in  1831.  The  chapel  was 
repaired  in  1842. 

1.  50.  The  knell  for  the  dead  and  the  use  of 
candles  and  the  service  book  in  the  burial  service 
are  stiU  well  known  in  all  Catholic  churches. 

FiTZ- James  and  Roderick  Dhu 

Pp.  419  ff.  This  is  an  episode  of  Scott's  inter- 
esting narrative  poem  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.  King 
James  V  of  Scotland,  in  disguise  as  the  knight 
James  Fitz- James,  has  penetrated  to  the  island 
stronghold  of  the  Highland  clan  Clan-Alpine  in 
Loch  Katrine  and  has  there  fallen  in  love  with 
Ellen,  the  daughter  of  his  enemy,  the  Earl  Douglas. 
His  disguise  is  discovered  and  on  a  second  visit 
to  the  island  he  is  led  astray  by  his  guide,  one  of 


750 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


the  followers  of  Roderick  Dhu,  chief  of  Clan- 
Alpine.  Discovering  the  treachery  of  the  guide, 
he  kills  him  and  suddenly  comes  face  to  face  with 
Roderick,  who  hates  him,  both  because  of  jealousy 
of  Ellen  and  because  of  the  ancient  enmity  of  the 
Highlanders  for  the  Lowlanders.  Fitz-James  is 
speaking  when  our  extract  begins. 

CHARLES   LAMB 

Pp.  422  £f.  Either  Charles  Lamb  captures  his 
readers  at  once  and  keeps  them  as  long  as  he  cares 
to  talk,  or  —  if  their  minds  are  averse  to  his  hob- 
bies, void  of  curiosity  as  to  the  various  manifesta- 
tions of  humanity  in  which  he  delights,  and  not 
attuned  to  his  personality,  especially  his  humor  — 
they  must  forever  do  without  him  as  a  friend.  He 
is  the  least  formal,  the  most  friendly,  the  most 
brotherly  of  writers.  He  meets  his  reader  on  the 
street,  as  it  were,  and  takes  him  off,  gossiping 
all  the  way,  to  explore  odd  corners  and  talk 
about  odd  people,  and  joke  about  everything  that 
turns  up,  in  the  happy  and  not  unfounded  belief 
that  people  in  general  will  be  interested  in  him 
because  he  is  interested  in  them.  Cf.  Swin- 
burne's sonnet  to  Lamb  on  p.  644. 

The  Two  Races  of  Men 

P.  422  b.  the  primitive  community.  Lamb  re- 
fers, not  to  communism  among  primitive  races, 
but  to  the  system  of  the  early  Christians;  cf. 
Acts,  iv :  32. 

Pp.  424  f.  Comberbatch,  C,  and  S.  T.  C,  are 
different  designations  for  Coleridge  in  different 
aspects.  Mystifications  of  this  sort  are  a  feature 
of  Lamb's  whimsical  methods. 

P.  424  b.  a  widower-volume,  not  —  as  some 
say  —  because  John  Buncle  married  sev-en  times, 
but  because  as  there  were  two  volumes  originally, 
the  one  left  was  bereaved  of  his  mate. 

P.  425  a.  Was  there  not  Zimmermann  on  Soli- 
tude. The  suggestion  of  a  book  on  this  subject 
as  more  suitable  for  the  lad}^  is  a  hint  at  her  hus- 
band's leaving  her  alone  when  he  went  to  France. 

A  Chapter  on  Ears 

P.  429  a.  the  Temple.  Lamb  was  born  there. 
His  father  was  clerk  and  servant  to  one  of  the 
Benchers,  who  later  procured  Lamb's  admission 
to  Christ's  Hospital. 

even  in  his  long  coats.  Lamb  studied  at  Christ's 
Hospital,  the  famous  Blue  Coat  School  founded 
by  King  Edward  VI.     Until  a  few  years  ago, 


when  the  school  was  removed  to  the  country, 
the  boys  were  one  of  the  picturesque  features 
of  London.  They  still  went  hatiess  and  wore  a 
modification  of  the  original  uniform :  a  dark  blue 
coat  reaching  to  the  heels  and  open  in  front  to  show 
a  leather  belt,  knee  breeches  and  saffron  colored 
stockings,  and  buckled  shoes.  At  Christ's  Hos- 
pital was  formed  the  lifelong  friendship  between 
Lamb  and  Coleridge.  Cf.  Lamb's  essays:  On 
Christ's  Hospital  and  the  Character  of  Christ's 
Hospital  Boys,  and  Christ's  Hospital  Five-and- 
Thirty  Years  Ago. 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 

P.  431.  1.  15.  Robert  Blake,  a  great  English 
admiral  under  Cromwell,  defeated  both  the 
Dutch  and  the  Spaniards,  who  were  then  rivals  of 
the  English  on  the  seas.  He  died  at  sea  in  1657. 
Lord  Nelson,  perhaps  the  most  famous  of  English 
admirals  for  his  defeats  of  the  navies  of  Bona- 
parte and  his  allies,  was  killed  in  the  sea-fight  at 
Trafalgar  in  1805.  But  as  this  poem  was  written 
in  1800,  the  reference  here  must  have  been  inserted 
later.  The  first  edition  of  the  poem  (in  the  Morn- 
ing Chronicle)  is  not  accessible  to  me. 

THOMAS  MOORE 
The  H.\rp  that  Once  through  Tara's 

IL\LLS 

Pp.  433  f.  Since  the  Elizabethan  age,  when 
apparently  every  one  could  write  songs  that 
would  sing,  there  have  been  few  poet-s  whose  lyrics 
have  so  much  of  the  singing  quality  as  have  those 
of  Thomas  Moore.  Many  of  them  have  been 
favorites  of  the  people  ever  since  they  were  written. 
Some  of  his  sweetest  and  most  characteristic  songs 
are  those  celebrating  the  past  glories  or  lamenting 
the  sorrows  of  Ireland  (see  the  note  on  Adonais, 
1.  269).  Tara,  the  seat  of  the  high,  or  chief,  kings 
of  Ireland  in  her  ancient  days  of  mythical  and  his- 
torical splendor  and  power,  is  celebrated  in  epic 
and  in  history.  Ireland  was  then  famous  for  cul- 
ture, for  learning,  for  poetry,  for  religion,  and  for 
war. 

LEIGH  HUNT 

Rondeau 

P.  434.  This  charming  little  poem  is  said  to 
have  been  the  result  of  Mrs.  Carlyle's  expression 


NOTES 


751 


of  delight  when  Hunt  announced  that  the  pub- 
lishers had  accepted  Carlyle's  History  of  Frederick 
the  Great. 

THOMAS   DE  QUINCEY 

Pp.  434  ff.  The  Confessions  of  an  Opitim  Eater 
is  a  literary  elaboration  of  a  class  of  experiences 
never  before  put  into  literary  form.  De  Quincey 
began  taking  opium  when  he  was  a  student  at  Ox- 
ford and  continued  all  his  life,  although,  after  sev- 
eral severe  crises,  he  succeeded  in  reducing  the 
amount  very  greatly.  His  Confessions  became 
immediately  popular,  doubtless  rather  through 
morbid  interest  in  the  theme  than  through  appre- 
ciation of  his  art. 

The  fact  is,  however,  that  he  gives  singularly 
little  definite  information  in  regard  to  either 
the  sensations  or  the  dreams  produced  by  opiimi. 
His  method  is  to  take  a  comparatively  small  body 
of  experiential  fact  and  play  with  it  as  a  musician 
plays  with  a  theme  in  a  fugue  or  a  symphony. 
His  high  place  among  writers  of  English  prose  is 
due  chiefly  to  the  elaborate  and  subtle  rhythms  he 
builds  up  in  his  long,  involved  sentences.  For  the 
suggestions  of  these  he  is  indebted  to  the  writers 
of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  es- 
pecially Hooker,  Sir  Thomas  BrowTie,  Jeremy 
Taylor  and  ^Milton. 

P.  435  b.  My  knowledge  of  the  Oriental  tongues. 
The  reader  might  infer  that  De  Quincey  knew  the 
Arabic  and  Turkish  words  he  mentions  at  the  time 
of  the  visit  of  the  Malay,  but  this  visit  —  if  it 
ever  occurred  —  is  placed  by  him  in  1816-1817 
(see  p.  438  a),  at  least  two  years  before  the  pub- 
lication of  Anastasius.  The  fact  is  that  De 
Quincey  was  a  little  vain  in  regard  to  his  learning 
—  even  when,  as  here,  it  was  very  small  —  and 
rarelj'  neglects  aif  opportunity  to  insinuate  it. 

The  quantity  was  enough  to  kill  three  dragoons 
and  their  horses.  At  the  usual  price  of  opium, 
this  amount  was  an  expensive  gift  for  so  poor  a 
man  as  De  Quincey  to  make.  But  the  incident 
is  picturesque. 

P.  436  h.  as  a  witty  author  has  it.  The  refer- 
ence is  to  Southey's  The  Devil's  Walk,  st.  8  : 

"  He  passed  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-house, 

A  cottage  of  gentility : 
And  he  owned  with  a  grin 
That  his  favorite  sin 

Is  pride  that  apes  humility." 

P.  438  b.  as  unlimited  a  command  .  :  .  as  a 
Roman  centurion,  an  allusion  to  the  reply  of  the 


centurion  to  Jesus :  "  I  say  unto  this  man  '  Go,' 
and  he  goeth ;  and  to  another  *  Come,'  and  he 
Cometh."     Matt,  viii :  9. 

P.  440  b.  That  Homer  knew  of  opium  and  its 
effects  is  inferred  from  the  account  in  the  Odyssey, 
IV,  220-221,  of  the  drug  which  Helen  cast  into  the 
drink  of  the  heroes  who  were  lamenting  those  who 
had  fallen  in  the  Trojan  war,  to  luU  pain  and 
cause  forgetf ulness ;  but  there  is  no  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  this  implies  that  Homer  had  any  per- 
sonal experience  of  the  drug. 

P.  441  a.  Observe  how  sUght  a  use  is  made  of 
the  Malay  after  all  the  elaborate  preparations  of 
pp.  435-436.  De  Quincey  seems  often  to  secure 
his  effects  upon  his  readers  rather  by  awakening 
enormous  expectations  and  suppl>nng  eloquent 
generalizations  than  h\  given  specific  details  of 
horror  or  obsession.  The  passage  at  the  foot  of 
p.  441  b  has  been  greatly  and  justly  admired,  but 
except  in  it  and  the  passages  on  pp.  442-443  he 
displays  little  faculty  for  visual  imagery,  despite 
what  he  saj^s  in  p.  438  b.  His  method  furnishes 
a  remarkable  example  of  the  use  and  effectiveness 
of  "atmosphere"  —  which  he  creates  abundantly. 

P.  442  a.  my  children  were  standing,  hand  in 
hand,  at  my  bedside.  At  this  date  he  had  only  one 
child  —  an  infant  in  arms ;  he  married  Margaret 
Simpson  —  the  "dear  M."  of  p.  437  b  —  in  1816. 
The  first  child  was  born  in  181 7. 

Easter  Sunday.  A  dream-confusion ;  Easter 
cannot  occur  in  May. 

P.  443  b.     "I  will  sleep  no  more  1"     But  he  did. 

LORD   BYRON 

Byron  is  not  a  poet  whose  work  requires  to  be 
studied  in  detail,  though  his  powerful  imagination 
often  produces  images  and  phrases  that  do  not 
reveal  their  full  significance  without  careful 
reflection.  In  general,  it  is  the  larger,  broader 
phases  of  his  work  that  demand  attention,  —  his 
emotional  power,  his  creative  imagination.  That 
much  of  his  pOetry  is  the  product  of  hysterical  sen- 
timentality, partly  natural  and  partly  cultivated, 
is  true,  and  this  has  been  the  cause  of  strange 
ups  and  downs  in  his  reputation ;  but  his  genius  is 
imdeniable,  and  few  English  poets  have  exercised 
so  powerful  an  influence  upon  foreign  literature. 

English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers 

Pp.  443  ff.  In  1807  Byron  published  his  first 
volume  of  verse.  Hours  of  Idleness.  It  was  un- 
favorably reviewed  in  the  Edinburgh  Renew,  one 
of  the  two  most  influential  magazines  of  the  time. 


752 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


This  is  his  reply.  That  his  judgments  are  the  prod- 
uct, not  of  intelligence,  but  of  emotion,  may  be 
inferred  from  the  praise  he  lavishes  upon  forgotten 
versifiers  such  as  Montgomery,  Bloomfield,  Gifford, 
Macneil,  White  and  Shee.  In  his  preface  he  says, 
referring,  we  may  presume,  to  Scott,  Wordsworth, 
and  Coleridge:  "But  the  uncjuestionable  posses- 
sion of  considerable  genius  by  several  of  the  writers 
here  censured,  renders  their  mental  prostitution 
the  more  to  be  regretted.  Imbecility  may  be  pitied 
or,  at  worst,  laughed  at  and  forgotten ;  perverted 
powers  demand  the  more  decided  reprehension." 
P.  445.  11.  235-238.  "Mr.  W.,  in  his  Preface, 
labors  hard  to  prove  that  prose  and  verse  are 
much  the  same,  and  certainly  his  precepts  and 
practice  are  strictly  conformable."     Byron's  Note. 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage 

The  very  title  of  this  poem,  no  less  than  the 
occasional  archaic  diction,  serves  to  create  an 
atmosphere  of  artificiality  appropriate  to  its 
blase  hero,  steeped  in  the  unconquerable  melan- 
choly of  youth.  There  is,  perhaps,  no  period  in 
the  life  of  an  imaginative  and  sensitive  man  at 
which  melancholy  holds  him  so  fast,  —  at  which 

"  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world" 

bears  so  sadly  upon  him  —  as  when  he  is  just  pass- 
ing from  youth  to  manhood.  This  was  the  period 
at  which  Byron  began  this  poem,  and  he  had,  in 
addition  to  youth's  natural  causes  of  melancholy, 
some  special  ones,  arising  from  his  morbid 
pride  and  sensitiveness,  accentuated  by  fits  of 
nervous  exhaustion  and  reaction  from  a  life  of 
excessive  self-indulgence. 

The  poem  is  a  series  of  more  or  less  connected 
descriptions  and  meditations,  suggested  by  the 
scenes  through  which  his  imaginary  pilgrim  took 
his  proud  and  lonely  way.  The  subjects  are  very 
varied,  and  it  is  interesting  to  note  how  the  poet 
has  made  the  Spenserian  stanza  respond  to  all 
the  moods  and  movements  of  his  themes. 

The  extracts  give  a  few  of  the  many  famous 
passages. 

The  first  (Canto  I,  11.  1-197)  describes  the  pil- 
grim and  his  departure  on  his  pilgrimage.  Note 
his  pride  in  his  profligacy  and  his  unfaithfulness  in 
love,  his  disbelief  in  friendship,  his  sullen  aloof- 
ness, and  —  despite  all  this  —  his  fundamental 
capacity  for  strong  and  genuine  affection.  His 
attitude  is  indicated  in  the  very  first  stanza  by 
his  refusal  to  invoke  the  Muse. 


1.  I.     Hellas,  ancient  Greece. 

1.  6.  Delphi,  the  shrine  of  Apollo,  god  of  music 
and  poetry.  He  obtained  the  lyre  from  Hermes, 
who  had  stretched  strings  across  a  tortoise  shell 
(see  1.  8)  and  produced  the  first  lyre. 

1.  8.  Mole,  an  ancient  form  meaning  may. 
Other  archaisms,  for  which  the  dictionary  may  be 
consulted,  are  whilome  (1.  10),  in  sooth  (1.  14), 
Childe  (1.  19),  hight  (1.  19),  losel  (1.  23),  Eremite 
(1.  36),  letnans  (1.  77), /cere  (1.  79),  Paynim  (1.  99). 

1.  8.  the  weary  Nine,  the  nine  muses,  who  ha\e 
been  invoked  by  so  many  generations  of  poets. 

P.  446.  1.  61.  Paphian  girls.  Paphos,  in 
Cyprus,  was  the  seat  of  one  of  the  most  famous 
temples  of  Aphrodite  (Venus).  Here  the  adjec- 
tive is  applied  to  devotees  of  sensual  love. 

1.  79.  Eros  (Cupid),  the  god  of  capricious  sen- 
sual love,  fcere,  an  old  word  for  companion, 
friend. 

I.  81.  Mammon,  the  Syrian  god  of  wealth  (see 
Par.  Z,05<,  I,' 11.  678-688). 

P.  447.  The  second  extract  (Canto  III,  11.  181- 
252)  begins  with  the  ball  in  Brussels  the  night 
before  the  battle  of  Quatre  Bras  (two  days  before 
Waterloo)  and  passes  almost  immediately  to  the 
battle  itself  (11.  200-207) .  The  Duke  of  Brunswick 
was  one  of  the  first  leaders  to  leave  the  ball  and 
one  of  the  first  to  fall  in  the  battle.  His  father 
was  mortally  wounded  nine  years  before  in  the 
battle  of  Auerstadt. 

II.  226-234.  The  memories  of  clan  Cameron  in- 
cluded the  great  deeds  of  Evan  in  the  war  of  the 
Commonwealth  and  of  his  son  Donald,  called  "  the 
gentle  Lochiel,"  in  behalf  of  Prince  Charles  Stuart 
in  1745.  A  pibrock  is  a  piece  of  warlike  Scottish 
music  played  on  the  bagpipes ;  that  of  clan  Cam- 
eron was  "Cameron's  Gathering." 

P.  448.  1.  235.  The  forest  of  Soignies,  between 
Brussels  and  Waterloo,  said  by  Byron  to  be  a 
remnant  of  the  ancient  forest  of  Ardennes, 
is  mentioned  here  on  account  of  its  associations 
with  peace. 

The  third  extract  (Canto  III,  11.  604-675)  is 
devoted  by  the  poet  to  setting  forth  his  attitude 
toward  Nature  and  Man  and  the  effect  of  Nature 
upon  himself. 

P.  449.  The  three  stanzas  (Canto  IV,  11.  694- 
720)  demand  some  familiarity  with  the  history 
of  Rome.     They  need  no  other  commentary. 

And  none  seems  needed  by  the  two  remaining 
extracts,  devoted  respectively  to  a  cynical  view  of 
love  (Canto  IV,  II.  1081-1125)  and  to  a  contrast 


NOTES 


753 


of  the  works  of  Man  with  the  desert,  the  forest, 
and  the  ocean  (Canto  IV,  U.  15S7-1656). 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon 

Pp.  451  S.  Bonnivard,  celebrated  in  the  pref- 
ator}^  sonnet,  was  a  Genevan  patriot,  imprisoned 
for  six  years  in  the  castle  of  Chillon,  four  of  which 
he  spent  in  the  dungeon.  He  was  released  by  his 
own  party  and  seems  to  have  lived  for  some  thirty- 
four  years  more.  His  story,  though  not  very  simi- 
lar to  that  of  "the  prisoner,"  no  doubt  suggested 
the  poem. 

Ode 

Pp.  455  S.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  gen- 
uineness of  Byron's  interest  in  political  independ- 
ence. It  is  attested  not  only  by  the  sonnet  on 
Chillon,  this  Ode,  and  many  other  passages  in  his 
writings,  but  by  his  devotion  of  his  money  and  his 
life  to  the  struggle  for  the  independence  of  Greece. 
At  the  time  this  Ode  was  written,  Venice,  once  a 
glorious  and  powerful  republic,  had  been  since 
1797  a  possession  of  Austria.  Austrian  governors 
sat  in  the  ancient  seat  of  the  doges,  and  Austrian 
soldiers  paraded  with  drums  and  guns  in  the 
streets  and  in  the  Piazza  di  San  Marco ;  the 
ancient  spirit  of  patriotism  seemed  dead  or  at 
least  alive  only  in  the  hearts  of  a  few  conspira- 
tors, who  held  meetings  in  Byron's  own  apart- 
ments. Every  reader  will  wish  to  read  in  con- 
nection with  this  Ode,  Ruskin's  The  Stones  of 
Venice,  Vol.  II,  Chap.  IV  (cf.  above,  pp.  582  ff.), 
especially  §§  xii-xv. 

This  Ode  is  very  uneven  in  conception  and 
execution.  Cantos  I  and  IV  are  well  conceived 
and  in  general  nobly  expressed ;  Cantos  II  and 
III  are  awkward  and  uncertain  in  thought  and 
awkward  and  involved  in  style. 

After  four  lines  of  invocation  to  the  citj'. 
Canto  I  is  devoted  to  a  merciless  arraignment  of 
the  Venetians  for  cowardice  and  submission  to 
the  tyrant  Austria.  Even  the  carved  Lion  of  St. 
Mark,  the  patron  saint  of  the  city,  is  made  to 
appear  subdued  and  spiritless  (1.  19)  and  the  city 
is  compared  to  a  dying  man  (11.  37-55). 

In  Canto  II  (11.  56-100)  the  same  theme  is  con- 
tinued in  confused  fashion,  with  almost  unin- 
telligible references  to  "the  few  spirits"  who  love 
freedom  and  are  not  appalled  at  thought  of  the 
crimes  which  the  mob  will  commit  in  freedom's 
name  when  the  prison  wall  is  thundered  down. 

P.  456.  Canto  III  recites  some  of  the  former 
glories  of  Venice  and  her  services  in  preserving 


freedom  for  Europe,  and,  finally,  the  poor  requital 
she  has  received. 

Canto  IV  predicts  the  disappearance  of  freedom 
from  Europe  with  the  subjugation  of  Switzerland 
and  declares  America  to  be  its  only  remaining 
refuge. 

PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

Pp.  458  ff.  Shelley's  poetry  should  be  read  in 
the  light  of  his  own  views  of  the  nature  and  value 
of  poetry.  These  are  given  with  clearness  and  elo- 
quence in  his  Defense  of  Poetry,  which,  with  the 
views  of  sixteen  other  poets,  including  Chaucer, 
Sidney,  Spenser,  Milton,  Wordsworth,  and  Cole- 
ridge, is  published  in  a  small  volume  entitled  The 
Prelude  to  Poetry,  edited  by  Ernest  Rhys  (J.  M. 
Dent  and  Co.).  What  the  poets  themselves 
thought  about  the  nature  and  value  of  their  own 
art  is  surely  of  greater  interest  to  lovers  of  it  than 
the  disquisitions  of  critical  system  makers. 

Alastor 

Alastor  is  not  the  name  of  the  hero  or  any  other 
character  in  the  poem  —  indeed  there^re  no  other 
characters.  It  is  a  Greek  word  meaning  an  evil 
spirit ;  Shelley's  intention  was  to  set  forth  solitude 
as  evil  and  even  fatal.  "The  Poet's  self-centred 
seclusion  was  avenged  by  the  furies  of  an  irre- 
sistible passion  pursuing  him  to  speedy  ruin." 
But  Shelley's  sympathy  is  so  obviously  engaged 
by  his  picture  of  the  youth  enamored  of  "his  own 
imaginations"  of  "all  of  wonderful,  or  wise,  or 
beautiful"  and  uniting  them  in  "  a  single  image," 
that  the  terror  of  the  poet's  fate  is  less  impressive 
than  the  charm  of  his  lonely  and  restless  pursuit 
of  lovehness  and  truth.  The  passage  here  giv-en 
contains  only  the  characterization  of  the  youth  and 
a  general  account  of  his  early  efforts  in  search  of 
truth.  The  quotation  from  St.  Augustine  is  from 
the  Confessions,  Bk.  Ill,  Chap.  I. 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 

Pp.  459  f.  The  basis  of  this  poem  is  Plato's 
doctrine  of  beauty;  cf.  especially  The  Banquet. 
It  gains  new  light  and  interest  from  a  comparison 
with  Spenser's //y?;;^  in  Honor  of  Beauty  and  Hymn 
of  Heavenly  Beauty  (see  pp.  120-122),  which  are 
based  upon  Neo-Platonism ;  that  is,  upon  the  ideas 
of  Plato  as  modified  by  later  Christian  and  non- 
Christian  philosophers  and  poets. 

The  following  quotation  from  Diotima's  conver- 
sation, as  given  by  Socrates  in  Plato's  Banquet, 


754 


ENGLISH   PROSE  AND   POETRY 


gives  the  principal  features  of  Plato's  doctrine  of 
beauty ;    the  translation  is  Shelley's  : 

"He  who  aspires  to  love  rightly,  ought  from  his 
earliest  youth  to  seek  an  intercourse  with  beautiful 
forms,  and  first  to  malce  a  single  form  the  object 
of  his  love,  and  therein  to  generate  intellectual 
excellences.  He  ought,  then,  to  consider  that 
beauty  in  whatever  form  it  resides  is  the  brother 
of  that  beauty  which  subsists  in  another  form; 
and  if  he  ought  to  pursue  that  which  is  beautiful 
in  form,  it  would  be  absurd  to  imagine  that  beauty 
is  not  one  and  the  same  thing  in  all  forms,  and 
would  therefore  remit  much  of  his  ardent  prefer- 
ence towards  one,  through  his  perception  of  the 
multitude  of  claims  upon  his  love.  In  addition, 
he  would  consider  the  beauty  which  is  in  souls 
more  excellent  than  that  which  is  in  form.  So 
that  one  endowed  with  an  admirable  soul,  even 
though  the  flower  of  the  form  were  withered, 
would  suffice  him  as  the  object  of  his  love  and  care, 
and  the  companion  with  whom  he  might  seek  and 
produce  such  conclusions  as  tend  to  the  improve- 
ment of  youth ;  so  that  it  might  be  led  to  observe 
the  beauty  and  the  conformity  which  there  is  in 
the  observation  of  its  duties  and  the  laws,  and  to 
esteem  little,  the  mere  beauty  of  the  outward  form. 
He  would  then  conduct  his  pupil  to  science,  so 
that  he  might  look  upon  the  loveliness  of  wisdom ; 
and  that  contemplating  thus  the  universal  beauty, 
no  longer  would  he  unworthily  and  meanly  en- 
slave himself  to  the  attractions  of  one  form  in  love, 
nor  one  subject  of  discipline  or  science,  but  would 
turn  towards  the  wide  ocean  of  intellectual  beauty, 
and  from  the  sight  of  the  lovely  and  majestic 
forms  which  it  contains,  would  abundantly  bring 
forth  his  conceptions  in  philosophy;  until, 
strengthened  and  confirmed,  he  should  at  length 
steadily  contemplate  one  science,  which  is  the 
science  of  this  universal  beauty. 

"Attempt,  I  entreat  you,  to  mark  what  I  say 
with  as  keen  an  observation  as  you  can.  He  who 
has  been  disciplined  to  this  point  in  Love,  by  con- 
templating beautiful  objects  gradually,  and  in 
their  order,  now  arriving  at  the  end  of  all  that 
concerns  Love,  on  a  sudden  beholds  a  beauty 
v/onderful  in  its  nature.  This  is  it,  O  Socrates, 
for  the  sake  of  which  all  the  former  labours  were 
endured.  It  is  eternal,  unproduced,  indestruc- 
tible; neither  subject  to  increase  nor  decay: 
not,  like  other  things,  partly  beautiful  and  partly 
deformed ;  not  beautiful  in  the  estimation  of  one 
person  and  deformed  in  that  of  another ;  nor  can 
this  supreme  beauty  be  figured  to  the  imagination 
like  a  beautiful  face,  or  beautiful  hands,  or  any 
portion  of  the  body,  nor  like  any  discourse  nor  any 


science.  Nor  does  it  subsist  in  any  other  that  live« 
or  is,  either  in  earth,  or  in  heaven,  or  in  any  other 
place;  but  it  is  eternally  uniform  and  consistent, 
and  monoeidic  with  itself.  All  other  things  are  - 
beautiful  through  a  participation  of  it,  with  this 
condition,  that  although  they  are  subject  to  pro' 
duction  and  decay,  it  never  becomes  more  or  less, 
or  endures  any  change.  When  any  one,  ascending 
from  a  correct  system  of  Love,  begins  to  contem- 
plate this  supreme  beauty,  he  already  touches  the 
consummation  of  his  labour.  For  such  as  dis- 
ciplined themselves  upon  this  system,  or  are  con- 
ducted by  another  beginning  to  ascend  through 
these  transitory  objects  which  are  beautiful, 
towards  that  which  is  beauty  itself,  proceeding  as 
on  steps  from  the  love  of  one  form  to  that  of  two, 
and  from  that  of  two  to  that  of  all  forms  which  are 
beautiful ;  and  from  beautiful  forms  to  beautiful 
habits  and  institutions,  and  from  institutions  to 
beautiful  doctrines ;  imtil,  from  the  meditation  of 
many  doctrines,  they  arrive  at  that  which  is 
nothing  else  than  the  doctrine  of  the  supreme 
beauty  itself,  in  the  knowledge  and  contemplation 
of  which  at  length  they  repose." 

OZYMANDIAS 

P.  460.  This  sonnet  was  written  by  Shelley  in 
friendly  competition  with  Leigh  -Hunt,  who  took 
the  river  Nile  as  his  subject  and,  on  this  one  occa- 
sion, proved  himself  Shelley's  equal.  The  theme 
is  taken  from  a  passage  in  Diodorus  Siculus,  who 
describes  the  gigantic  statue  and  records  the  in- 
scription. Here,  as  elsewhere,  Shelley  is  careless 
of  rhyme  and  other  details  of  form. 

Lines  Written  among  the  Euganeam 
Hills 

The  Euganean  Hills  are  near  Este  in  Italy,  south 
of  a  line  drawn  from  Padua  to  Verona.  The  view 
from  Shelley's  garden  was  a  wide  one  east  and 
south  and  west.  The  mood  of  the  poem  is  due  to 
Shelley's  ill  health  an&  the  recent  death  of  his 
infant  daughter. 

P.  461.  11.  212  ff.  Cf.  Byron's  Ode  and  Words- 
worth's sonnet  On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian 
Republic.  The  brutal  Celt  (1.  223)  is  inaccurately 
applied  to.  the  Austrians. 

1.  239.  Ezzelin.  Ezzelino  da  Romano  (1194- 
1259),  successively  conqueror  of  Verona,  Padua, 
Vicenza,  Feltre,  Trento  and  Brescia,  aspired  to  the 
conquest  of  Milan  and  all  Lombardy.  His  cruelty 
was  such  that  his  name  became  proverbial  and  the 


NOTES 


755 


legend  arose  that  his  mother  confessed  that  he  was 
the  son  of  Satan  himself.  He  is  placed  by  Dante, 
in  the  Inferno,  among  the  tyrants  expiating  the 
sin  of  cruelty,  and  his  career  was  the  subject  of  the 
first  modern  tragedy,  the  Eccerinus  of  Albertino 
Mussato.  The  dice  play  by  Sin  and  Death  — 
two  Miltonic  figures  —  was,  according  to  the 
poet,  to  decide  whether  he  should  continue  his  life 
of  sin  or  die. 

11.  256  ff.  Padua  was  the  seat  of  one  of  the  most 
famous  universities  of  mediaeval  and  early  modern 
times. 

P.  462. 1.  292.  point  of  heaven's  profound,  zenith 
of  the  fathomless  depths  of  air. 

1.  333.     Its,  the  frail  bark's  (1.  331). 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 

The  poet,  despondent  and  empty  of  energy, 
appeals  for  aid  to  the  West  Wind  of  Autumn. 
Stanzas  I,  II,  and  III  are  successive  apostrophes 
to  the  Wind  in  various  functions  and  aspects.  In 
stanzas  IV  and  V  he  makes  his  appeal  for  aid, 
and  as  his  inspiration  glows  and  his  pulses  quicken, 
he  passes  from  appeals  that  he  may  be  passively 
subject  to  the  Wind's  power  —  a  leaf  lifted  and 
driven  before  it,  or  a  lyre  responding  in  mighty 
harmonies  to  its  breath  —  to  a  praj'er  for  active 
union  in  spirit  and  power  to  scatter  his  thoughts 
among  men,  and  finally  reaches  a  triumphant 
recognition  that  the  coming  of  Winter  is  the  prom- 
ise of  Spring. 

The  poem  is  verj-  subtly  and  skilfully  con- 
structed. Not  only  do  the  last  two  stanzas  recall 
all  the  activities  of  the  first  three,  but  11.  64,  65  are 
beautifully  associated  with  11.  2-14,  and  the  trium- 
phant note  of  U.  68-70  is  prepared  for  by  the  words, 

"Thou  dirge 
Of  the  dying  year"  (11.  23,  24). 

The  stanzas  are  ingeniously  formed  from  the 
ierza  rima,  the  verse  of  Dante's  Divina  Commedia. 
Strictly  speaking,  the  terza  rima  ^  ends  with  the 
thirteenth  line  of  each  stanza;  Shelley,  in  order 
to  get  a  stanzaic  effect,  adds  another  line  rhym- 
ing with  the  thirteenth.  The  terza  rima  gives 
him  the  continuit}^  of  movement  within  the  stanza 

^  In  terza  rima  the  first  rhyme  and  the  last  must 
appear  twice  and  only  twice,  while  each  of  the  others 
must  appear  three  times.  The  rhyme  formula  is 
ababcbcdc  .  .  .  xwxyxyzyz.  Terza  rima  is  rare  in 
English.  Other  examples  of  it  in  this  volume  are 
Wyatt's  0/  the  Meane  and  Sure  Estate  (p.  98)  and 
Rossetti's  fragment,  Francesca  da  Rimini  (p.  629), 
translated  from  Dante. 


appropriate  to  his  subject;  the  couplet  rhyme 
gives  the  stanzaic  structure  necessary  to  his  plan. 

I.  9.  Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  is  not  the 
South  Wind,  as  has  sometimes  been  supposed,  for 
from  ancient  times  the  south  wind  has  been 
dreaded  in  Italy  (see  Vergil's  Eclogues  and 
Qeorgics,  passim).  The  wind  meant  is  the  West 
\\'ind  of  the  Spring,  sister  to  the  West  Wind  of 
Autumn. 

P.  463.  1.  21.  Maenad.  The  women  who  in 
ecstasy  took  part  in  the  rites  of  Dionj^sus,  with 
flying  hair  and  flaming  torches,  were  called  ^iae- 
nads  (the  frenzied  ones).  Everybody  who  has  not 
already  done  so  should  read  Professor  Gilbert 
Murray's  translation  of  the  Bacchce  of  Euripides. 

1.  32.  A  pumice  isle  is  one  formed  from  the  lava 
of  a  volcano.  Bates,  an  ancient  Roman  pleasiu'e 
resort,  is  the  modern  Baja,  a  few  miles  west  of 
Naples,  in  a  region  where  nearly  extinct  volcanoes 
still  rumble  and  spurt  feebly. 

The  Indian  Serenade 

There  are  several  versions  of  this  poem,  all 
apparently  originating  with  Shelley  himself. 
This  explains  the  variant  readings,  of  which  there 
are  several,  for  example  :  burning  for  shining  (1.  4) ; 
As  I  must  die  an  thine  (1.  15) ;  Beloved  as  thou  art 
(1.  16) ;  press  me  to  thine  own  and  press  it  close  to 
thine  again  (1.  23). 

The  Cloud 

P.  464.  11.  17-30.  Shelley  conceives  of  the 
Lightning  as  the  pilot  of  the  Cloud  and  as  itself 
following  the  movements  of  the  genii  that  move 
in  the  sea.  Wherever  the  Lightning  dreams,  the 
spirit  he  loves  wUI  be  found  below  —  under  moun- 
tain or  stream.  But  how  does  the  Lightning  dis- 
solve in  rain  (1.  30)  ?  One  would  e.xpect  the  Cloud 
to  do  that. 

To  a  Skylark 

Pp.  465  f .  This  flood  of  divine  rapture  is  one  of 
the  many  wonderful  poems  in  English  which  have 
so  impressed  lovers  of  the  beautifid,  that  even  v»e 
Americans,  to  whom  the  cuckoo,  the  English 
skylark,  and  the  nightingale  are  entirely  unknown, 
think  of  these  birds  as  sources  of  delight,  and  some 
of  us  who  "meddle  with  making,"  as  the  old 
scribbler  said,  have  even  written  about  them 
without  ever  having  heard  a  song  from  their 
throats.  Nearly  all  the  poem  is  devoted  to  the 
bird  itself  —  the  first  six  stanzas  to  pure  lyric 
outcries,  the  second  six  to  Ijric  comparisons  with 


756 


ENGLISH  PROSt  AND   POETRY 


other  forms  of  beauty,  then  six  to  a  contrast  of 
the  bird's  song  of  unalloyed  happiness  with  human 
music  with  its  constant  undertone  of  incomplete- 
ness and  longing ;  in  the  last  three  stanzas, 
reverting  to  the  appeal  of  11.  61-62,  the  poet  longs 
for  the  skill  of  the  bird. 

Adonais 

pp.  466  ff.  There  has  been  much  discussion  as 
to  the  formation  of  this  name,  but  no  entirely  satis- 
factory suggestion  has  yet  been  made.  The  sug- 
gestion that  it  is  formed  on  the  model  of  Thebais, 
a  poem  by  Statins  about  Thebes,  is  obviously 
unacceptable,  as  Adonais  is  primarily  the  name, 
not  of  the  poem,  but  of  the  subject  of  it.  The 
name  —  pronounced,  of  course,  as  four  syllables  — 
is  at  any  rate  formed  from  Adonis  (see  note  on 
1.  12),  and  is  intended  to  suggest  his  beauty  and 
lamentable  fate. 

Neither  Shelley  nor  Byron  approved  of  Keats's 
early  poems.  But  Shelley,  at  least,  said  of  the 
fragment  Hyperion  that  it  was  "second  to  nothing 
that  was  ever  produced  by  a  writer  of  the  same 
years,"  and  he  was  sincerely  concerned  when  he 
heard  that  Keats  was  ill.  He  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Leigh  Hunt:  "Where  is  Keats  now?  I  am 
anxiously  expecting  him  in  Italy,  where  I  shall 
take  care  to  bestow  every  possible  attention  on 
him.  .  ,  I  intend  to  be  the  physician  both  of 
his  body  and  his  soul.  ...  I  am  aware  indeed, 
in  part,  that  I  am  nourishing  a  rival  who  will  far 
surpass  me ;  and  this  is  an  additional  motive, 
and  will  be  an  added  pleasure."  Keats,  however, 
went  to  Rome,  and  SheUey,  who  was  in  Pisa, 
knew  of  his  death  only  by  report,  which,  as  he  says 
in  his  preface,  accounts  for  the  fact  that  he  did 
not  celebrate  in  the  poem  the  friendship  and  care 
of  the  painter  Severn,  who  "almost  risked  his 
own  life  and  sacriiiced  every  prospect  to  unwearied 
attendance  upon  his  dying  friend."  The  poem  is 
no  less  the  product  of  Shelley's  indignation  against 
reviewers  in  general  and  the  writer  of  the  savage 
criticism  of  Endymion  in  the  Quarterly  Review 
in  particular,  than  of  his  sorrow  for  the  death  of 
Keats.  And  it  perhaps  suffers  from  what  Shelley 
himself  calls  the  "interposed  stabs  on  the  assassins 
of  his  peace  and  of  his  fame."  Shelle_v  was,  of 
course,  wrong  in  supposing  that  the  unfavorable 
criticisms  of  the  Quarterly  Review  (or  the  still 
more  savage  ones  of  Blackwood's  Magazine) 
seriously  affected  the  health  of  Keats.  Keats 
himself  said  :  "Praise  or  blame  has  but  a  momen- 
tary effect  on  the  man  whose  love  of  beauty  in  the 
abstract  makes  him  a  severe  critic  of  his  own 


works.  My  own  domestic  criticism  has  given  me 
])ain  without  comparison  beyond  what  Black- 
wood's or  the  Quarterly  could  possibly  inflict  — 
and  also  when  I  feel  I  am  right,  no  external  praise 
can  give  me  such  a  glow  as  my  own  solitary  reper- 
ccption  and  ratification  of  what  is  fine.  J.  S.  is 
perfectly  right  in  regard  to  the  slipshod  Endymion." 

Adonais,  though  one  of  the  most  beautiful  poems 
in  the  language,  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  to  read 
with  thorough  comprehension.  This  arises  from 
two  facts.  In  the  first  place,  Shelley  was  at  this 
time  steeped  in  classical  literature,  and  not  only 
is  his  verse  packed  with  classical  allusions  and 
reminiscences,  but  his  diction  also  is  subtle  and 
often  affected  by  classical  usage.  His  confidence 
that  the  poem  had  not  been  "born  to  an  immor- 
tality of  oblivion"  has,  of  course,  been  fulfilled. 
He  was  no  less  right  in  calling  it  a  highly  wrought 
piece  of  art  than  in  declaring  that  "it  is  absurd  in 
any  review  to  criticise  Adonais  and,  still  more,  to 
pretend  that  the  verses  are  bad."  In  the  second 
place,  the  mysticism  of  the  poem,  based  in  large 
part  upon  the  ideas  of  Plato,  though  perhaps  fur- 
nishing the  sincerest  and  most  effective  stanzas, 
involves  many  difficulties  of  thought  for  readers 
who  have  not  already  become  somewhat  familiar 
with  these  ideas.  The  best,  indeed  the  indispen- 
sable, method  of  understanding  and  appreciating 
the  poem  thoroughly  is  to  read  for  the  classical 
allusions  and  reminiscences  Bion's  Lament  for 
Adonis  (Idyl  I),  Moschus's  Lament  for  Bion  (Idyl 
III),  Theocritus's  5'owg  of  Thyrsis  (Idyl  I),  Vergil's 
Eclogues  V  and  X,  and  Milton's  Lycidas;  and  for 
the  mystical  ideas,  Plato's  Timaus,  Phcedrus,  and 
Phado,  Spenser's  Hymn  in  Honor  of  Beauty  (p. 
120),  and  Hymn  of  Heavenly  Beauty  (p.  121),  and 
Wordsworth's  Lines  Composed  Above  Tintern 
Abbey,  11.  93-102  (p.  385).  For  the  doctrine  of 
Plato's  ideas,  some  readers  may  prefer  to  consult, 
instead  of  Plato  himself,  the  summary  and  discus- 
sion by  Walter  Pater  in  Plato  and  Platonism,  Chap. 
VII.  It  is  not  enough  to  consult  the  works 
enumerated  above,  when  references  are  given  in 
the  notes.  They  should  be  read  after  the  poem 
has  been  read  carefully  at  least  once,  and  then  the 
poem  should  be  read  again ;  for  the  stud}'  of  liter- 
ary relationships  becomes  vital  only  when  it  is 
a  study  of  related  wholes,  not  of  minor  details. 

The  verse  is  the  well-known  Spenserian  stanza. 
It  is  interesting  to  contrast  the  effect  of  it  as  used 
by  Shelley  with  its  effect  as  used  by  Spenser,  on 
the  one  hand,  and  Byron,  on  the  other.  Although 
the  same  metrical  scheme  is  used  by  each  of  these 
writers,  the  effects  produced  are  as  different  as  if 
the  metrical  schemes  were  entirely  different. 


NOTES 


757 


The  general  outline  of  the  poem  may  be  briefly 
indicated.  11.  1-9,  The  subject  stated.  II.  10- 
72,  Appeal  to  Urania' to  come  where  Adonais  lies, 
il.  73-153,  The  lamentations  of  Dreams,  Desires, 
Adorations,  Morning,  Ocean,  Echo,  Spring,  and 
the  Nightingale.  11.  154-189,  Contrast  between 
the  renewal  of  nature  and  the  fate  of  man.  11.  190- 
261,  The  visit  of  Urania  to  the  bier  of  Adonais, 
and  her  lament.  11.  262-315,  The  visit  of  the 
"mountain  shepherds."  11.  316-342,  Attack  upon 
the  critic  of  the  Quarterly.  II.  343-369,  Denial 
that  the  passing  away  from  earth  is  death.  11. 
370-396,  The  incorporation  of  Adonais  with  "the 
loveliness  which  once  he  made  more  lovely"  as  his 
part  in  the  work  of  the  "One  Spirit."  11.  397-414, 
The  welcome  accorded  him  by  "the  inheritors  of 
unfulfilled  renown."  11.  415-459,  Rebuke  of  any 
one  so  foolish  as  not  to  recognize  the  fate  of 
Adonais  as  a  blessed  one.  11.  460-495,  The  thirst 
of  the  soul  for  the  Absolute,  —  the  Eternal  Beauty, 
Light,  and  Truth. 

1.  I.     Cf.  Bion,  II.  I  ff. 

1.  3.     so  dear  a  head.     Horace's  Odes,  I,  xxiv,  2. 

1.  4.  Hour.  Not  one  of  the  classical  Horae, 
but  a  personification  of  the  hour  made  illustrious 
by  the  death  of  Keats  (cf.  obscure  in  the  next  hne). 

1.  10.  Where  werl  Ihou.  Cf .  the  Song  of  Thyrsis 
(Theocritus,  Idyl  I)  and  Vergil,  Eclogue  X. 

1.  12.  Urania  is  clearly  the  Uranian  Aphrodite 
discussed  in  Plato's  Banqiiet,  180,  187,  etc.,  and 
there  identified  with  the  Muse,  who  is  mentioned 
in  the  Phcedrus  in  the  following  terms:  "But  to 
Calliope,  the  eldest,  and  Urania,  the  second  of  the 
nine,  they  bare  tidings  of  those  who  pass  their  lives 
in  philosophic  study  and  the  observance  of  their 
peculiar  music,  these  we  know  being  the  muses  who 
having  heaven  for  their  special  sphere,  and  words 
both  divine  and  human,  pour  forth  the-  gladdest 
strains."  It  is  the  Uranian  Aphrodite  who  is  the 
mighty  mother  of  all  living  things  (1.  10).  This 
phase  of  Aphrodite,  or  Venus,  is  not  only  cele- 
brated by  Plato  and  Greek  poets,  but  is  also  the 
subject  of  the  magnificent  lines  with  which  Lucre- 
tius begins  his  De  Rerum  Natura.  This  explains 
why  Adonais  is  made  the  son  of  the  Uranian 
Aphrodite  in  contrast  to  Adonis,  the  lover  of  the 
Pandemian  Aphrodite. 

1.  16.  melodies,  referring  not  merely  to  the  Ode 
to  the  Nightingale,  but  to  all  the  poems  written  by 
Keats  after  he  became  aware  of  his  condition. 

1.  20.     wake  and  weep.     Cf.  Bion,  11.  3,  4. 

1.  24.  where  all  things  wise  and  fair  descend. 
Cf.  Bion,  1.  55. 

1.  29.  He  died.  Cf.  Moschus,  11.  71  ff.,  who 
celebrates  Homer  as  Shelley  here  does  Milton. 


P.  467.  1.  36.  the  third.  The  other  two  are 
certainly  Homer  and  Dante.  See  Shelley's  De- 
fense of  Poetry,  where  he  not  only  calls  Homer, 
Dante,  and  Milton  the  three  great  epic  poets,  but 
speaks  of  Vergil  as  not  among  the  highest. 

1.  39.  "Those  who  recognize  their  limita- 
tions"; perhaps  a  reminiscence  of  the  words  of 
Socrates  in  the  Phadrus:  "I  possess  something 
of  prophetic  skiU,  though  no  very  great  amount, 
but  like  indifferent  writers  just  enough  for  my 
own  purposes." 

1.  46.     Cf.  Moschus,  U.  74,  75. 

I.  47.     Cf.  Bion,  1.  59. 

II.  48-49.     A  reference  to  Keats's  poem  Isabella. 

I.  55.    Cf.  U.  424-437- 

I.  61.     Cf.  Bion,  U.  71  ff. 

1.  63.  liquid  =  serene.  Cf.  Vergil's  Georgics, 
IV,  59;    Mneid,  X,  272. 

1.  69.  The  eternal  Hunger,  the  same  as  invisible 
Corruption  (1.  67). 

I.  73.  The  quick  Dreams,  the  poetical  concep- 
tions of  Keats,  here  take  the  place  of  the  Graces, 
the  Muses,  etc.,  of  Bion  and  Moschus. 

I.  78.  Cf.  "Those  thoughts  that  wander 
through  eternity,"  Paradise  Lost,  II,  148. 

I.  88.     Cf.  1.  14. 

P.  468.  1.  127.  Lost  Echo.  Cf.  Bion,  11.  35  ff., 
and  Moschus,  U.  30-31. 

II.  133,  140,  141.  The  well-known  stories  of 
Echo,  Narcissus,  and  Hyacinthus  may  L:' found 
in  Gayley's  Classic  Myths  or  any  classical  dic- 
tionary. 

1.  145.  Moschus  (U.  9  ff.,  cf.  11.  45  ff.)  also 
calls  upon  the  nightingale  to  lament  for  Bion,  but 
Shelley  has  in  mind  Keats's  Ode  to  a  Nightingale, 
as  is  shown  by  thy  spirit's  sister. 

U.  154  ff.  The  contrast  between  the  yearly 
renewal  of  the  flowers  and  the  finality  of  human 
death  is  also  the  subject  of  one  of  the  finest  pas- 
sages in  the  Lament  for  Bion,  11.  loi  ff. 

P.  469.  1.  172.  The  leprous  corpse,  i.e., 
earth. 

I.  186.  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti's  explanation  that 
"in  this  our  mortal  state  death  is  the  solid  and 
permanent  fact  .  .  .  the  phenomena  of  life  are 
but  like  a  transitory  loan  from  the  great  em- 
porium, death,"  seems  out  of  harmony  with  the 
context.  Throughout  the  stanza  Shelley  is  talk- 
ing about  grief.  Read  the  whole  stanza  carefully 
and  note  the  must  in  1.  188  as  well  as  in  1.  186. 

II.  212-213.  Cf.  what  Agathon  says  of  the  feet 
of  Love  in  Plato's  Banquet,  195.  , 

I.  219.  Blushed  to  annihilation.  The  figure  is 
rather  difficult  until  one  remembers  that  the 
essential  nature  of  death  implies  paleness.     Blush- 


758 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND  POETRY 


ing  would  imply  the  annihilation  of  death  by 
changing  it  into  life. 

1.  224.  The  distress  of  Urania  gives  encourage- 
ment to  Death,  who  becomes  himself  again. 

I.  227.  A  literal  translation  from  Bion,  11.  45, 
46. 

P.  470.  1.  23S.  The  unpastured  dragon  is  the 
critic  of  the  Quarterly,  hungry  for  victims;  but, 
as  1.  240  shows,  Shelley  had  in  mind  the  story  of 
Perseus  and  the  dragon  which  was  to  devour 
Andromeda. 

I.  240.  Wisdom,  the  mirrored  shield,  is  suggested 
by  the  polished  shield  of  Athene  (Goddess  of  Wis- 
dom), which  Perseus  used  as  a  mirror  when  he 
slew  Medusa. 

II.  244  ff.  The  wolves,  ravens,  and  vultures  are 
the  detractors  of  poets  in  general. 

1.  250.  The  Pythian  of  the  age  is  Byron ;  and 
the  one  arrow,  his  famous  English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers. 

1.  261.  Poets  akin  to  the  god-like  mind  of  1.  258 
as  the  immortal  stars  of  1.  256  are  to  the  sun  of  1. 

253- 

1.  262.  The  shepherds  come  to  lament  Daph- 
nis  in  Theocritus,  and  Lycoris  in  Vergil,  as  Keats's 
fellow  poets  (poetically  called  shepherds)  come  to 
lament  him. 

1.  264.  The  Pilgrim  of  Eleruiiy  is  Byron.  The 
phrase  was  doubtless  suggested  by  Childe  Harold's 
Pilgrimage,  Canto  III,  1.  629  (see  p.  448). 

1.  268.     lerne  =  Ireland. 

I.  269.  Ttiomas  Moore  wrote  many  songs 
about  the  ancient  glories  and  modem  sorrows  of 
Ireland.  Her  saddest  wrong  refers  not  to  any  par- 
ticular event,  but  to  her  calamitous  history  in 
general. 

II.  271-306.  Shelley  himself  is  the  subject  of 
these  lines,  which  emphasize  his  love  of  beauty 
and  his  sense  of  ineffectiveness.  Curiously 
enough,  some  of  them,  as  well  as  the  final  lines  of 
the  poem,  are  strangely  prophetic  of  the  fate 
which  actually  overtook  him. 

I.  276.  The  fable  of  Act;con,  who  was  changed 
into  a  stag  and  destroyed  liy  his  own  hounds 
because  he  had  gazed  upon  Artemis  (Diana) 
bathing,  may  be  found  in  Gayley's  Classic 
Myths. 

II.  289-295.  This  picture  seems  strangely  sug- 
gestive of  the  god  Dionysus,  whose  mission  as  set 
forth  in  the  Bacchce  of  Euripides  must  have 
seemed  to  Shelley  to  resemble  his  own. 

.     1.  298.     What  does  partial  mean  here  ? 

P.  471.  1.  301.  The  accents  of  an  unknoimi  land 
most  probably  means  "in  imitation  of  Theocritus, 
Bion,  and  Moschus"  ;  for  the  gentle  band  (1.  299)  is 


composed  of  Enghsh  poets,  not  of  the  classical 
personages  earlier  invoked. 

11.  307-315.  Leigh  Hunt.'  Shelley  explains  in 
his  preface  that  he  did  not  know  of  the  services 
of  Severn  when  the  poem  was  written. 

1.  316.  Shelley  returns  to  the  attack  on  the 
critic  of  tlie  Quarterly.  Bion  is  also  said  by 
Moschus  to  have  drunk  'poison,  whether  literally, 
or,  like  Keats,  figuratively,  is  unknown. 

I.  325.  The  critic,  because  he  is  anonymous, 
has  not  even  the  fame  of  infamy,  as  the  burner 
of  the  Temple  of  Diana  at  Ephesus  has  (cf.  p. 
183). 

II.  338  ff.  The  remainder  of  the  poem  is  largely 
indebted  to  Plato.  The  indebtedness  is  so  general 
and  pervasive  that  to  appreciate  it  the  reader 
must  familiarize  himself  with  tlie  Platonic  ideas 
of  beauty,  love,  and  the  soul.  Only  a  few  special 
points  will  therefore  be  noted. 

11.  343-357.  Cf.  the  words  of  Socrates  in  the 
Phado,  106-110,  114-116. 

11.  345-348.  The  figure  may  have  been  sug- 
gested by  the  action  of  the  raving  Pentheus  in  the 
Bacchce  of  Euripides.     Dionysus  says :  — 

"On  that  he  rushed,  and  there. 

As  slaying  me  in  vengeance,  stood  stabbing  the 

thin  air." 

P.  472.  1.381.  ^/a^/zc,  moulding,  shaping.  The 
one  Spirit  is  the  absolute  existence,  the  "One"  of 
Plato's  philosophy  as  opposed  to  the  "Many," 
i.e.,  the  phenomena  of  this  world,  all  of  which 
are  manifestations  of  this  "One."  Cf.  Spenser's 
Hymn  in  Honor  of  Beauty,  11.  29-49  (P-  120). 

11.  399  ff.  Chatterton,  Sidney,  and  Lucan  are 
all  appropriately  mentioned  as  "inheritors  of  un- 
fulfilled renown,"  because  all  of  them  were  cut  off 
by  death  in  early  manhood.  Perhaps  few  will 
agree  with  Shelley  in  feeling  that  Lucan's  suicide 
atoned  for  his  willingness  to  betray  his  fellow ' 
conspirators,  though  SheUey  may  have  felt  that 
he  was  justified  in  the  conspiracy.  Shelley  may 
have  been  influenced  by  Plato  in  ascribing  con- 
scious immortality  to  the  souls  of  these  and  the 
many  whose  names  on  earth  are  dark  (1.  406). 

I.  412.     blind  —  dark. 

II.  422-423.  Apparently  the  meaning  is  "Keep 
thy  heart  light,  lest  thou  be  overwhelmed  with  a 
sense  of  the  pettiness  of  earth  and  be  tempted 
to  follow  Adonais." 

11.  438-449.  This  is  a  beautiful  description  of 
the  j)lacc  in  which  Keats  lies  buried,  "  the  roman- 
tic and  lonely  cemetery  of  the  Protestants  in  that 
city,  under  the  pyramid  which  is  tlic  tomb  of 


NOTES 


759 


Cestius,  and  the  massy  walls  and  towers,  now 
moiildcring  and  desolate,  which  formed  the  circuit 
of  ancient  Rome.  The  cemetery  is  an  open  space 
among  the  ruins,  covered  in  winter  with  violets 
and  daisies.  It  might  make  one  in  love  with 
death  to  think  that  one  should  be  buried  in  so 
sweet  a  place."  —  Shelley's  Preface  to  Adonais. 

P.  473.     1.  460.     Cf.  the  note  on  1.  381. 

1.  461.  The  same  idea  in  diCterent  words. 
That  earthly  phenomena  are  shadows  cast  by 
the  Hea\-enly  Light  is  set  forth  in  the  seventh 
book  of  Plato's  Republic. 

I.  463.  The  white  radiance  of  eternity  was 
doubtless  suggested  by  the  description  of  heaven 
in  Plato's  Phcedrus.  "Real  existence,  colorless, 
formless,  and  intangible,  visible  only  to  the  in- 
telligence which  sits  at  the  helm  of  the  soul  .  .  . 
has  its  abode  in  this  region."  The  comparison  of 
life  to  a  dome  of  many  colored  glass  may  con- 
ceivably have  been  suggested  by  the  fable  which 
Socrates  tells  Simmias  in  the  Phado  to  the  effect 
that  "this  earth,  if  any  one  should  survey  it  frorrf 
above,  is  like  one  of  those  balls  covered  with 
twelve  different  pieces  of  leather,  variegated  and 
distinguished  with  colors,"  thougli  that  of  course 
is  really  a  different  conception  from  this. 

II.  478-486.  The  ideas  of  this  stanza  are  all 
Platonic. 

Final  Chorus  from  Hellas 

Hellas  is  a  lyrical  drama  inspired  by  the  procla- 
mation of  Greek  independence  in  1821  and  cele- 
brating this  event  as  preluding  the  return  of  the 
"  Golden  Age."  Shelley  teUs  us  in  a  note  that  the 
Final  Chorus  was  suggested  by  the  prophetic 
visions  of  Isaiah  and  Vergil,  that  is,  especially  the 
sixty-fifth  chapter  of  Isaiah  and  the  fourth  Eclogue 
of  Vergil.  The  student  may  also  compare  Pope's 
Messiah,  which  was  likewise  suggested  by  Isaiah 
and  Vergil. 

U.  1-18.  A  belief  of  the  ancients  was  that  at 
the  end  of  many  thousand  years  all  the  heavenly 
bodies  would  have  returned  to  the  positions  they 
occupied  at  creation  and  the  events  of  history 
would  begin  to  repeat  themselves.  As  the 
Golden  Age  of  innocence  and  happiness  was,  in 
poetry  and  mythology,  placed  in  the  first  age  of  the 
world,  its  return  was  also  looked  for.  In  this 
poem  Shelley  develops  in  detail  this  ideal  of  his- 
toric recapitulation.  A  new  Greece  (Hellas) 
shall  arise'  with  all  the  beauties  and  glories  of 
ancient  Greek  history  and  poetry :  the  river 
Peneus,  the  vale  of  Tempe,  the  islands  of  the 
Cyclades  shall  again  be  scenes  of  pastoral  sim- 


plicit}-  and  delight;  the  great  adventures  of  the 
search  for  the  Golden  Fleece,  the  descent  of 
Orpheus  to  Hades  to  release  his  lost  Eurydice,  the 
return  of  Ulysses,  shall  all  be  relived. 

P.  474.  11.  19-24.  Pursuing  the  same  idea,  the 
poet  is  shocked  by  the  thought  that  the  evil  of 
the  past  will  also  be  renewed  —  the  Trojan  War, 
the  dark  tragedy  of  Qidipus  —  and  he  prays  that 
this  may  be  averted. 

11.  31-34.  "Saturn  and  Love  were  among  the 
deities  of  a  real  or  imaginary  state  of  innocence 
and  happiness.  All  those  who  fell,  or  the  gods  of 
Greece,  Asia  and  Egypt ;  the  One  who  rose,  or  Jesus 
Christ,  at  whose  appearance  the  idols  of  the  Pagan 
World  were  amerced  of  their  worship;  and  the 
many  unsubdued,  or  the  monstrous  objects  of  the 
idolatry  of  China,  India,  the  Antarctic  islands, 
and  the  native  tribes  of  America,  certainlj-  have 
reigned  over  the  understandings  of  men,  in  con- 
junction or  in  succession."  —  Shelley's  Note. 

JOHN   KEATS 
Ode  to  a  Nightingale 

The  poet,  listening  to  the  song  of  the  nightingale, 
is  affected  to  a  passion  of  tearful  delight  in  the 
happiness  of  the  bird  (11.  i-io),  and  longs  for  a 
magical  draught  of  summer  that  will  cause  him  to 
follow  the  bird  (11.  11-20),  leaving  behind  the  fever 
and  fret  of  the  world  (U.  21-30).  Imagination 
fulfils  his  desire,  and  he  finds  himself  in  the  forest 
of  his  fancy  (U.  31-40),  a  place  lighted  only  by 
moon-beams,  and  so  dim  tliat  he  discerns  the 
flowers  about  him  only  by  their  odors  (11.  41-50). 

Resuming  the  theme  of  the  first  stanza,  he 
declares  that,  as  he  listens  in  the  dark,  death 
seems  richer  and  sweeter  at  the  thought  that  the 
bird's  song  is  immortal  (11.  51-70). 

His  thoughts  are  brought  back  to  himself  and 
his  sorrows  by  the  word  "forlorn,"  and  as  the  song 
of  the  bird  fades  away  in  the  distance,  he  questions 
whether  it  may  not  have  been  "a  vision  or  a 
waking  dream." 

In  music  and  suggestiveness  of  diction,  in  beauty 
of  imagery,  in  sensuous  richness  of  conception,  this 
poem  has  never  been  surpassed  even  by  Keats 
himself.  It  must  be  read  often  and  in  many 
moods,  for  though  its  magical  charm  can  be  felt 
at  a  single  reading,  every  rift,  to  borrow  a  phrase 
from  Keats's  advice  to  Shelley,  is  loaded  with  ore. 

P.  475.  1.  9.  The  shadows  are  those  cast  by 
the  full  moon  (see  1.  36). 

U.  1 1-20.  The  draught  that  is  to  transport  the 
poet  away  from  the  weariness  and  sorrow  of  life 


760 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


is  no  draught  of  earthly  wine  (cf.  1.  32),  for  all  its 
taste  and  color,  but  the  wine  of  poetic  inspiration 
(cf.  11.  16,  33). 

1.  14.  Provencal  poetry,  though  he  knew  little 
about  it,  was  always  associated  in  Keats's  imagi- 
nation with  romantic  beauty  (cf.  The  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes,  1.  292,  and  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci). 

1.  16.  Hippocrene,  like  Lethe  (1.  4),  Dryad  (1.  7), 
Flora  (1.  13),  Bacchus  (1.  32),  is  fully  explained 
in  Gayley's  Classic  Myths. 

I.  32.  Bacchus  is  here  only  the  vulgar  god  of 
wine,  not  the  mystical  god  Dionysus.  There  is 
no  better  way  of  appreciating  these  two  different 
phases  of  the  same  Greek  god  than  by  reading 
in  succession  the  Cyclops  and  the  Bacchce  of  Eurip- 
ides (Shelley  translated  the  former). 

II.  65-67.  Cf.  Wordsworth's  Solitary  Reaper 
for  a  picture  much  akin  to  this. 

11.  69-70.  Why  these  lines  suggest  to  the  imagi- 
nation the  whole  world  of  romance,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say. 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 

Pp.  475  f.  This  urn,  like  the  deep  bowl  of  ivy- 
wood  which  the  Goatherd  gave  to  Thyrsis  for  sing- 
ing the  Affliction  of  Daphnis  (Theocritus,  Idyl  I), 
was  carved  with  a  succession  of  beautiful  scenes  and 
figures.  No  urn  exactly  answering  to  that  in  the 
poem  is  known;  some  editors  think  Keats  had  in 
mind  a  finely  carved  marble  urn  that  stood  in  the 
garden  of  Holland  House,  but  if  so,  he  has  not 
described  it  closely.  "Description"  is,  indeed, 
hardly  the  term  for  his  method  of  setting  these 
sculptured  scenes  before  our  eyes.  For  him  they 
live,  and  we  learn  what  they  are  like  only  from  the 
emotions  and  reflections '  they  produce  in  him. 
The  carvings  of  the  Goatherd's  bowl  are  perhaps 
no  less  beautiful,  but  the  descriptions  of  them  are 
simple  and  uncolored  by  emotion  or  reflection. 

The  urn  seems  to  present  two  main  scenes : 
(i)  the  rout  of  fleeing  maidens  and  pursuing  men 
^of  11.  8-10;  and  (2)  the  sacrificial  procession  of 
11.  31-37.  The  youth  piping  beneath  the  trees 
(1.  15)  and  the  bold  lover  (1.  17)  who  has  almost 
caught  the  maiden,  are  apparently  details  of  the 
first  scene;  and  the  little  town  of  silent  streets 
(H.  38-39)  is  obviously  not  in  the  picture,  but  only 
inferred  by  the  poet  from  the  crowd  that  follows 
the  priest  and  the  sacrificial  victim  to  the  forest 
altar,  — -  which  also  is  not  visible  except  to  the 
imagination  of  the  poet. 

The  fundamental  idea  of  the  poem  is,  of  course, 
the  permanence  of  all  these  beautiful  forms  and 
the  consequent  permanence  of  their  wild  ra])ture 


and  quiet  happiness,  as  contrasted  with  the  tran- 
siency of  human  happiness  and  the  cloying  of 
human  passion  that  wins  to  its  goal. 

1.  I.  unravished,  because  preserving  its  purity 
and  beauty. 

1.  2.    foster-child,  because  nursed  by  them. 

1.  3.  Sylvan  historian,  because  telling  tales  of 
woods,  as  well  as  of  men  (cf.  11.  15,  21,  32,  43). 

P.  476.  1.  7.  Tempe  and  Arcady,  delightful  re- 
gions in  Greece,  famous  in  mythology  and  poetry ; 
for  particulars,  see  Gayley. 

Ode 

P.  477.  This  charming  ode,  ascribing  to  the 
poets  of  the  past,  two  lives,  one  in  heaven,  and  the 
other,  through  their  poems,  here  on  earth,  shows 
a  sense  of  mirth  and  humor  in  dealing  with  a 
serious  subject  that  seldom  appears  in  Keats's 
verse,  but  is  very  frequent  in  his  letters.  In  11.  29- 
36  we  have  the  same  idea  as  in  Wordsworth's 
"Personal  Talk,  11.  51-56  (p.  391). 

Lines  on.  the  Mermaid  Tavern 

This  poem,  a  companion  piece  in  the  same 
metre  and  manner  as  the  preceding,  is  even  lighter 
in  tone.  Keats  might  have  shrunk  from  being 
"disrespectful  to  the  Equator,"  but  he  certainly 
treats  the  Zodiac  with  delightful  levity. 

The  Mermaid  Tavern  was  the  resort  of  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson,  Shakespeare,  and 
their  fellows  (see  Beaumont's  Letter  to  Ben 
Jonson,  p.  174  of  this  volume). 

1.19.     Why  new  old-sign  ? 

1.  22.  Which  of  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac  is  the 
Mermaid  ? 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci 

The  title  of  this  poem  (The  Beautiful  Lady  with- 
out Mercy)  is  taken  from  one  written  in  French 
by  Alain  Chartier  about  1400.  Keats  seems  to 
have  thought  it  was  written  in  Provencal  (cf. 
The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  1.  292).  The  English  trans- 
lation of  it  by  Richard  Ros  was  accessible  to  him 
among  the  poems  ascribed  to  Chaucer  in  Chalmers' 
English  Poets,  but  its  mediocre  quality  did  not  pre- 
vent him  from  being  fascinated  by  the  title -and 
writing  a  poem  to  suit  it. 

It  is  not  a  poem  that  the  student  should  try  to 
analyze  or  reason  about.  It  is  the  expression  of  a 
romantic  mood  by  means  of  a  combination  of 
romantic  figures  and  imagery  with  wonderful 
verbal  music.     It  should,  however,  be  read  with 


NOTES 


761 


recognition  of  the  art  with  which  the  withered 
sedge,  the  lonely  lake,  the  fairy  lady,  the  vision  of 
the  pale  kings  and  princes  who  had  been  her 
victims,  and,  indeed,  all  the  details,  are  combined 
to  harmonize  with  the  figure  of  the  knight;  and 
all  to  develop  the  suggestions  of  the  title. 

SONNETS 

Pp.  478  f.  Among  the  comparatively  few 
masters  of  the  sonnet,  Keats  ranks  very  high.  The 
six  chosen  for  this  volume  of  selections  illustrate 
various  themes  and  moods.  None  of  them  requires 
any  explanation.  With  that  on  The  Grasshopper 
and  the  Cricket  the  student  may  compare  Lovelace's 
The  Grasshopper,  p.  21S.  The  pedant  has  long 
been  shocked  to  note  that  in  the  one  On  First 
Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer  Keats  has  ascribed 
to  Cortez  a  feat  performed  by  Balboa,  and  has 
extended  the  bounds  of  Darien  perhaps  unwar- 
rantably. But  the  poem  as  a  poem  is  none  the 
less  admirable  on  those  accounts. 

Wordsworth  has  a  line  sonnet  To  Sleep  (p.  395), 
which  it  is  interesting  to  compare  with  Keats's 
on  the  same  subject.  It  is  somewhat  character- 
istic of  the  two  poets  that  Wordsworth  woos  Sleep 
as  the  — 

"Dear    mother    of    fresh    thoughts    and    joyous 
health," 

whereas  Keats  mingles  with  a  sensuous  pleasure 
in  sleep  itself  a  3'earning  for  it  as  shutting  out  the 
cares  and  sorrows  of  life.  Wordsworth's  is  a  fine 
wholesome  poem ;  Keats's  is  a  subtle  and  rich  work 
of  sensuous  art,  almost  every  line  of  which  is  a 
masterpiece  of  thought  and  phrasing. 

Endymion 

Pp.  479  f .  In  this  poem  Keats  follows  that  form 
of  the  Endymion  myth  which  represents  him  as  a 
shepherd  lad.  The  scene  is  laid  in  ancient  Greece, 
and  the  rivers,  fountains,  meadows,  and  forests 
are  peopled  by  the  beautiful  creatures  of  Greek 
fancy  —  nymphs,  dryads,  oreads,  fauns,  etc. 
That  the  beauty  of  the  poem  is  too  elaborate, 
too  rich,  too  overcharged  with  ornament  and  sen- 
tim.ent,  Keats  himself  recognized;  but  it  was  a 
j'outhful  production  and  he  knew  that  he  coidd 
free  himself  from  the  faults  it  contained  and 
develop  into  greater  solidity  and  strength  the 
beauties  it  undeniably  possessed.  The  fact  is 
that  Keats  regarded  all  his  work,  as  he  says  in  his 
letters,  as  mere  experiments,  exercises  in  composi- 
tion to  prepare  him  for  the  great  and  serious  work 


which  he  planned  to  do  when  mind  and  character 
were  riper  and  more  richlj-  furnished  with  the 
wisdom  of  life. 

Lines  1-33 — a  proem  on  the  influence  and  value 
of  beauty  —  give  his  reasons  for  choosing  this  sub- 
ject. Lines  540-671  describe  the  first  meeting  of 
Endymion  and  the  Moon  Goddess,  Diana. 

Hyperion 

Pp.  481  f.  The  subject  of  Hyperion  is  the  over- 
throw of  the  older  gods  by  the  younger,  especially 
of  the  old  sun  deity  Hyperion  by  the  new  sun-god 
Apollo.  The  chief  older  gods,  or  Titans,  were 
Oceanus  and  Tethys,  Hj^perion  and  Thea,  Chronos 
(or  Saturn)  and  Rhea,  Japetus,  Themis,  and 
Mnemosyne.  In  the  new  order  Oceanus  was  re- 
placed by  Neptune,  Hyperion  by  Apollo,  and 
Saturn  by  Jupiter.  The  theme  is  really  the  eter- 
nal conflict  between  the  old  order  of  established 
power  and  peace  and  the  new  order  of  aggressive- 
ness and  progress.  Although  the  poem  shows 
a  great  improvement  in  power  and  restrained 
beauty  over  Endymion,  Keats  did  not  finish  it  — 
perhaps  because  he  felt  that  he  was  not  yet  mature 
enough  for  the  great  demands  of  such  a  theme. 

1.  21.  Gaea  (or  Earth)  was  the  mother  of  the 
older  gods ;   Uranus  (or  Heaven)  their  father. 

1.  23.     there  came  one,  Thea. 

1.  30.  Ixion  was  bound  to  a  revolving  wheel  in 
Tartarus  (Hell)  for  boasting  that  Juno  loved  him. 

I.  51.     To  =  compared  to. 

II.  83-4.     A  month  had  passed. 

1.  129.     What  is  implied  by  metropolitan? 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 

Pp.  482  ff.  The  poem  is  a  simple  stor\'  of  two 
lovers  separated,  like  Romeo  and  Juliet,  by  the 
enmity  of  their  families,  and  of  their  elopement  on 
St.  Agnes'  Eve.  The  scene  is  laid  in  feudal  times, 
and  the  date  chosen  is  the  night  on  which,  ac- 
cording to  popular  superstition,  a  girl  may  have  a 
vision  of  her  true  lover  if  she  performs  certain 
ceremonies.  The  poem  itself  tells  all  that  is  neces- 
sary for  its  interpretation,  but  those  who  wish  a 
prose  account  of  the  superstitions  may  consult 
Chambers'  Book  of  Days  or  Brand's  Popular 
Antiquities. 

1.  I.     St.  Agnes'  Eve,  the  night  of  January  20. 

U.  5  ff.  Beadsman,  a  beadsman  was  one  paid  or 
maintained  to  pray  for  his  benefactor  or  others. 
This  one  is  represented  as  praying  in  the  chapel  of 
the  castle  before  the  picture  of  the  Virgin.  About 
him,  on  their  tombs  enclosed  with  iron  raihngs  or  in 


762 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


oratories  (alcoves  along  the  walls),  are  the  sculp- 
tured figures  of  the  dead  wfth  their  hands  folded  as 
if  in  prayer. 

I.  71.  On  account  of  her  name  and  her  inno- 
cence the  lamb  (Latin  agnus)  is  associated  with  St. 
Agnes.  Eight  days  after  her  martyrdom,  her 
parents,  praying  at  her  tomb,  saw  a  vision  of 
angelg,  among  whom  was  their  daughter,  and  be- 
side her  a  lamb  white  as  snow. 

P.  484.  1.  116.  The  nuns  who  weave  the 
sacred  wool  of  St.  Agnes'  lambs ;  of  the  ceremonies 
on  her  day  in  Rome,  Naogeorgus,  as  translated  by 
Earnaby  Googe,  says : 

"For  in  St.  Agnes'  church  upon  this  day  while 

masse  they  sing. 
Two  lambes  as  white  as  snowe  the  nonnes  do  yearely 

use  to  bring. 
And  when  the  Agnus  chaunted  is  upon  the  aulter 

hie 
(For   in   this   thing   there   hidden   is   a   solemne 

mysterie) , 
They  offer  them.     The  servants  of  the  Pope,  when 

this  is  done. 
Do  put  them  into  pasture  good  till  shearing  time 

be  come. 
Then  other  wooU  they  mingle   with   these   holy 

fleeces  twaine. 
Whereof,  being  sponne  and  drest,  are  made  the 

pals  [palls]  of  passing  gaine." 

WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR 

Pp.  487  ff.  Landor's  temperament  was  very 
erratic  and  volcanic.  In  singular  contrast,  his 
verse,  as  well  as  his  prose,  is  distinguished  by  re- 
serve and  moderation  of  expression,  sometimes, 
indeed,  lapsing  into  the  prosaic.  He  often  has 
lines  and  short  passages  of  an  exquisite  quiet 
beauty  and  suggestiveness,  but  never  succeeds  in 
maintaining  a  high  poetic  level  throughout  a  long 
poem.  It  is  not  strange  that  only  the  finest  of 
his  poems,  like  Rose  Aylmer  and  the  others  given 
here,  have  attained  general  currency.  Each  of 
these  is  written,  as  it  were,  in  a  single  flash  of  in- 
spiration, and  each  incorporates  in  a  form  of  ulti- 
mate beauty  thoughts  and  feeUngs  that  awaken  an 
almost  universal  response. 

.^SOP   AND   RhODOPE 

The  suggestion  for  this  dialogue  Landor  took 
from  Herodotus,  who  says  that  ^sop  and  Rho- 
dopS  were  both  slaves  in  the  same  household. 
/Esop  was  the  famous  writer  of  fables,  of  whom 


little  is  known  except  that  he  was  a  Phrygian  who 
lived  about  600  B.C.  Traditionally  he  was 
hunchbacked  and  ugly.  Rhodope  or  Rhodopis 
(the  rose-faced)  was  a  Thracian,  whom  her  master 
Xanthus  took  to  Egypt.  Sappho's  brother  fell 
in  love  with  her  and  purchased  her  freedom,  as 
appears  from  one  of  Sappho's  poems.  Strabo 
tells  of  her  a  story  which  is  the  oldest  form  of  one 
episode  in  the  tale  of  Cinderella.  It  is  that  while 
she  was  bathing,  an  eagle  flew  away  with  one 
of  her  shoes  and  dropped  it  in  the  lap  of  the  King 
of  Egypt.  He  was  so  attracted  by  the  beauty  of 
the  foot  suggested  by  it  and  by  the  strangeness  of 
the  circumstance  that  he  sent  out  messengers  to 
find  the  owner  of  the  shoe  and  married  her. 

The  story  of  the  way  in  which  Rhodope  came  to 
be  a  slave  was  invented  by  Landor. 

Rose  Aylmer 

P.  492.  This  beautiful  and  suggestive  elegy 
contains  aU  the  elements  of  the  poetry  of  per- 
sonal loss  —  the  reflection  that  no  virtue  or  power 
could  save  the  beloved  one,  and  the  expression  of 
the  poet's  own  sorrows.  Those  prosaic  souls  who 
have  objected  that  one  night  is  little  to  conse- 
crate to  the  memory  of  a  friend  so  beloved  are 
inaccessible  to  the  effects  of  suggestion  and  in- 
capable of  understanding  that  the  poet's  sense 
of  loss  can  be  permanent  unless  he  tells  them 
explicitly  that  he  wiU  never  get  over  it. 

A  FiESOLAN  Idyl 

Fiesole  (pr.  Fee  ay'  so  le)  is  an  ancient  town 
situated  at  the  summit  of  a  small  mountain  of  the 
same  name  that  rises  with  a  steep  slope  on  the 
outskirts  of  Florence.  The  idyl  is  a  sweet,  small 
poem,  presenting,  as  in  a  picture,  a  single,  simple 
incident.  The  poet  heats  a  rustling  among  the 
orange  trees  on  the  slope  of  the  mountain,  and, 
finding  a  graceful  young  girl  gathering  flowers, 
helps  her  pull  down  the  branches  that  are  too  high 
for  her  to  reach.  Then  comes  the  delicate  em- 
barrassment of  both,  when  she  wishes,  but  hardly 
dares,  to  offer  him  a  large  sweet  blossom,  and  he 
dares  not  assume  that  she  means  to  offer  or  that 
he  ought  to  take  it.  Incidentally  the  poet's  love 
and  tender  care  of  flowers  is  exquisitely  expressed 
(11.  16-33). 

On  His  Seventy-Fifth  Birthday 

P.  493.  The  only  thing  that  has  ever  been  un- 
favorably  criticised   in   this   poetic   summary  of 


NOTES 


763 


Landor's  life,  and  his  contentment  with  what  it  has 
brought  him,  is  the  supposed  egotism  of  the  first 
line.  But  if  a  man  loves  nature  and  art  and  de- 
votes himself  to  them  (warming  "both  hands  be- 
fore the  fire  of  life")  and  to  the  expression  of  his 
love  for  them,  he  may  well  feel  that  striving  with 
other  men  is  silly  and  unworthy  of  him. 


THE   VICTORIAN   AGE 

THOMAS   CARL^-LE 
Sartor  Resartus 

Pp.  497  ff.  In  reading  Sartor  Resartus,  it  is 
well  to  remember  that  Carlyle  had  a  Scotch  tem- 
perament and  that  he  purposely  adopted  German 
modes  of  thought  and  phrasing.  The  first  results 
in  a  picturesque  half-suppressed  violence  in  the 
utterance  of  the  emotions  with  which  his  philos- 
ophy of  life  was  surcharged,  and  the  second  gives 
his  style  the  complexity  and  elaboration  that  char- 
acterize much  German  philosophical  writing.  He 
chose  for  the  vehicle  of  the  message  embodied  in 
Sartor  Resartus  an  imaginary  German  professor 
whom  he  calls  Teufelsdrockh  of  Weissnichtwp 
(Don't-know-where).  Under  the  pretence  that 
he  has  met  this  man  and  become  impressed  with 
his  ideas,  Carlyle  represents  himself  as  translating 
his  biography  into  English.  The  materials  of  this 
biography,  he  says,  reached  him  in  the  following 
form: 

"Six  considerable  PAPER-BAGS,  carefully- 
sealed,  and  marked  successively,  in  gilt  China 
ink,  with  the  symbols  of  the  Six  southern  Zodiacal 
Signs,  beginning  at  Libra ;  in  the  inside  of  which 
sealed  Bags  lie  miscellaneous  masses  of  Sheets, 
and  oftener  Shreds  and  Snips,  written  in  Professor 
Teufelsdrockh's  scarce  legible  cursiv-schrift ;  and 
treating  of  all  imaginable  things  under  the  Zodiac 
and  above  it.  .  .  ." 

By  this  device  Carlyle  obtains  the  greatest  pos- 
sible freedom  in  the  e.xpression  of  his  ideas.  He 
begins  with  the  idea  suggested  by  Swift  in  his 
Tale  of  a  Tub  (p.  248  above),  choosing  the  title 
Sartor  Resartus  (the  tailor  re-tailored)  to  show  that 
he  m.eant  to  tear  away  the  outward  appearances  of 
Ufe  in  order  to  get  at  its  real  meaning.  He  sums 
up  the  purpose  of  the  book  thus : 

"Have  many  British  readers  actually  arrived 
with  us  at  the  new  promised  country;  is  the 
Philosophy  of  Clothes  now  at  last  opening  aroimd 
them?  Long  and  adventurous  has  the  journey 
been :     from    those    outmost     vulgar,    palpable 


Woollen  Hulls  of  Man ;  through  his  wondrous 
Flesh-Garments,  and  his  wondrous  Social  Garni- 
tures; inwards  to  the  Garments  of  his  verj'  Soul's 
Soul,  to  Time  and  Space  themselves  !  And  now 
does  the  spiritual,  eternal  Essence  of  Man,  and  of 
Mankind,  bared  of  such  wrappages,  begin  in  any 
measure  to  reveal  itself?  Can  many  readers  dis- 
cern, as  through  a  glass  darkly,  in  huge  wavering 
outlines,  some  primeval  rudiments  of  Man's 
Being,  what  is  changeable  from  what  is  un- 
changeable?" 

He  criticises  its  character  and  \-alue  as  follows : 

"It  was  in  this  high  moment,  when  the  soul, 
rent,  as  it  were,  and  shed  asunder,  is  open  to  inspir- 
ing influence,  that  I  first  conceived  this  Work  on 
Clothes:  the  greatest  I  can  ever  hope  to  do ;  which 
has  already,  after  long  retardations,  occupied,  and 
will  yet  occupy,  so  large  a  section  of  my  life.  .  .  ." 

The  three  chapters  given  in  this  book  form  a 
thought-unit,  showing  Carlyle's  growth  from 
pessimism  and  despair  to  the  foundation  of  his 
particular  form  of  optimism,  that  the  supreme 
need  of  the  soul  is  to  express  itself  in  some  sort  of 
work. 

There  is  much  autobiography  even  in  the  de- 
tails of  the  book,  and  as  a  spiritual  history,  it  is 
entirely  autobiographical. 

THOMAS,   LORD   MACAULAY 

Pp.  510  flf.  The  long  selection  from  Macaulay's 
famous  chapter  on  the  state  of  England  at  the  time 
of  the  Revolution  of  1688  is  out  of  proportion  to  his 
importance  among  writers  of  Enghsh  prose;  but 
teachers  who  are  tired  of  reading  over  and  over 
again  his  biographical  sketches  will  doubtless 
welcome  it  as  a  change,  and  both  teachers  and 
pupils  wiU  surely  find  it  valuable  for  the  \ivid 
picture  it  gives  of  the  physical  and  social  back- 
ground against  whidi  so  large  a  part  of  English 
hterature  must  be  seen  if  it  is  to  be  seen  truly. 
Moreover,  in  style  it  presents  Macaulay  at  his  best, 
and  ^lacaulay  at  his  best  is  a  triumph  of  clear  and 
vivid  common  sense.  He  is,  to  be  sure,  one-sided ; 
he  was  not  a  big  enough  man  to  have  an  all-round 
vision  or  a  subtle  enough  man  to  observe  distinc- 
tions and  shades  that  make  aU  the  difference  in  the 
final  accuracy  of  a  picture,  and  he  has  no  real 
philosophy  of  histor^^  He  is  pompous,  rhetorical, 
even  blatant  at  times ;  but  he  is  one  of  the  first 
writers  of  history  in  English  who  gets  be3-ond  the 
point  of  stringing  together  and  weighing  events 
merely  as  events.  He  really  constructs  pictures 
that  enable  us  to  realize  the  times  and  the  men 
about  which  he  is  writing. 


764 


ENGLISH  PROSE   AND   POETRY 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN 

Pp.  518  ff.  In  1 85 1  the  Catholics  of  Ireland 
founded  a  University  in  Dublin.  Newman  was 
called  upon  to  speak  on  the  occasion,  and  delivered 
nine  lectures  which  were  published  under  the  title 
The  Idea  of  a  University.  He  himself  was  chosen 
as  rector  of  the  newly-founded  university ;  but  it 
was  a  failure  from  the  first,  partly  through  lack  of 
government  support,  and  partly  because  Newman 
himself  lacked  executive  ability. 

The  lectures  themselves  may,  perhaps,  be 
summed  up,  in  a  phrase  used  by  Newman  himself 
in  the  passage  chosen  for  this  book,  as  inspired  by 
"  clear,  calm,  accurate  vision."  And  it  was  largely 
this  clearness,  this  poise,  this  precision,  that  made 
Newman  such  a  power  in  his  day. 

ALFRED,   LORD   TENNYSON 
The  Lady  of  Shalott 

Pp.  523  f.  Like  Keats's  La  Belle  Dame  Sans 
Merci,  this  poem  seems  to  have  been  suggested  by 
its  title.  In  this  case,  as  in  the  other,  the  piece 
from  which  the  title  was  taken  bears  little  relation 
to  thfe  poem  suggested  by  it.  The  curious  may 
read  the  story  of  La  Donna  di  ScaloUa  in  the  old 
Italian  Cento  Novelle  Antiche,  where  it  is  No.  81 
(tr.  Roscoe,  Italian  Novelists,  Vol.  I).  This  is 
Tennyson's  first  attempt  to  deal  with  a  theme 
taken  from  the  stories  that  clustered  about  King 
Arthur  and  his  knights.  Here  the  interest  lies 
not  in  the  story  as  such,  but  in  the  mood  of  the 
poet  and  the  suggested  but  indefinite  symbolism 
of  the  poem.  The  key  to  the  symbohsm  of  the 
poem  is  said  by  Tennyson's  son  to  lie  in  11.  69-72 
and  to  consist  in  the  entrance  of  human  interests 
into  the  world  of  shadows  in  which  the  Lady  had 
lived.  It  is  hardly  possible,  and  certainly  unnec- 
essary, to  attempt  to  find  a  definite  symbolic 
meaning  for  every  detail  of  the  situation  and 
narrative. 

The  poem  is  divided  into  four  parts,  each 
devoted  to  a  single  phase  of  the  theme.  Part  I 
sets  before  us  the  lonely  situation  of  the  Lady  in 
the  gray-walled  island  tower  beside  the  thronged 
road  to  Camelot.  Part  II  emphasizes  her  isola- 
tion from  the  world  of  realities  and  her  contact 
with  life  only  through  the  shadows  in  the  magic 
mirror,  which  apparently  she  reproduces  in  her 
magic  web  as  her  fragment  of  the  dream  of  human 
life.  In  Part  III,  half-sick  of  shadows  as  she  has 
become,  she  sees  the  brilliant  figure  of  Sir  Lancelot 
in  the  mirror,  and,  in  spite  of  the  curse  that  will 


come  upon  her,  she  leaves  her  web  and  for  the  first 
time  sees  in  direct  vision  the  world  of  nature, 
represented  by  the  water  lily,  and  the  world  of 
mankind,  represented  by  Lancelot,  whom  she  lias 
loved  at  first  sight.  In  Part  IV  the  curse  has 
come  upon  her,  and  real  life  is  broken  for  her,  as 
was  the  mirror  in  which  she  saw  the  world  of 
shadows.  When  the  boat  bearing  her  body  floats 
down  the  stream  to  Camelot,  Lancelot,  though  all 
unaware  of  her  love  for  him,  is  touched  by  admira- 
tion and  pity,  and  breathes  a  prayer  for  her. 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women 

Pp.  524  ff.  The  style  of  this  poem  is  rich  and 
elaborate  in  three  ways.  In  the  first  place  Tenny- 
son's imagination  is  largely  pictorial ;  he  visualizes 
the  scenes  and  persons  and  objects  of  his  story,  and 
the  reader  who  would  perfectly  recreate  in  his 
own  mind  the  poet's  conception  must  try  to 
catch  every  hint  given  by  the  words  of  the  poem 
and  reconstruct  the  pictorial  images.  This  is 
true  not  only  of  such  striking  figures  as  Cleo- 
patra with  her  wild  exotic  beauty  or  Jephthah's 
daughter,  the  embodiment  of  maidenly  sweetness 
and  filial  submission  until,  at  the  thought  of 
the  victory  over  Ammon,  her  face  glows  with  a 
light  that  would  be  savage  if  it  were  not  Biblical ; 
it  is  true,  also,  of  such  incidentals  as  the  dim  red 
morn  lying  dead  and  pale  across  the  threshold 
of  the  sun,  and  the  bizarre  emphasis  given  to  the 
dark  silent  forest  by  the  red  anemone  that  burned 
among  the  lush  green  grasses.  Everywhere,  in 
almost  every  stanza,  the  reader  must  move  slowly, 
must  read  carefully,  must  let  every  word  play  its 
due  part  in  the  elaborate  and  highly  colored  pic- 
tures that  hovered  in  the  poet's  vision. 

The  second  element  of  richness  and  elaborate- 
ness of  effect  is  due  to  the  fact  that  in  the  poet's 
mind  many  of  the  rich  pictures  of  the  poem  itself 
exist  in  a  very  atmosphere  of  beauty  and  pathos 
created  for  him  by  poets  and  painters  and  sculp- 
tors who  have  treated  these  same  things  before 
him.  As  he  sees  in  his  vision  Helen  and  Iphigenia, 
his  memory  is  filled  with  the  music  of  the  Iliad 
and  the  choral  measures  of  ^schylus  and  Sopho- 
cles, and  he  sees  not  only  these  women  and  the 
vivid  picture  of  the  death  of  one  of  them,  but  all 
the  heroes  who  went  out  from  Greece  to  battle 
on  the  windy  plains  of  Troy,  the  fatal  return  of 
Agamemnon  to  his  dishonored  home,  and  the 
vengeance  of  Electra  and  Orestes.  The  discon- 
nected pictures  of  ancient  strife  and  wrong  that 
pass  before  his  eyes  before  he  fully  falls  asleep 
—  the  lances  in  ambush,  the  attack  on  the  walled 


NOTES 


76; 


city,  the  heated  blasts  bursting  in  the  doors  of  de- 
filed sanctuaries  —  all  these  come  with  a  thousand 
recollections  of  wild  tales  in  mediaeval  romances 
and  chronicles.  And  the  praise  of  Chaucer  and 
of  the  great  literature  of  the  Elizabethan  age  are 
the  echoes  of  hundreds  of  hours  of  delight  spent  in 
reading.  There  is  no  method,  as  has  been  said, 
of  supplying  the  reader  suddenly  with  all  this 
experience  of  literature,  with  all  these  associations, 
with  all  this  richness  of  emotional  hfe.  An  editor 
may  cite  examples  to  explain  every  line,  may  pile 
up  instance  upon  instance  until  the  intellect  is 
thoroughly  convinced  that  such  things  were 
common,  but  not  in  this  way  can  the  reader  gain 
those  associations  and  memories  which  alone  give 
significance  and  power  to  the  great  figures  of 
history  and  romance  and  myth  or  the  scenes  and 
manners  of  past  ages.  The  only  method  is  to  do 
as  the  poet  himself  has  done,  —  read  these  poems 
and  histories,  and  amass  the  associations  and 
emotions  of  this  experience  with  literature. 

The  third  element  is  the  rich  and  elaborate 
diction.  Here,  as  with  the  first  element,  we  are 
on  easier  ground;  we  are  dealing  with  matters 
which  the  intellect  and  imagination  can  compass 
immediately  by  knowledge  and  native  vigor. 
Such  fines  as,  — 

"The  maiden  splendours  of  the  morning  star," 

(1.  55), 
"A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall. 
And  most  divinely  fair,"  (11.  87-88), 
"The  star-hke  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes,"  (1.  91), 
"The  stern  black-bearded  kings  with  wolfish  eyes," 

(I.  Ill), 
"A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold  black 
eyes, 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold,"  (11.  127-128), 

reveal  their  meanings  at  once  to  any  one  who 
has  imagination.  But  sometimes  Tennyson  sub- 
stitutes the  ornate  and  elaborate  for  the  simple 
and  imaginative,  and  produces  lines  that  require 
some  ingenuity  for  interpretation.  How  many  a 
reader  has  not  beaten  his  brains  to  find  out  what 
is  meant  in  1.  i  by  "before  my  eyelids  dropt 
their  shade"!  It  is,  indeed,  a  rather  elaborate 
way  of  saying,  "before  I  closed  my  eyes  to  sleep," 
and  the  feeling  that  it  must  mean  more  is  so 
strong  that  some  will  still  strive  vainly  for  a 
more  mystical  interpretation,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  the  poem  obviously  narrates  the  events  of 
one  night,  when  the  poet,  after  reading  Chaucer, 
passes  through  that  stage  of  visions  which  pre- 
cedes sleep,  into  a  sleep  of  dreams  and  finally 


wakes  and  tries  to  recall  his  dreams.  "The 
crested  bird  that  claps  his  wings  at  dawn"  (11. 
179  f.)  has  also  shed  much  ink.  If  Tennyson 
meant  the  cock  and  took  this  method  of  sHpping 
that  brilliant  but  rather  prosaic  fowl  into  his  be- 
diamonded  poetry,  we  may  be  glad  that  it  is  pos- 
sible to  rescue  him  by  arguing  in  favor  of  the 
crested  lark  of  Theocritus  and  insisting  that  no 
modern  student  of  poetry,  as  Tennyson  was,  could 
write 

"That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn," 

without  remembering  those  exquisite  lines  of  John 
Lyly's : 

"Now  at  heaven's  gates  she  claps  her  wings, 
The  morn  not  waking  till  she  sings." 

Tennyson's  poem,  though  obviously  suggested 
by  Chaucer's  Legend  of  Good  Women,  bears  only 
superficial  and  unessential  resemblances  to  it.  It 
is  true  that  both  poems  deal  with  ill-fated  fair 
women,  that  in  both  the  poet  dreams,  and  it  is 
even  possible  that  Tennyson  has  taken  from 
other  of  Chaucer's  poems  the  thoroughly  con- 
ventional device  of  falling  asleep  after  reading  a 
book  that  determines  the  subject  of  his  dream. 
But  aside  from  the  fact  that  Chaucer's  style  is 
simple  and  his  mood  relaxed  and  easy,  while 
Tennyson's  style  is  ornate  and  his  mood  one  of 
the  utmost  intensity,  the  purely  external  features 
are  very  different.  The  scene  of  Chaucer's  dream 
is  a  meadow  filled  with  all  the  gladness  of  a  May 
morning,  —  singing  birds  and  blossoming  flowers 
and  "softe,  swote,  greene  grass";  the  scene  of 
Tennyson's  is  an  ancient  wood,  oppressive  with 
huge  elms,  hanging  vines,  dark  walks,  a  deadly 
silence,  and  a  pale  chiU  light  from  the  dying  dawn. 
Chaucer  meets  in  his  dream  the  brilliant  God  of 
Love  and  his  queen,  accompanied  by  a  group  of 
charming  maidens,  and  for  sufficiently  valid 
reasons  promises  to  write  each  succeeding  year 
the  story  of  some  fair  woman  who  had  been 
faithful  though  unfortunate  in  love;  Tennyson 
meets  and  converses  for  a  few  vivid  moments  with 
women,  fair  and  unfortunate,  but  by  no  means 
chiefly  "Love's  martyrs."  It  seems  not  improb- 
able that  Tennyson  may  have  been,  consciously 
or  unconsciously,  influenced  by  the  procession  of 
noble  ladies  with  whom  Odysseus  spoke  in  Hades 
{Odyssey,  Bk.  XI). 

The  structure  of  the  poem  is  very  simple  and 
clear : 

11.  1-13.  What  the  poet  had  been  reading  and 
the  immediate  effect  of  it. 

11.  13-52."    He  muses  on  what  he  has  read,  and 


766 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND    POETRY 


visions  of  ancient  strife  and  wrong  pass  in  vivid 
pictures  before  his  eyes  as  he  is  falling  asleep. 

11.  53-84.  He  then  dreams  he  is  in  a  great  forest, 
made  gloomy  by  its  huge  trees,  its  dank  festoons 
of  jasmine,  its  long,  dark,  dew-drenched  walks,  its 
uncanny  silence,  and  the  cold  pale  light  that  fol- 
lowed the  fading  of  the  first  dim  ilush  of  morn. 
His  melancholy  is  increased  by  the  odor  of  hidden 
violets  bringing  memories  of  happier  times,  and 
a  voice  within  him  tells  him  he  will  always  stay 
in  this  dark  wood. 

11.  85-260.  There  come  before  him  in  his  dream 
women  Uke  those  of  Chaucer's  Legend,  beautiful 
heroines  of  tragic  story  —  Helen  of  Troy,  Iphi- 
genia,  Cleopatra,  Jephthah's  daughter,  and  the  ill- 
fated  Rosamond. 

11.  261-272.  Then  as  he  slowly  awakes,  he 
catches  glimpses  of  certain  other  ill-starred  hero- 
ines, —  Margaret  Roper,  Joan  of  Arc,  and  Eleanor, 
wife  of  Edward  I. 

11.  273-288.  With  difficulty  he  recalled  his 
dream  and  often  vainly  strove  to  strike  again  into 
the  same  dream. 

Details  that  may  deserve  explanation  or  com- 
ment are  the  following :  — ■ 

P.  525.  11.  17-52.  The  vividness  of  these  hyp- 
nagogic figures  approaches  nearly  to  hallucina- 
tion. Every  one  has,  at  times,  in  faUing  asleep 
slowly,  had  more  or  less  vivid  images  pass  before 
his  eyes.  Some  persons  have  them  constantly. 
Tennyson  may  have  been  more  than  usually  sensi- 
tive to  them.  See  the  remarks  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve 
for  what  he  says  of  his  experiences  of  trance-like 
seizures,  and  compare  also  De  Quincey,  p.  438. 

11-  73~76.  Apparently  the  poet  makes  the  un- 
blissful  wood  of  his  dream  one  which  he  had  known 
in  real  life  under  happier  circimistances.  Dante's 
famous  lines :  — 

"Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
NeUa  miseria," 

it  will  be  remembered,  had  impressed  him  when 
he  was  a  boy  of  twelve,  long  before  he  so  tawdrily 
translated  them  as 

"A  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  hap- 
pier things," 

and  it  may  be  that  here  and  in  11.  77-80  he 
shaped  his  poem  in  accordance  with  them. 

P.  526.  1.  87.  The  beauty  and  self-sufficing- 
ness  of  this  line  sometimes  make  us  forget,  what 
the  poet  remembered,  that  Helen  was,  according 
to  the  myth,  the  daughter  of  Zeus,  and  therefore 
divinely  tall. 


11.  loo-i  16.  In  his  picture  of  Iphigenia,  Tenny- 
son apparently  follows  the  story  as  told  in  the 
first  Chorus  of  the  Agamemnon  of  .?Eschylus, 
with  perhaps  recollections  of  the  Eleclra  of  Soph- 
ocles, but  there  are  also  expressions  which  indi- 
cate that  the  touching  scenes  of  Iphigenia  in 
Aulis  were  in  his  mind,  though  he  necessarily 
rejected  the  vicarious  sacrifice  narrated  by  Eurip- 
ides. There  is  no  way  to  obtain  the  full  effect 
of  this  passage  but  to  read  these  plays. 

11.  118-120.  These  words  of  Helen's  are  almost 
a  transcript  of  what  she  says  in  the  Iliad,  VI,  345 
ff.,  to  Hector  when  Paris  seems  slow  to  prepare  for 
battle :  — 

"My  brother,  even  mine,  that  am  a  dog  mis- 
chievous and  abominable,  would  that  on  the  day 
when  my  mother  bare  me  at  the  first,  an  evil 
storm-wind  had  caught  me  away  to  a  mountain 
or  a  billow  had  swept  me  away  before  all  these 
things  came  to  pass." 

11.  127-128.  Critics  have  chided  Tennyson  for 
forgetting  that  Cleopatra  was  a  Greek,  fair  and 
blue-eyed ;  but  he  saw  the  Cleopatra  of  romance, 
not  her  of  history.  And  this  one  must  be  swarthy 
and  bold-eyed,  as  Tennyson  saw  her;  a  "gypsy" 
with  a  "tawny  front"  as  she  appeared  to  Shake- 
speare's Mark  Antony. 

P.  527.  1.  174.  Clearly  Tennyson  did  not 
visualize  this  image,  or  he  would  have  cancelled  it. 
It  is  neither  beautiful  nor  possible  as  a  picture. 

U.  177-242.  The  story  of  Jephthah's  daughter, 
in  Judges,  xi,  should  be  read,  even  if  it  is  already 
familiar. 

P.  528.  U.  249-260.  The  romance  of  Rosa- 
mond and  Henry  II  of  England  and  her  death  at 
the  hands  of  his  queen,  Eleanor,  are  told  in  ahnost 
every  history  of  England. 

1.  259.  Some  of  the  commentators  seem  to  have 
missed  the  point  of  Cleopatra's  mention  of  Fulvia. 
As  she  counsels  Rosamond  to  use  the  dagger, 
her  own  rival,  Fulvia,  comes  to  her  mind,  as  in 
Shakespeare's  play,  and,  forgetting  Rosamond  and 
Eleanor,  she  herself  becomes  heroine  and  prime 
actor  in  the  imagined  event. 

1.  266.  The  devotion  of  Margaret  Roper  to  her 
father.  Sir  Thomas  More,  is  one  of  the  fine  inci- 
dents of  history.  To  feel  it  as  Tennyson  did,  one 
must  know,  as  perhaps  one  may  from  Green's 
History  of  the  English  People,  the  power  and  charm 
of  Sir  Thomas  More  and  his  tragic  fate. 

1.  268.  This  line,  M'ith  its  reticence  and  modera- 
tion, suggests  to  one  familiar  with  the  wonderful 
story  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans  all  the  glamour  and 


I 


NOTES 


767 


beaut}'  that  attach  to  one  of  the  most  romantic 
and  mysterious  figures  the  world  has  ever  seen. 

11.  285-288.  This  ending  is  weak,  because  it  is 
very  obscure.  The  difficulty  is  not  so  much 
with  the  rhetorical  figures  of  the  chosen  words 
withering  beneath  the  palate  and  the  heart  faint- 
ing in  its  own  heat  as  with  the  doubt  whether 
these  four  lines  are  to  be  taken  with  II.  281-284,  or 
whether  they  really  connect  in  thought,  though 
not  in  synta.x,  with  the  efforts  of  the  poet  to  recall 
and  record  the  glimpses  of  his  dream. 

MoRTE  D 'Arthur 

This  is  Tennyson's  earliest  attempt  at  the  epic 
treatment  of  Arthurian  romance,  and  the  treat- 
ment^is  simply.,epic,  not  allegorical,  as  is  the  case 
with  the  Idylls  written  after  1859.  The  imme- 
diate source  of  the  poem  is  Sir  Thomas  Malory's 
famous  Morte  Darthur  (Bk.  XXI,  Chaps.  4  and  5). 
It  will  be  observed  that  Tennyson  follows  Malory 
very  closely,  though  there  are  some  interesting 
changes. 

Tennyson  himself  speaks  of  the  poem  as  full  of 
faint  Homeric  echoes,  but  there  are  few  of  any 
significance.  The  most  interesting  is  11.  105-106, 
which  seem  to  echo  the  words  of  Hephaistos, 
Iliad,  xviii,  400  ff. :  "Nine  years  with  them  [the 
sea-nymphs  Thetis  and  Eurynome]  I  wrought 
much  cunning  work  of  bronze,  brooches  and  spiral 
arm-bands  and  cups  and  necklaces,  in  the  hollow 
caves,  while  around  me  the  stream  of  ocean  with 
murmuring  foam  flowed  infinite."  There  are  also 
faint  echoes  of  other  classical  writers,  the  most 
important  being  1.  60,  a  close  rendering  of  jEneid, 
iv,  285,  viii,  20,  and  1.  240,  perhaps  an  echo  of 
Lucretius,  De  Rer.  Nat.,  iii,  976  f. :  — 

"  Cedit  enim,  rerum  nouitate  extrusa,  uetustas 
Semper,  et  ex  aliis  aliud  reparare  necesse  est" ; 

for  the  idea,  cf.  also  Plato's  Banquet,  207-208. 

1.  I.  Chapter  4  of  Malory's  account  tells  how 
the  battle  raged  all  day  long,  till  all  were  dead  in 
both  armies  except  King  Arthur,  Syr  Bedwere, 
and  his  brother  Syr  Lucan. 

1.  8.  In  Malory,  Arthur  is  borne  to  the  little 
chapel  by  the  two  brothers,  but  Sjt  Lucan  dies 
soon  after.  Tennyson  has  omitted  Lucan  in  order 
to  concentrate  attention  on  .'\rthur  and  Bedivere. 

P.  529.  11.  38,  44.  Note  the  epic  repetition 
here.  Collect  other  examples  from  the  poem. 
This  is,  perhaps,  due  to  the  influence  of  Homer. 

P.  530.  1.  123.  Note  the  archaic  character  of 
the  syntax  here  and  elsewhere.     It  is  meant  to 


give  dignity  to  the  language  and  to  suggest  an- 
tiquity. 

U.  169-1 70.  The  passage  from  the  Agamemnon, 
240,  cited  by  Mustard  does  not  seem  to  express 
the  same  idea  as  this:  "She  smote  each  of  her 
sacrificers  with  a  piteous  glance  from  her  eye, 
remarkable  in  her  beauty  as  in  a  picture." 

P.  531.  1.  255.  A  Platonic  idea,  taken  over 
directly  or  indirectly  by  many  later  writers, 
among  them  Boethius  (cf .  Chaucer's  translation  of 
Boethius,  Bk.  I,  Metre  v,  and  Bk.  II,  Metre  viii, 
where  the  chain  is  Love). 

11.  260  ff.  The  relation  of  Avilion  to  other 
ideal  lands  is  uncertain.  These  lines  may  have 
been  suggested  by  the  description  of  Olympus  in 
the  Odyssey,  vi,  43  ff.  But  they  are  more  like  the 
description  of  the  Earthly  Paradise  in  Lactantius, 
De  Ave  Phcenice,  1-30,  expanded  into  eighty- five 
lines  in  the  Anglo-Sa.xon  translation  (Bright's 
Anglo-Saxon  Reader  contains  both  versions) ;  for 
a  modem  English  rendering  see  Cook  and  Tinker's 
Old  English  Poetry.  The  Celtic  conception  of  the 
Otherworld  is  similar,  and  is  given  in  several  of 
the  older  poems. 

1.  267.  Tennyson  cannot  have  failed  to  remem- 
ber the  beautiful  passage  in  which  Socrates  argues 
that  the  dying  swan  does  not  sing  for  grief  but 
as  "foreseeing  the  blessings  of  the  other  world," 
Phcedo,  85. 

Ulysses 

P.  532.  "Ulysses,"  saj's  Tennyson,  "was 
written  soon  after  Arthur  Hallam's  death  and  gave 
my  feeling  about  going  forward  and  braving  the 
struggle  of  life  perhaps  more  simply  than  any- 
thing in  In  Memoriam"  {Alfred  Lord  Tennyson,  a 
Memoir,  by  his  son,  I,  p.  196).  It  is  based  upon 
the  following  passage  in  Dante's  Divina  Commedia, 
Inferno,  XXVI,  90-142  :  — 

"  When  I  departed  from  Circe,  who  had  retained 
me  more  than  a  year  there  near  to  Gaeta,  before 
/Eneas  had  so  named  it,  neither  fondness  for  my 
son,  nor  piety  for  my  old  father,  nor  the  due  love 
that  should  have  made  Penelope  glad,  could  over- 
come within  me  the  ardor  that  I  had  tp  gain  experi- 
ence of  the  world  and  of  the  vices  of  men,  and  of 
their  valor.  But  I  put  forth  on, the  deep  open 
sea,  with  one  vessel  only,  and  with  that  little  com- 
pany by  which  I  had  not  been  deserted.  One 
shore  and  the  other  I  saw  as  far  as  Spain,  far  as 
Morocco  and  the  island  of  Sardinia,  and  the  rest 
which  that  sea  bathes  roimd  about.  I  and  my  com- 
panions were  old  and  slow  when  we  came  to  that 
narrow  strait  where  Hercules  set  up  his  bounds. 


768 


ENGLISH   PROSE  AND   POETRY 


to  the  end  that  man  may  not  put  out  beyond.  On 
the  right  hand  I  left  Seville,  on  the  other  already 
I  had  left  Ceuta.  'O  brothers,'  said  I,  'who 
through  a  hundred  thousand  perils  have  reached 
the  West,  to  this  so  little  vigil  of  your  senses  that 
remains  be  ye  unwilling  to  deny  the  experience,  fol- 
lowing the  sun,  of  the  world  that  hath  no  people? 
Consider  ye  your  origin ;  ye  were  not  made  to  live 
as  brutes,  but  for  pursuit  of  virtue  and  of  knowl- 
edge.' With  this  little  speech  I  made  my  compan- 
ions so  eager  for  the  road  that  hardly  afterwards 
could  I  have  held  them  back.  And  turning  our 
stern  to  the  morning,  with  our  oars  we  made  wings 
for  the  mad  flight,  always  gaining  on  the  left-hand 
side.  The  night  saw  now  all  the  stars  of  the  other 
pole,  and  ours  so  low  that  it  rose  not  forth  from 
the  ocean  floor.  Five  times  rekindled  and  as 
many  quenched  was  the  light  beneath  the  moon, 
since  we  had  entered  on  the  deep  pass,  when  there 
appeared  to  us  a  mountain  dim  through  the  dis- 
tance, and  it  appeared  to  me  so  high  as  I  had  not 
seen  any.  We  rejoiced  thereat,  and  soon  it  turned 
to  lamentation,  for  from  the  strange  land  a  whirl- 
wind rose,  and  struck  the  fore  part  of  the  vessel. 
Three  times  it  made  her  whirl  with  all  the  waters, 
the  fourth  it  made  her  stern  lift  up,  and  the  prow 
go  down,  as  pleased  Another,  till  the  sea  had  closed 
over  us. 

It  will  be  seen  that  Tennyson's  conception  of 
Ulysses  is  precisely  th^  same  as  is  Dante's  in 
this  passage.  It  is  true  Dante  places  Ulysses 
among  the  "evil  counsellors"  in  the  eighth  pit 
of  the  eighth  circle  of  Hell,  but  no  hint  of  that 
appears  in  this  passage.  This  is  not  the  place 
to  discuss  the  discrepancies  between  Homer's 
account  and  Dante's,  but  it  may  be  noted  that 
the  death  of  Ulysses  at  sea  is  not  one  of 
them,  as  some  commentators  have  said,  for 
Tiresias  explicitly  tells  Odysseus,  Odyssey,  xi, 
136  ff. :  — 

"And  from, the  sea  shall  thine  own  death  come, 
the  gentlest  death  that  may  be."  Dante's  notion 
that  Ulysses  sailed  into  the  unknown  west  was 
apparently  suggested  by  certain  traditions  con- 
necting him  with  Scotland  and  Lisbon,  according 
to  Grion  in  //  Propngnatore,  III,  la,  pp.  67-72. 
The  main  difference  between  Dante's  account 
and  Tennyson's  is  that  in  the  former  Ulysses  sets 
out  from  Circe's  island,  while  in  the  latter  he  sets 
out  from  Ithaca.  In  both,  he  and  his  com- 
panions are  old.  In  both,  the  companions  are 
apparently  men  who  were  with  him  at  Troy  and 
on  the  homeward  journey,  though,  according  to 
Homer,  all  these  had  perished. 


Tennyson's  poem  is  full  of  reminiscences  of  the 
classics,  as  is  quite  natural. 

Every  lover  of  poetry  should  note  the  fine 
application  of  11.  51-53,  and  62-70  in  the  last  page 
of  Huxley's  eloquent  "Romanes  Lecture"  on 
Evolution  and  Ethics,  and  read  what  he  has  to 
say  about  Tennyson  and  Browning  in  the  appended 
note. 

LocKSLEY  Hall 

As  poetry,  this  does  not  rank  with  Tennyson's 
best  productions,  but  its  mood  of  mingled  melan- 
choly and  optimism  hit  the  taste  of  the  time  when 
it  was  written  (1842)  and  it  has  ever  since  been  a 
favorite  with  youths  who  feel  that  the  world  is 
out  of  joint  and  at  the  same  time  cannot  resist 
the  strong  tide  of  vital  impulses. 

The  poem  is  not  autobiographical  but  dramatic. 
It  was  suggested  by  an  Arabian  poem,  translated 
by  Sir  William  Jones,  the  great  oriental  scholar. 
Perhaps  the  most  interesting  lines  of  the  poem  to 
the  present-day  reader  are  the  prophecies  of  social 
and  scientific  progress,  11.  11 7-138. 

P.  535.  Lines  135-136  shadow  forth  the  slow 
attack  of  democracy  upon  ancient  privilege  and 
authority. 

P.  536.  11.  181-182.  Tennyson  explained  that 
when  he  first  rode  on  a  railway  train  he  thought 
that  the  wheels  ran  in  grooved  rails. 

St.  Agnes'  Eve 

P.  537.  In  a  letter  to  Spedding  in  1834  Tenny- 
son says:  "I  daresay  you  are  right  about  the 
stanza  in  Sir  Galahad,  who  was  intended  as  a  male 
counterpart  to  St.  Agnes."  This  seems  to  indicate 
that  in  the  poem  bearing  her  name  St.  Agnes  is  the 
speaker,  and  not,  as  the  poem  suggests,  some 
unknown  nun.  St.  Agnes'  eve  is  January  20. 
It  was  threatened  by  her  persecutors  that  she 
should  be  debauched  in  the  public  stews  before 
her  execution,  but  in  answer  to  her  prayers  she 
was  miraculously  preserved  from  this  fate  by 
lightning.  Eight  days  later  at  her  tomb  her  par- 
ents saw  her  in  a  vision  among  a  troop  of  angels. 

This  poem  expresses  her  religious  aspiration, 
which  in  stanza  3  becomes  ecstatic  mystical 
vision.  This  is  the  point  Tennyson  refers  to  when 
he  speaks  of  Sir  Galahad  as  the  male  counter- 
part of  St.  Agnes.  The  lines  especially  note- 
worthy in  this  respect  in  Sir  Galahad  are  25-4 
63-80.  Such  mystical  ecstasy  as  finds  expression 
in  these  two  poems  is  common  in  the  experience 
of  mystics.  Mystical  vision  is  often  preceded  by 
other  phenomena.     Richard  Rolle  (see  Horstman's 


NOTES 


769 


Works  of  R.  Rolle,  Vol.  I),  the  greatest  of  medieval 
English  mystics,  felt  first  a  delightful  warmth  in 
his  bosom,  then  tasted  delicious  food  and  heard 
heavenly  music.  Similar  experiences  are  related 
of  St.  Catherine  of  Sienna  and  many  others.  . 

The  tendency  to  faU  into  a  mystic  trance  in 
which  the  external  world  seems  unreal  is  char- 
acteristic of  certain  temperaments  (see  note  on 
Wordsworth's  Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality,  11. 
141  If.).  Tennyson  says  of  himself:  "A  kind  of 
waking  trance  I  have  frequently  had,  quite  up 
from  boyhood,  when  I  have  been  all  alone.  This 
has  generally  come  upon  me  thro'  repeating  my  own 
name  two  or  three  times  to  myself  silently,  tiU  all  at 
once,  as  it  were  out  of  the  intensity  of  the  conscious- 
ness of  individuality,  the  individuality  itself  seemed 
to  dissolve  and  fade  away  into  boundless  being, 
and  this  not  a  confused  state,  but  the  clearest 
of  the  clearest,  the  surest  of  the  surest,  the  weirdest 
of  the  v/eirdest,  utterly  beyond  words,  where 
death  was  an  almost  laughable  impossibility,  the 
loss  of  personality  (if  so  it  were)  seeming  no 
extinction  but  the  only  true  life."  Note  in  this 
connection  the  weird  seizures  of  the  Prince,  added 
to  Tke  Princess  in  1851. 

Sir  Galail\d 

In  mediaeval  romance  the  stories  of  the  Holy 
Grail  and  the  quest  for  it  vary  greatly.  Tenny- 
son follows  Malory  (Bks.  XI,  XIII,  XVII),  in 
making  Sir  Galahad  the  knight  of  the  Grail  and 
the  Grail  itself  the  sacred  vessel  containing  some 
of  the  blood  of  Christ. 

See  note  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve. 

In  Memoriam 

Pp.  540  ff.  In  Memoriam  is  a  series  of  elegiac 
poems,  written  between  1833  and  1850  and  ex- 
pressing various  phases  of  Tennyson's  grief  at  the 
loss  of  Arthur  HaUam,  his  most  intimate  friend  in 
boyhood  and  youth.  No  doubt  the  grief  becomes 
monotonous  to  the  reader  if  he  undertakes  to  read 
the  whole  series  at  a  sitting,  but  the  themes  —  the 
aspects  of  grief  —  are  many  and  varied,  and  it  is 
to  be  borne  in  mind  that  they  are  a  record  of  many 
years  of  permanent  consciousness  of  loss.  They 
contain  some  of  Tennyson's  sincerest  and  best 
work  and  have  found  responsive  echoes  in  many 
bereaved  hearts; 

The  Proem,  written  in  1849,  is  Tennyson's  sum- 
mary of  his  attitude  toward  the  mystery  of  be- 
reavement. 


Cantos  I  and  XXVII  are  closely  connected  in 
thought  and  feeling. 

Cantos  XXXI  and  XXXII  form  almost  a  sin- 
gle poem  on  a  single  theme. 

Canto  LIV  is  the  last  of  a  series  in  which  the 
poet  discusses  the  carelessness  and  waste  of 
Nature  as  revealed  especially  in  the  geological 
records,  which  show  that  not  only  individuals 
but  whole  species  have  perished :  in  this  canto  he 
takes  refuge  in  a  vague  hope  and  trust. 

Merlin  and  the  Gleam 

Pp.  543  ff.  Tennyson  said:  "In  the  story  of 
Merlin  and  Nimue  I  have  read  that  Nimue  means 
the  Gleam  —  which  signifies  the  higher  poetic 
imagination."  His  career  as  a  poet  is  expressed 
in  the  symbols  of  the  successive  stanzas. 

Crossing  the  Bar 

P.  545.  Written  in  Tennyson's  eighty-first 
year.  He  instructed  his  son  to  put  this  at  the  end 
of  all  editions  of  his  poems. 

ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese 

Pp.  545  ff.  These  sonnets  are  not  translations, 
as  the  title  implies,  but  record  the  courtship  of  the 
Brownings.  The  title  was  adopted  to  disguise 
their  intimate  personal  tone.  Sonnets  I  and  VII 
allude  to  the  unhappy  conditions  of  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's life  before  her  marriage.  For  years  she  had 
been  an  invalid,  and  her  father's  jealousy  of  her 
friends  added  to  her  distress.  Her  marriage  with 
Browning  transported  her  to  a  finer,  freer  hfe  and 
was  followed  by  many  years  of  improved  health. 
Browning's  response  to  the  Sonnets  may  be  in- 
ferred from  One  Word  More  (pp.  564  ff.)  and  from 
his  beautiful  tribute  in  The  Ring  and  the  Book 
beginning : 

"O  lyric  Love,  half  angel  and  half  bird 
And  all  a  wonder  and  a  wild  desire,  — 
Boldest  of  hearts  that  ever  braved  the  sun, 
Took  sanctuary  within  the  holier  blue, 
And  sang  a  kindred  soul  out  to  his  face,  — 
Yet  human  at  the  ripe  red  of  the  heart." 

The  passage  in  Theocritus  here  alluded  to  (I,  i) 
is  in  the  "Psalm  of  Adonis"  in /Jy/ XF,  11.  104  f. : 
"Tardiest  of  the  Immortals  are  the  beloved  Hours, 
but  dear  and  desired  they  come,  for  always,  to  all 


770 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


mortals,  they  bring  some  gift  with  them."  An- 
other notable  poem  suggested  by  the  Theocritan 
lines  is  EmerSon's  Days: 

"  Daughters  of  Time,  the  hj^ocritic  Days, 
Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 
And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 
Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 
To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 
Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them 

aU. 
I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 
Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 
Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 
Turned  and  departed  silent.     I,  too  late, 
Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 

The  Cry  of  the  Children 

Pp.  547  £f.  In  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 
century  the  conditions  of  industrial  workers  in 
England  were  as  bad  as  they  still  are  in  many  parts 
of  the  United  States.  There  were  no  laws  regu- 
lating the  employment  of  women  and  children, 
and  child-labor  was  extensively  exploited  by  manu- 
facturers in  all  lines  of  industry.  This  poem  was 
suggested  by  a  report  on  factory  conditions  written 
by  Richard  Hengist  Home,  a  friend  who  was  him- 
self a  poet  of  real  though  intermittent  genius. 

ROBERT   BROWNING 

Cavalier  Tunes 

Pp.  549  f .  These  songs  are  intended  to  express 
the  feelings  and  opinions  of  the  adherents  of 
King  Charles  I  in  the  Parliamentary  War;  they 
are  supposed  to  be  sung  by  them. 

"How  They  Brought  the  Good  News 
from  Ghent  to  Aix" 

Pp.  550  f.  Browning  said:  "There  is  no  sort 
of  historical  foundation  about  Good  News  from 
Ghent.  I  wrote  it  under  the  bulwark  of  a  vessel 
off  the  African  coast,  after  I  had  been  at  sea  long 
enough  to  appreciate  even  the  fancy  of  a  gallop  on 
the  back  of  a  certain  good  horse  '  York,'  then  in 
my  stable  at  home."  But  the  imaginary  olijcct 
of  this  imaginary  ride  was  apparently,  in  Brown- 
ing's intention,  the  conveyance  of  the  news  of  the 
"  Pacification  de  Gant,"  a  treaty  of  union  of  Hol- 
land, Zealand,  and  the  southern  Netherlands 
against  Spain.  As  this  was  concluded  in  1576, 
the  date  16 —  at  the  head  of  the  poem  is  perhaps 


due  to  a  failure  of  memory,  just  as  some  of  the 
towns  mentioned  as  Ijang  on  the  route  between 
Ghent  and  Aix  are  really  not  on  the  shortest  and 
best  route.  The  ride  can  easily  be  traced  on  the 
map ;  the  distance  is  somewhat  more  than  ninety 
miles. 

Saul 

pp.  552  ff.  These  two  consecutive  cantos  from 
Saul  give  David's  discussion  of  the  power  and  love 
of  God,  ending  in  the  prophetic  vision  of  the  God- 
Man,  Christ.  He  has  examined  the  works  of  God 
carefuUy  and  discovers  in  them  evidences  of  law, 
wisdom,  love,  the  wiU  and  the  power  to  redeem 
mankind. 

My  Last  Duchess 

Pp.  554  f.  This  dramatic  monologue  is  one  of 
Browning's  most  successful  efiforts  in  this  form  of 

poetry. 

The  Duke  of  Ferrara  is  supposed  to  be  talking 
with  an  ambassador  who  has  been  sent  by  an  un- 
named Count  to  discuss  with  him  a  proposition 
of  marriage  with  the  Coimt's  daughter.  When 
the  poem  opens,  they  are  returning  from  the  place 
of  discussion  to  the  company  awaiting  them  (cf. 
11.  47-48),  and  ihe  Duke,  as  if  by  mere  chance, 
calls  attention  to  a  picture,  and  explains,  as  coolly 
as  if  he  had  no  personal  concern  in  the  matter,  that 
this  is  the  picture  of  his  last  Duchess,  whose 
"smiles"  he  had  ordered  "stopped,"  because  she 
had  a  heart  "too  soon  made  glad"  and  had 
wounded  his  pride  by  setting  no  higher  value  upon 
what  he  gave  her  than  upon  the  trifling  gifts  of 
others.  He  puts  her  offence  purely  as  one  against 
taste  and  family  pride.  The  object  of  the  conver- 
sation is,  of  course,  to  let  the  ambassador  under- 
stand what  his  next  Duchess  may  expect  if  she 
fails  to  rate  highly  enough  the  honor  of  being  his 
wife. 

Fra  Pandolf  and  Claus  of  Innsbruck  are  names 
invented  by  the  poet. 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral 

Pp.  555  f .  At  the  revival  of  classical  learning  in 
Europe  the  revelation  of  the  ricli  and  highly  de- 
veloped life  and  literatures  of  ancient  Greece  and 
Rome  affected  many  men  like  the  discovery  of  a 
new  world.  Some,  like  Erasmus  (see  Green's 
Short  History  of  the  English  People)  and  the  Gram- 
marian of  Browning's  poem  (see  J.  A.  Symonds, 
Tlie  Revival  of  Learning,  or  J.  Burkhardt,  The  Civil- 
ization of  the  Renaissance,  Pt.  Ill),  were  ready  to 
make  all  sorts  of  sacrifices,  even  to  going  without 


NOTES 


771 


sufficient  food,  in  order  to  devote  their  lives  to 
these  fascinating  studies.  The  Grammarian  is  at 
heart  an  idealist  and  a  poet,  bewildered  by  this 
wonderful  new  world,  and  so  entangled  in  the  pre- 
liminaries to  acquiring  and  applying  the  new  ideals 
of  life  that  he  dies  before  he  has  completed  his 
preparations  for  living.  His  enthusiasm  and  ideal- 
ism he  has  communicated  to  his  pupils,  and  a  com- 
pany of  them  bear  his  bodj'  on  their  shoulders  to  its 
last  resting  place.  One  of  them  is  the  speaker  in 
the  poem.  He  discusses  the  ideals  and  aims  of 
his  master  and  asserts  that  his  life  was  not  a  failure, 
but  a  triumph.  This  is  a  favorite  theme  with 
Browning  (cf.  Abt  Vogler  (p.  567),  Apparent  Fail- 
ure, and  many  other  passages). 

The  poem  is  not  diificult  if  the  reader  remem- 
bers that  here,  as  in  many  other  poems,  Browning's 
speaker  uses  the  rapid  changes  of  tone  and  sjTitac- 
tical  structure  of  conversation.  This  makes  it 
necessary  to  watch  the  punctuation  closely,  as  it 
is  intended  to  hint  at  the  tone  and  voice  inflection. 
Note  especially  the  parentheses  and  quotations. 

1.  95.  HydroplJc  means  "afflicted  with  such  a 
thirst  that  the  more  one  drinks  the  more  he  thirsts." 

"Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower 
Came" 

Pp.  556  ff.  Many  have  insisted  upon  regarding 
this  poem  as  an  allegory  and  have  tried  to  find  the 
allegorical  meaning  of  each  detail.  Browning 
declared  it  was  not  so  intended,  but  was  a  dramatic 
poem  suggested  by  the  words  of  the  title.  He  ad- 
mitted, however,  that  it  might  be  regarded  as  hav- 
ing a  symboUc  significance  suggesting  faithfulness 
to  any  high  moral  quest  in  spite  of  the  failure  or 
desertion  or  treachery  of  companions,  the  inter- 
ference of  obstacles  and  dangers  of  all  sorts,  and 
the  uncertainty  of  the  final  outcome.  It  seems 
also  safe  to  recognize  in  11.  175  ff.  a  suggestion  of 
the  sort  of  moral  crisis  that  is  not  known  as  such 
until  one  is  brought  suddenly  and  unescapably 
into  it,  and  when  courage  —  even  if  only  the 
courage  with  which  a  brave  soul  fronts  the  in- 
evitable —  is  the  only  safe  counselor.  The  right 
way  to  read  the  poem  is  to  attend  consciously 
only  to  its  plain  dramatic  meaning ;  it  will  in- 
evitably suggest  to  the  emotions  all  the  symbolic 
significance  it  has. 

P.  55T.  1.  12.  Notice  that  there  is  only  a 
comma  at  the  end  of  this  line ;  the  sentence  goes 
on.  Notice  also  11.  30,  132.  Notice  further  that 
the  "No"  of  1.  6i  is  very  closely  connected  with 
U.  58-60. 

P.  558.     1.  80.     Colloped  usually  means  lying 


in  folds  of  fat,  but  here  it  is  used  of  the  folds  or 
ridges  of  the  horse's  gaunt,  withered  neck. 

P.  559.  1.  192.  This  line,  though  in  quotation 
marks,  is  not  spoken,  but  represents  the  supposed 
attitude  of  the  hills,  watching  to  see  the  adversary 
slay  Childe  Roland. 

1.  203.  Browning's  fancy  was  sometimes  cap- 
tured by  an  old  or  odd  word,  and  he  used  it  with- 
out knowing  exactly  what  it  meant.  Slug-horn 
is  due  to  a  misunderstanding  of  an  old  spelling 
of  the  word  slogan.  Browning  seems  to  have  got 
it  from  Chatterton,  who  uses  it  several  times;  cf. 
Skeat's  ed.,  H,  pp.  42,  64,  125,  129,  132,  199,  and 
especially  162 : 

"Some  caught  a  slug-horn,  and  an  onset  wound." 
{Battle  of  Hastings  II,  xi.) 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi 

"Poor  brother  Lippo"  (i.e.,  Filippo)  was  in 
reality  a  great  Florentine  painter  of  the  Quattro- 
cento (fifteenth  century),  whose  character  and 
career  are  very  accurately  given  in  this  poem. 
He  was  bom  in  1406,  according  to  Berenson,  and 
died  in  1469.  His  teacher  was  Lorenzo  Monaco, 
the  Brother  Lorenzo  of  1.  236,  but  he  owes  much 
more  to  Masaccio  (=  Hulking  Tom  (1.  277),  the 
nickname  of  Tommaso  Guidi),  five  years  his  senior, 
whom  Browning  mistakenly  makes  his  pupil.  He 
was  also  somewhat  influenced  by  Fra  Angehco 
(1387-1455),  who  is  mentioned  in  1.  235.  Lippo's 
comments  on  Giotto  in  the  poem  are,  of  course, 
unfair,  and  were  intended  by  Browning  to  be  so. 

The  cloister  of  the  Carmine  (1.  7)  was  then  out- 
side the  city,  a  httle  south  and  west  of  the  Ponte 
alia  Carraia.  When  the  poem  opens,  Fra  Lippo 
is  at  work  for  Cosimo  de'  Medici  in  what  is  now 
the  Palazzo  Riccardi.  As  this  palace  was  built 
in  1430  and  Fra  Lippo  seems  to  be  engaged  in 
decorating  the  walls,  the  imaginary  date  of  the 
poem  is  apparently  before  Fra  Lippo  left  the 
cloister  in  1432,  as,  indeed,  1.  7  seems  to  indicate. 

The  other  places  mentioned  are  in  or  near 
Florence.  The  church  of  San  Lorenzo  (St. 
Laurence,  1.  67)  is  less  than  a  hundred  yards  from 
"the  house  that  caps  the  comer"  (1.  18).  The 
convent  of  the  Preaching  Friars  (1.  140),  or  Domini- 
cans, better  known  as  that  of  San  Marco,  is  a  few 
hundred  yards  north  of  San  Lorenzo ;  Camaldoli, 
the  seat  of  the  Camaldolese  monks  (1.  139),  lies 
about  twenty  miles  east,  while  Praia  (1.  324)  is 
twelve  miles  northwest. 

For  the  facts  of  Fra  Lippo's  career  Browning 
relied  upon  the  latest  edition  of  Vasari's  Lives  of 


772 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


the  PaiiUcrs  (G.  \'asari,  Delle  Vite  de'  piii  Eccellenti 
Pittori,  etc.),  which  misled  him  in  regard  to  Ma- 
saccio.  The  snatches  of  song  in  the  poem  are  said 
to  be  modeled  on  the  type  of  folk  song  called 
stornello  (pi.  stornelli),  though  they  do  not  con- 
form to  the  e.xamples  I  have  seen.  The  picture 
conceived  for  Sant'  Arabrogio's  church  (11.  346  ff.) 
is  the  Coronation  of  the  Virgin,  now  in  the  Acca- 
demia  delle  Belle  Arti.  The  words  Iste  perfecit 
opus  (1.  377,  "This  one  painted  the  picture")  are 
on  a  scroll  pointing  towards  the  figure  of  the  monk. 
The  information  just  given  may  satisfy  some 
natural  curiosity  about  certain  details.  The  poem 
itself,  however,  can  be  understood  without  this 
introduction ;  it,  indeed,  contains  all  the  ele- 
ments necessary  to  its  interpretation  as  a  poem. 
Browning  has  two  objects  in  the  poem  :  (i)  to  give 
a  vivid  dramatic  presentation  of  the  psychology 
of  this  type  of  artist  and  the  conditions  of  his  life 
in  fifteenth  century  Italy;  (2)  to  use  him  as  a 
mouthpiece  for  some  interesting  and  important 
views  about  realistic  art. 

One  Word  More 

Pp.  564  ff.  This  poem  was,  as  11.  1-2  indicate, 
the  final  poem  of  the  volumes  entitled  Men  and 
Women  (2  vols.,  1855).  It  is  a  tribute  to  the  poet's 
wife,  as  clear  and  simple  as  it  is  beautiful.  Its 
general  theme  is  stated  in  11.  96-99  and  184-186. 

Notes  on  a  few  details  may  be  interesting :  — 

1.  5.  Nothing  is  known  of  Rafael's  (1483-1520) 
century  of  sonnets ;  according  to  Browning  it  dis- 
appeared while  in  the  hands  of  Guide  Reni  (b. 
1575,  d.  1642). 

1.  10.  Who  that  one?  Rafael's  lady  was  Mar- 
gareta  (la  Fornarina),  whose  likeness  appears  in 
many  of  his  pictures. 

P.  365.  1.  32.  Dante's  account  of  his  begin- 
ning to  draw  an  angel  on  the  completion  of  Bea- 
trice's first  year  "in  the  life  eternal"  is  given  in 
The  New  Life  {La  Vita  Nuova),  section  xxxv  (see 
Professor  Norton's  translation,  pp.  74  ff.,  and  his 
note  on  p.  163). 

1.  46.  Browning  called  one  of  his  own  works 
Parleyings  with  Certain  People  of  hnportance  in 
Their  Day  (pub.  1887). 

1.  57.  Bice  (pronounced  "Bee'che")  is  a  love- 
form  of  Beatrice. 

P.  566.  1.  148.  Fiesole,  cf.  'notes  on  Landor's 
A  Fiesolan  IdyL 

1.  150.  Samniinialo,  a  popular  form  of  San 
Miniato,  a  small  mountain  southwest  of  Florence, 
famous  for  its  scenery  and  its  church. 

P.  567.     11.  163-165.     Zoroaster  and  Galileo  are 


named  as  types  of  those  who  studied  the  moon  as 
scientists;  Homer  and  Keats  as  poets  who  wrote 
about  it.  Galileo's  discovery  of  the  mountains 
in  the  moon  was  one  of  the  most  famous  results  of 
the  use  of  the  telescope.  Keats's  Endymion  is  the 
most  notaljle  version  of  the  well-known  myth  of 
the  loves  of  Endymion  and  the  moon  goddess. 

Abt  Vogler 

Georg  Joseph  Vogler  (b.  1749  at  Wiirzburg,  d. 
18 14  at  Darmstadt)  was  the  son  of  a  violin  maker 
and  was  early  devoted  to  the  career  of  musician. 
He  studied  in  Germany  and  Italy  and  taught  and 
directed  in  Germany  and  Sweden.  While  in 
Rome  he  entered  the  priesthood  and  was  appointed 
Apostolic  Protonotary  and  Chamberlain.  He  was 
court  chaplain  and  master  of  the  chapel  at  Mann- 
heim and  Stockholm,  and  established  schools 
of  music  at  both  places.  He  composed  a  great 
deal  of  music,  but  his  principal  interest  for  us  is  in 
his  career  as  virtuoso.  Having  made  a  good  many 
simplifications  in  the  pipe  organ,  which  resulted  in 
a  portable  organ  about  nine  feet  in  height,  depth, 
and  breadth,  named  by  him  an  "orchestrion,"  he 
visited  Denmark,  Holland,  and  England  with  it 
and  gave  organ  recitals  with  much  success.  This 
is  the  instrument  upon  which  he  has  been  improvis- 
ing when  Browning's  poem  opens  (cf.  1.  2). 

The  central  ideas  of  the  poem  are  expressed  in 
11.  69-82. 

The  musician  has  just  built  up  with  his  playing 
a  beautiful  structure  of  music,  as  wonderful  both 
in  result  and  in  mode  of  accomplishment  as  the 
legendary  palace  built  by  Solomon  for  the  princess 
he  loved.  He  reflects  upon  these  resemblances 
(11.  1-40),  expressing  first  the  wish  (1.  9)  that  this 
palace  of  music  might  be  permanent,  not  doomed 
to  perish  as  the  notes  of  the  improvisation  die 
away.  Then  (11.  41-56)  he  contrasts  the  rational, 
intelligible  processes  of  other  arts  —  painting, 
poetry,  etc.  —  with  the  mysterious  and  divine 
creative  processes  of  music.  Then  he  returns  to 
the  question  whether  music  —  even  improvised 
music  —  does  really  perish  when  the  tones  cease 
here  on  earth,  and  he  finds  in  his  soul's  demand 
for  personal  immortality  (11.  63-64)  the  assurance 
that  music,  and  all  that  is  good  and  beautiful, 
must  exist  eternally  in  and  through  the  power  and 
love  of  the  Ineffable  Name ;  and  finds  in  the  neces- 
sity for  the  completion  of  the  incomplete  and  the 
final  success  of  apparent  earthly  failure  triumphant 
"evidence  for  the  fulness  of  the  days"  (11.  65-82), 
the  reality  of  eternity.  And  conformably  to  what 
is  said  of  the  nearness  of  God  to  the  musician  in  11. 


NOTES 


773 


49-56,  he  declares  in  11.  81-88  the  divine  revelation 
of  these  truths  to  musicians. 

The  rest  of  the  poem  is  a  real,  and  at  the  same 
time  symbolic,  return  from  these  exalted  thoughts 
and  feelings  through  the  emotional  effects  of  music 
to  the  plane  and  the  duties  of  common  human  life. 

1.  3.  Legends  of  Solomon's  skill  in  magic  arose 
very  early  out  of  what  the  Bible  says  of  his  wis- 
dom. The  Talmudists  inferred  from  the  simple 
Biblical  statement  that  no  sound  of  a  hammer  was 
heard  in  the  building  of  the  Temple,  that  he  must 
have  used  supernatural  means,  and  they  devised  a 
story  of  a  wonderful  animal  that  cut  stone  and 
glass  and  iron,  discovered  by  Solomon  by  means  of 
his  knowledge  of  the  language  of  birds  (see  S. 
Baring-Gould's  Myths  of  the  Middle  Ages  and 
Legends  of  the  Patriarchs  and  Prophets).  Later 
legends,  hinted  at  in  the  Koran,  put  him  in  control 
of  armies  of  angels  and  demons,  able  to  execute 
every  command. 

1.  5.     The  demons  had  or  assumed  all  shapes. 

1.  7.  The  belief  that  the  real  name  of  God  was 
unspeakable  goes  back  to  ancient  Hebrew  times  — 
or  at  least  to  a  time  earlier  than  the  Septuagint 
version  of  the  Old  Testament ;  see  any  good 
encyclopaedia  under  Jehovah  or  Jahveh. 

P.  568.  1.18.  If  cre^/ here  means  an3'thing  more 
than  "head"  or  "creature,"  it  is  used  to  imply  the 
different  natures  or  groups  represented  by  different 
crests  or  cognizances.  • 

1.  22.  The  lighting  of  the  lamps  around  St. 
Peter's  dome  (1.  23)  used,  it  is  said,  to  be  one  of  the 
great  sights  of  Rome  on  festal  occasions. 

1.  34.  Protoplast  is  usually  taken  here  to  mean 
"model"  or  "mold."  It  seems  rather  to  mean 
"creator,"  "first  maker,"  as  in  Browning's  other 
use  of  it  in  Fifine,  cxxiv. 

1.  42.  visibly,  as  if  he  had  really  seen  the 
structure  of  music. 

1.  51.     this  =  the  art  of  music. 

P.  569.  11.  91-96.  The  symbolism  of  this 
passage  is  clear.  The  efforts  of  commentators  to 
indicate  the  succession  of  chords  are  not  entirely 
satisfactory.  In  1.  91  the  common  chord  seems  to 
mean  the  basal  chord  of  the  tonality  in  which  he 
had  been  improvising,  for  he  would  hardly  have 
begun  his  descent  to  the  C  Major  of  this  life  from 
any  other  tonality.  That  this  was  not  itself  C 
Major,  as  some  suppose,  is  probable;  for  what 
reason  would  there  then  be  for  sliding  into  the 
minor  and  the  ninth  before  finding  the  resting  place 
in  C  Major  ?  What  seems  clear  is  that,  beginning 
on  the  heights  of  feeling  induced  by  his  improvisa- 
tion, the  musician  resumes  the  tonality  in  which 
he  was  improvising  and,  modulating  by  semi-tones, 

AE 


sHps  into  the  minor,  which  characteristically 
arouses  emotions  of  unrest,  incompleteness,  and 
longing;  but  he  resolutely  blunts  this  with  the 
inharmonic  ninth,  and  then  resolves  this  into 
C  Major  —  the  tonality  of  common  human  life. 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  or  Ibn  Ezra,  was  born  in  Spain 
about  1090.  He  travelled  in  Africa,  the  Holy 
Land,  Persia,  India,  Italy,  France,  and  England, 
and  was  a  scholar  and  a  poet.  Some  of  the  ideas 
which  Browning  here  puts  into  his  mouth  were 
really  expressed  by  him  in  his  poems  and  his  com- 
mentaries on  the  Bible. 

The  Epilogue  to  Asolando 

Pp.  572  f.  The  volume  of  which  this  httle 
poem  is  the  epilogue  was  published  the  day  of 
Browning's  death,  December  12,  1889.  It  con- 
templates his  own  death  and  the  feelings  which 
his  friends  will  have  about  it,  and  rejects  their 
imagined  pity,  declaring  that  as  on  earth  he  was 
one  who  never  feared  or  doubted,  so  after  death 
he  will  continue  his  career,  asking  only  that  his 
friends  cheer  him  though  unseen  and  speed  him 
onward.  Note  the  contrast  between  midnight 
(1.  i)  and  noonday  (1.  16). 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

Pp.  573  fif.  A  t>T)ical  John  Bull  among  writers, 
Thackeray  is  nowhere  more  Bull-ish  than  in  deahng 
with  his  fellow-humorist.  The  key  to  all  that  he  has 
to  say  about  Sterne  is  found  in  the  last  sentence  of 
the  selection ;  his  mid-Victorian  sense  of  what  is 
due  the  conventions  will  not  permit  him  to  discuss 
Sterne  without  saying  that  he  prefers  Dickens  for 
his  children.  This  personal  bias,  on  moral,  not 
literary,  grounds,  pervades  his  presentation  of  the 
character.  His  study  is  not  unsympathetic  — 
far  from  it ;  it  is  appreciative,  even  kindly,  but  it 
never  for  a  moment  abandons  the  position  of  a 
paterfamilias  in  a  frock-coat.  He  is  scandalized 
—  and,  one  may  admit,  not  without  reason;  all 
the  more  scandalized  because  Sterne  was  a  clergy- 
man. Compare  his  study  with  Stevenson's  treat- 
ment of  Villon,  pp.  662  ff. 

The  essay  quoted  is  a  good  example  of  Thack- 
eray's vigorous  and  genial  English,  his  bluff ness 
suffused  with  sentiment,  his  happy  faculty  of 
choosing  the  material  that  wiU  give  to  his  presen- 
tation vitality  and  charm. 


774 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 

Pp.  578  ff.  Clough  perhaps  gave  fuller  and  sin- 
cerer  expression  than  any  other  poet  to  the  reli- 
gious doubt  and  unrest  characteristic  of  the  middle 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  Others  —  even  at  their 
sincerest  —  give  us  only  the  conclusions  they  have 
reached  and  such  steps  in  the  progress  of  their 
thought  as  they  think  profitable  for  us;  Clough 
allows  us  to  be  with  him  in  all  his  falterings,  his 
waverings,  his  inconsistencies.  In  Easier  Day, 
we  have,  to  be  sure,  first  the  doubts  and  then  the 
faith,  but  in  The  Questioning  Spirit  and  its  sec}uel, 
Bethesda,  the  moods  are  reversed.  In  this  sin- 
cerity lies  his  great  value.  He  was  a  poetic  thinker 
but  only  too  seldom  a  poetic  artist.  This  may 
have  been  due  in  part  to  his  sincerity  —  his  record- 
ing at  the  moment  the  thoughts  of  the  moment. 
"All  immortal  verse,"  says  William  Sharp,  "is  a 
poetic  resurrection,"  and  he  quotes  Schiller  as 
saying  that  "to  live  again  in  the  serene  beauty  of 
art,  it  is  needful  that  things  should  first  die  in 
reality." 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 

The  title  is  a  phrase  from  Vergil's  Mneid,  HI, 
269,  and  means  "whithersoever  the  wind  directs 
the  course."  The  situation  in  the  ALneid  bears 
no  resemblance  to  that  set  forth  in  this  poem. 
There  /Eneas,  in  relating  his  adventures,  tells  how 
he  left  the  islands  called  the  Strophades;  "The 
winds,"  he  says,  "  spread  wide  our  sails ;  over  the 
foaming  waves  we  flee,  whither  the  wind  and  the 
helmsman  direct  our  course :"  — 

Tendunt  vela  Noti;    fugimus  spumantibus  undis, 
Qua  cursum  ventusque  gubernatorque  vocabat. 

Our  poem  presents,  under  the  figure  of  two  ships 
that  sail  away  into  the  night  and  are  unintention- 
ally separated,  the  common  experience  of  friends 
who  unintentionally  and  unwittingly  drift  apart  in 
thought  and  feeling. 


JOHN  RUSKIN 

The  Stones  of  Venice 

Pp.  582  ff.  Ruskin  was  a  combination  of  types 
rarely  combined  —  an  artist  and  a  reformer. 
Fundamentally,  he  was  an  artist ;  but  as  he  was 
not  content  to  observe  and  study  and  love  the 
beautiful  things  that  exist,  but  wished  to  see  all 
the  world  beautiful,  he  inevitably  joined  the  ranks 
of  those  who  strive  to  hasten  by  human  and  arti- 


ficial means  the  golden  age  when  all  hateful  and 
hideous  things  shall  be  unknown. 

Himself  trained  as  a  painter,  Ruskin  used  words 
as  he  used  pigments,  to  build  up  a  composition 
that  would  convey  an  impression  of  objectivity 
colored  by  personality,  very  much  as  a  painting 
of  the  same  subject  would  do.  For  this  reason  his 
description  of  St.  Mark's  is  one  of  the  most  wonder- 
ful pieces  of  word-painting  ever  produced.  As 
he  is  writing  for  English  readers  to  whom  the 
word  cathedral  is  rich  in  associations  —  and 
associations  altogether  foreign  to  the  scene  he  is 
about  to  descrijje  —  he  prepares  the  way  by  sum- 
ming up  the  characteristic  features  of  an  English 
cathedral.  Having  set  forth  and  banished  these, 
he  feels  still  that  the  reader's  mind  is  not  suffi- 
ciently ready  to  receive  emotionally  the  impres- 
sion of  a  church  so  unlike  any  other,  and  he  pre- 
pares the  way  further  by  a  long  description  of  the 
incongruous  scenes  crowded  into  the  paved  alley 
leading  to  the  piazza.  And  when  expectation 
can  bear  no  more,  "we  forget  them  all,  for  between 
those  pillars  there  opens  a  great  light.  .  .  ." 

Observe  that  the  description  of  the  cathedral 
itself  fills  only  half  a  page,  while  almost  as  much 
space  is  devoted  to  contrasting  it  with  the  people 
who  live  round  about  it,  and  three  times  as  much 
space  is  given  to  preparing  for  the  description. 
But  the  word-picture,  short  as  it  is,  is  as  vividly 
col»red  as  any  piece  of  English  prose;  it  gives  a 
dear  impression  of  the  general  appearance  of  the 
church,  and  of  its  structure  from  the  ground  to  the 
spires,  and  it  bathes  the  whole  scene  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  suggestion  by  means  of  the  words  used, 
much  as  a  painter  gets  atmospheric  effects  by  com- 
binations of  color. 

The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive 

Pp.  584  ff.  The  selection  from  T}ie  Crown  of 
Wild  Olive,  though  it  contains  less  wonderful  de- 
scriptive writing,  is  quite  as  beautiful  in  its  way, 
and  fully  as  characteristic  of  Ruskin.  It  shows  the 
strength  of  his  bitter  hostility  to  the  economic 
waste  that  produced  nothing  but  ugHness  for  the 
expenditure  of  labor.  It  reveals  the  artist  as  an 
economist,  a  socialist,  a  lover  of  his  fellow-men,  and 
a  wanderer  in  lonely  paths  of  thought;  and  it 
contains  a  doctrine  that  he  was  eager  to  impress 
upon  the  hearts  of  his  readers.  The  value  of 
Ruskin's  work  grows  with  the  growing  recognition 
of  political  economy  as  the  science,  not  of  Wealth, 
but  of  social  well-being. 

The  meaning  of  the  title  is  explained  in  the  last 
paragraph  of  the  selection. 


NOTES 


/  /:) 


FREDERICK  LOCKER-LAMPSON 

P.  590.  Praed  (p.  494)  and  Locker-Lampson 
are  the  ad\'ance  guard  of  a  host  of  writers  of  vers  de 
soa'ele  of  exqioisite  delicacx'  and  refinement.  The 
ideal  of  such  verse  is  elegant  and  ingenious  trifling 
with  only  occasional  touches  of  more  serious  senti- 
ment —  as  a  swallow  circles  bright  and  swift 
through  the  air,  dips  its  wing  for  a  moment  in  the 
water,  and  like  a  flash  is  ofif  again  in  its  careless 
flight.  Some  of  the  lighter  verse  of  the  sixteenth, 
seventeenth,  and  eighteenth  centuries  bears  a  close 
resemblance  to  the  work  of  these  later  writers, 
but  there  is  a  difference  in  tone,  in  attitude,  in 
personal  concern  with  the  sentiments  expressed. 
Locker  (or  Locker-Lampson,  to  use  the  name  he 
assumed  upon  his  marriage  to  Miss  Lampson) 
was  far  superior  to  Praed  in  tenderness,  in  reserve, 
in  genuine  poetic  feeling,  and  in  technique.  His 
range  of  sentiments,  of  ideas,  and  of  rhythms  was 
greater ;  and  he  has  had  the  greater  influence  upon 
later  writers.  With  the  lines  To  My  Grand- 
mother a  curious  analogy  and  contrast  are  afforded 
by  Ohver  WendeU  Holmes's  The  Last  Leaf. 

SIDNEY  DOBELL 

P.  591.  Sidney  Dobell  is  a  notable  example 
of  the  rather  large  class  of  poets  in  the  nineteenth 
century  who  gave  evidence  of  true  and  even  great 
poetic  abihty,  but  who  failed  in  unity,  in  sus- 
tained power,  in  final  and  perfect  utterance. 


are  steadily  gaining  wider  recognition.  It  now 
seems  pro.bable  that  he  and  Browning  will  in  the 
future  be  counted  the  most  notable  poets  of  the 
Victorian  period. 

The  Scholar  Gipsy 

Pp.  617  ff.  In  a  note,  Arnold  gave  the  follow- 
ing passage  from  Glanvil's  Vanity  of  Dogmatiz- 
ing (1661)  as  the  foundation  of  this  poem :  — 

"There  was  lately  a  lad  in  the  University  of 
Oxford,  who  was  by  his  poverty  forced  to  leave 
his  studies  there ;  and  at  last  to  join  himself  to  a 
company  of  vagabond  gipsies.  Among  these  ex- 
travagant people,  by  the  insinuating  subtility  of 
his  carriage,  he  quickl}-  got  so  much  of  their  love 
and  esteem  as  that  the_y  discovered  to  him  their 
mystery.  After  he  had  been  a  pretty  while  exer- 
cised in  the  trade,  there  chanced  to  ride  by  a  couple 
of  scholars,  who  had  formerh'  been  of  his  acquaint- 
ance. They  quickly  spied  out  their  old  friend 
among  the  gipsies ;  and  he  gave  them  an  account 
of  the  necessity  which  drove  him  to  that  kind  of 
life,  and  told  them  that  the  people  he  went  with 
were  not  such  impostors  as  they  were  taken  for, 
but  that  they  had  a  traditional  kind  of  learning 
among  them,  and  could  do  wonders  bj-  the  power 
of  imagination,  their  fancy  binding  that  of  others  : 
that  he  himself  had  learned  much  of  their  art,  and 
when  he  had  compassed  the  whole  secret,  he  in- 
tended, he  said,  to  leave  their  company,  and  give 
the  world  an  account  of  what  he  had  learned." 


IVIATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Neither  as  poet  nor  as  prose-writer  did  Arnold 
catch  the  ear  of  the  great  public,  but  in  both 
characters  he  was  eminent  in  his  generation  as 
one  who  taught  and  guided  the  teachers  and 
guides  of  the  educated  world., 

His  prose  is  clear,  vivacious,  classical  in  its  re- 
straint and  its  definiteness  of  aim,  and  though 
often  careless,  its  carelessness  has  always  the 
effect  of  elegant  negligence,  not  of  slipshod  igno- 
rance. The  importance  of  the  ideas  for  which 
he  contended  and  the  tinwavering  and  urbane 
persistence  with  which  he  supported  a  cause  that 
could  trium-ph  only  in  the  remote  future  are 
among  the  most  admirable  of  his  many  admirable 
qualities. 

His  verse  is  more  restrained  than  his  prose  and  it 
lacks  the  lightheartedness,  the  spontaneity,  the 
outward  and  obvious  signs  of  power  necessary  for 
popularity.  In  his  own  day  it  found  onlv  a  small 
band  of  lovers,  but  its  permanent  beauty  and  value 


EDWARD   FITZGERALD 
•The  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam 

Pp.  621  ff.  Fitzgerald's  translation  of  The 
Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam  has  long  had  a  place 
in  the  hearts  of  lovers  of  high  and  serious  poetry. 
Although  a  translation,  it  is  in  the  truest  sense  an 
original  poem  and  expresses  as  scarcely  any  other 
does  the  strange  combination  of  doubt  and  defi- 
ance and  sensuousness  and  religious  yearning 
characteristic  of  much  of  the  thought  and  feeling 
of  the  Victorian  Age. 

Rubdiydt  is  a  Persian  word,  the  plural  of  riibdi, 
which  means  a  quatrain.  Omar,  surnamed  Al 
Khayyam  (the  tent-maker),  was  a  distinguished 
Persian  scholar  and  poet.  He  was  regarded  as  a 
paragon  of  learning,  especially  in  astronomy!  In 
one  of  his  quatrains  he  refers  whimsically  to  his 
surname  and  in  another  to  his  reformation  of  the 
calendar.  His  quatrains  circulated  very  widely 
in  the  Orient  and  produced  many  imitations  — ■ 


774 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


I 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 

Pp.  578  flf.  Clough  perhaps  gave  fuller  and  sin- 
cerer  expression  than  any  other  poet  to  the  reli- 
gious doubt  and  unrest  characteristic  of  the  middle 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  Others  —  even  at  their 
sincerest  —  give  us  only  the  conclusions  they  have 
reached  and  such  steps  in  the  progress  of  their 
thought  as  they  think  profitable  for  us;  Clough 
allows  us  to  be  with  him  in  all  his  falterings,  his 
waverings,  his  inconsistencies.  In  Easter  Day, 
we  have,  to  be  sure,  first  the  doubts  and  then  the 
faith,  but  in  The  Questioning  Spirit  and  its  sequel, 
Bethesda,  the  moods  are  reversed.  In  this  sin- 
cerity lies  his  great  value.  He  was  a  poetic  thinker 
but  only  too  seldom  a  poetic  artist.  This  may 
have  been  due  in  part  to  his  sincerity  —  his  record- 
ing at  the  moment  the  thoughts  of  the  moment. 
"All  immortal  verse,"  says  William  Sharp,  "is  a 
poetic  resurrection,"  and  he  quotes  Schiller  as 
saying  that  "to  live  again  in  the  serene  beauty  of 
art,  it  is  needful  that  things  should  first  die  in 
reality." 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 

The  title  is  a  phrase  from  Vergil's  Mneid,  III, 
269,  and  means  "whithersoever  the  wind  directs 
the  course."  The  situation  in  the  Mneid  bears 
no  resemblance  to  that  set  forth  in  this  poem. 
There  ^neas,  in  relating  his  adventures,  tells  how 
he  left  the  islands  called  the  Strophades;  "The 
winds,"  he  says,  "spread  wide  our  sails;  over  the 
foaming  waves  we  flee,  whither  the  wind  and  the 
helmsman  direct  our  course  : "  — 

Tendunt  vela  Noti ;    fugimus  spumantibus  undis. 
Qua  cursum  ventusque  gubernatorque  vocabat. 

Our  poem  presents,  under  the  figure  of  two  ships 
that  sail  away  into  the  night  and  are  unintention- 
ally separated,  the  common  experience  of  friends 
who  unintentionally  and  unwittingly  drift  apart  in 
thought  and  feeling. 


JOHN  RUSKIN 

The  Stones  of  Venice 

Pp.  582  ft.  Ruskin  was  a  combination  of  types 
rarely  combined  — ■  an  artist  and  a  reformer. 
Fundamentally,  he  was  an  artist;  but  as  he  was 
not  content  to  observe  and  study  and  love  the 
beautiful  things  that  exist,  but  wished  to  see  all 
the  world  beautiful,  he  inevitably  joined  the  ranks 
of  those  who  strive  to  hasten  by  human  and  arti- 


ficial means  the  golden  age  when  all  hateful  and 
hideous  things  shall  be  unknown. 

Himself  trained  as  a  painter,  Ruskin  used  words 
as  he  used  pigments,  to  build  up  a  composition 
that  woidd  convey  an  impression  of  objectivity 
colored  by  personality,  very  much  as  a  painting 
of  the  same  subject  would  do.  For  this  reason  his 
description  of  St.  Mark's  is  one  of  the  most  wonder- 
ful pieces  of  word-painting  ever  produced.  As 
he  is  writing  for  English  readers  to  whom  the 
word  cathedral  is  rich  in  associations  —  and 
associations  altogether  foreign  to  the  scene  he  is 
about  to  describe  —  he  prepares  the  way  by  sum- 
ming up  the  characteristic  features  of  an  English 
cathedral.  Having  set  forth  and  banished  these, 
he  feels  still  that  the  reader's  mind  is  not  suffi- 
ciently ready  to  receive  emotionally  the  impres- 
sion of  a  church  so  unlike  any  other,  and  he  pre- 
pares the  way  further  by  a  long  description  of  the 
incongruous  scenes  crowded  into  the  paved  alley 
leading  to  the  piazza.  And  when  expectation 
can  bear  no  more,  "  we  forget  them  all,  for  between 
those  pillars  there  opens  a  great  light.  ..." 

Observe  that  the  description  of  the  cathedral 
itself  fills  only  half  a  page,  while  almost  as  much 
space  is  devoted  to  contrasting  it  with  the  people 
who  live  round  about  it,  and  three  times  as  much 
space  is  given  to  preparing  for  the  description. 
But  the  word-picture,  short  as  it  is,  is  as  vividly 
colored  as  any  piece  of  English  prose ;  it  gives  a 
clear  impression  of  the  general  appearance  of  the 
church,  and  of  its  structure  from  the  ground  to  the 
spires,  and  it  bathes  the  whole  scene  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  suggestion  by  means  of  the  words  used, 
much  as  a  painter  gets  atmospheric  effects  by  com- 
binations of  color. 

The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive 

Pp.  584  ff.  The  selection  from  Tlte  Crown  of 
Wild  Olive,  though  it  contains  less  wonderful  de- 
scriptive writing,  is  quite  as  beautiful  in  its  way, 
and  fully  as  characteristic  of  Ruskin.  It  shows  the 
strength  of  his  bitter  hostility  to  the  economic 
waste  that  produced  nothing  but  ugliness  for  the 
expenditure  of  labor.  It  reveals  the  artist  as  an 
economist,  a  socialist,  a  lover  of  his  fellow-men,  and 
a  wanderer  in  lonely  paths  of  thought;  and  it 
contains  a  doctrine  that  he  was  eager  to  impress 
upon  the  hearts  of  his  readers.  The  value  of 
Ruskin's  work  grows  with  the  growing  recognition 
of  political  economy  as  the  science,  not  of  w'ealth, 
but  of  social  well-being. 

The  meaning  of  the  title  is  explained  in  the  last 
paragraph  of  the  selection. 


NOTES 


777 


the  mother  of  Charlemagne,  heroine  of  the  old 
French  romance  Berte  aux  Grans  Pies.  Beatrice, 
apparently  Beatrice  of  Provence,  wife  of  Charles, 
son  of  Louis  VIII.  Alice,  perhaps  the  wife  of 
Louis  VII ;  but  many  old  French  songs  begin 
''Belle  Aalis"  {i.e.,  Beautiful  Alice). 

1.  20.  Ermengarde  married  the  famous  warrior 
Foulques  d'Anjou  in  1004. 

1.  21.     Joan,  Jeanne  d'Arc. 


The  Earthly  Paradise 

The  Earthly  Paradise  was  written  under  the  in- 
fluence of  Chaucer  (cf.  Morris's  Prologue,  11.  1-16) 
and,  like  the  Canterbury  Tales,  is  a  collection  of 
stories  told  by  the  members  of  a  group  of  travel- 
ers. The  Lady  of  tlie  Land  is  a  retelling  of  the 
story  told  briefly  by  Sir  John  ilandeville  in  his 
fourth  chapter  (see  pp.  30  ffj. 


Fr.\ncesca  da  Rimini 

As  Dante,  in  the  Injerno,  passed  am.ong  those 
whom  guilty  love  had  sent  to  heU,  he  entreated 
two  to  come  and  speak  to  him.  Thej'  were  the 
famous  lovers  Paolo  and  Francesca,  and  this 
passage  is  a  part  of  Francesca's  account  of 
their  love.  She  was  given  by  her  father  in  mar- 
riage to  Giovanni  Mala  testa,  a  man  of  extraor- 
dinary courage  and  ability,  but  deformed.  Un- 
fortunately she  fell  in  love  with  his  younger 
brother,  Paolo,  and  he  with  her.  They  were  killed 
by  Giovanni.  Few  love  stories  have  attracted 
more  sympathetic  interest.  Leigh  Hunt  wrote  a 
narrative  poem  on  the  story,  and  it  has  been  dram- 
atized in  English  by  G.  H.  Boker  and  by  Stephen 
Phillips,  and  in  Italian  by  Silvio  PeUico  and  by 
Gabriele  D'Annunzio.  Pictures  illustrating  the 
story  have  been  painted  by  Ingres,  Cabanel,  Ary 
Scheffer,  G.  F.  Watts,  and  others. 


WILLIAM   MORRIS 

Pp.  633  ff.  To  no  poet  of  the  Victorian  period 
could  the  term  "the  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day" 
be  less  appropriately  appUed  than  to  WiUiam 
Morris.  He  not  ordy  was  a  chief  factor  in  revolu- 
tionizing the  general  artistic  taste  of  the  EngUsh 
people  and  their  house-decorations  in  particular, 
but  also  became  a  leader  in  the  social  reforms  which 
are  tending  surely  though  slowly  to  the  reorganiza- 
tion of  society  and  the  state.  Such  a  career  may 
seem  strange  for  one  whose  whole  interest  as  a 
young  man  lay  apparently  in  mediaeval  romance 
and  poetry;  yet  in  reahty  the  art-reformer  and 
the  social-reformer  were  logical  and,  one  may  al- 
most say,  inevitable  developments  of  the  lover  of 
mediaevalism,  for  his  love  of  mediaeval  art  taught 
him  the  hideousness  of  the  work  produced  by 
modem  artisans,  and  practical  experience  as  a 
decorator  soon  brought  the  recognition  that  art  is 
not  possible  under  the  conditions  of  modem  in- 
dustrialism, that  beauty  is  the  product  of  the  free 
artist,  working  with  a  love  of  his  art. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWTNBURNE 

Pp.  640  ff .  From  his  youth,  almost  from  his  boy- 
hood, Swinburne  possessed  a  wealth  of  sensuously 
beautiful  words  and  a  facility  in  versification  un- 
surpassed by  anj'  other  English  poet.  L^nfortu- 
nately  both  these  gifts  tempted  him  to  verbos- 
ity. He  alwaj's  has  a  meaning  but  it  is  often 
obscured,  if  not  entirely  hidden,  by  the  excess  of 
words  and  the  long  and  elaborate  sentences  in 
which  it  is  expressed.  His  influence  upon  other 
English  poets  —  both  great  and  small  —  was  for 
a  time  very  notable :  to  the  great  he  taught  new 
lessons  and  presented  new  standards  of  melodious 
verse ;  to  the  smaU  he  worked  injury,  tempting 
them  to  produce  sound  without  sense  and  to  in- 
dulge in  aU  sorts  of  hot-house  malaise  and  eroticism. 
He  himself  grew  steadily  in  power  and  seriousness 
of  thought,  but  he  never  escaped  from  the  in- 
voluted coils  of  his  diction  and  his  syntax.  The 
republican  poems  written  under  the  influence  of 
Victor  Hugo  and  ]\Iazzini  cannot  be  quoted  here, 
but  they  should  be  read  by  any  one  who  wishes  a 
just  idea  of  his  significance  in  English  poetr>^ 

GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Pp.  644  ff .  George  Meredith  was  one  of  the  most 
richly  and  variously  endowed  writers  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  He  is  best  known  as  a  noveUst, 
but  to  many  of  his  admirers  he  seems  equaUy  great 
as  a  poet.  .\ll  of  his  work  is  notable  for  its  combi- 
nation of  significance  and  beauty.  In  depth  of 
insight,  in  subtle  apprehension  of  life  and  of  the 
problems  which  it  presents  to  tr>'  the  hearts  of 
intelligent  men  and  women,  even  such  great  writers 
as  Scott,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  George  Ehot 
are  hardly  his  equals;  and  his  sensitiveness  to 
the  beauties  of  nature  and  of  the  soul  of  man  has  a 
wider  range  and  a  finer  delicacy.  The  same  quali- 
ties are  manifest  in  much  of  his  poetry.  But  the 
gods  gave  him  also  the  fatal  gift  of  excessive  intel- 
lectual ingenuity  and  a  delight  in  the  exercise  of 
it ;  while  the  sole  gift  they  denied  him  was  self- 


778 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


restraint.  Like  his  own  Bellerophon,  he  had  the 
winged  horse  and  the  golden  bridle,  and  he,  too, 

.    .    .  could  mount  and  sit 

Flying,  and  up  Olj'mpus  midway  speed ; 

but  instead  of  riding  straight  and  hard  for  the 
summit  he  too  often,  in  mere  exuberance  of  power 
and  of  delight  in  his  steed,  executes  difficult  feats 
of  horsemanship  on  the  lower  slopes  of  the  moun- 
tain. 

Love  in  the  Valley  is  not  a  logical,  consecutive 
description  of  the  beloved,  but  a  series  of  glimpses 
of  her  in  many  moods  and  under  many  aspects. 
The  poem  may  be  said  to  resemble  in  structure  a 
diamond  with  a  hundred  facets,  each  of  which  glows 
with  its  own  transformation  of  the  white  light  of 
beauty. 

Pp.  648  f.  Juggling  Jerry  affords  a  striking  con- 
trast with  this  poem  in  both  subject-matter  and 
stjde. 

Pp.  649  f.  Bellerophon  is  a  remarkable  imagina- 
tive reconstruction  of  a  situation,  the  tragedy  and 
pathos  of  which  depend  upon  an  appreciation  of 
the  career  of  the  hero  as  set  forth  in  classical  my- 
thology. 

P.  650.  The  Song  of  tlie  Songless  and  the  Dirge 
give  some  hint  of  the  beauty  of  the  nature  poetry 
which  forms  a  notable  part  of  his  work.  Taken 
together  these  selections  illustrate  the  range  as 
well  as  the  beauty  of  Meredith's  poetry. 

^"===^CHRISTINA   ROSSETTI 

Pp.  650  fif.  Christina  Rossetti  deserves  a  high, 
perhaps  the  highest,  place  among  women  poets 
of  the  nineteenth  centur}',  not  by  virtue  of  range  of 
thought  or  volume  of  production,  but  because  her 
verse  is  uniformly  almost  the  perfection  of  simple 
passionate  beauty. 

JAMES  THOMSON 

Pp.  652  flf.  James  Thomson  is  one  of  the  most 
curious  and  interesting  figures  of  the  Victorian 
period.  No  one  has  been  more  successful  in 
catching  the  true  poetic  aspect  of  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  lower  middle  classes  of  a  great  city. 
His  "idyls  of  the  London  mob,"  as  he  calls  them, 
are  not  echoes  of  Theocritus  or  Vergil,  of  the  pas- 
toral of  tlie  Italian  Renaissance,  or  of  the  genuine 
bucohc  poetry  of  Scotland  and  England;  they 
are  original  and  independent  treatments  of  the 
material  that  he  saw  actually  about  him  in  the  holi- 
day excursions  of  the  young  people  of  cockneydom. 


In  striking  contrast  with  these  simple  and  charm- 
ing pictures  is  the  dark  melancholy  which  finds  ex- 
pression in  The  City  of  Dreadful  Night  and  other 
poems  of  his  later  years.  These  poems  have  often 
been  admired,  or  condemned,  as  the  ultimate 
exi)ression  of  philosophical  pessimism,  and'  often 
the  form  and  the  ideas  seem  to  justify  such  an  in- 
terpretation;  but  there  can  be  httle  doubt  that 
they  are  in  reality  devoid  of  philosophical  signifi- 
cance, though  full  of  power  and  of  far-reachi'. 
suggestion.  The  ideas  and  the  imagery  have  tii^ 
horrible  fascination  of  a  hideous  dream.  They 
are  indeed  the  utterance  of  a  poet  of  splendid  orig- 
inal power  and  infinite  aspiration  for  life  and 
strength  and  beauty,  whose  vigor  has  been  sapped 
by  folly  and  misfortune,  who  with  shattered  nerves 
and  strcngthless  hands  strives  vainly  to  clutch 
some  good  that  has  durability  and  three  dimen- 
sions. TJie  City  of  Dreadful  Night  is,  as  the  poet 
explains,  the  city  of  darkness,  peopled  with  sad 
forms  by  the  insomnia  which  night  after  night 
tortures  and  weakens  him  and  restores  him  to  the 
day  empty  of  strength  and  hope. 

The  selection  As_  I  came  through  the  desert  is  one 
of  the  narratives  of  gloom  and  despair  incorpo- 
rated in  Thomson's  accoimt  of  the  dreadful 
Citj^  and  the  melancholy  figures  whom  the  poet 
meets  in  his  wanderings.  The  poem  is  very  diffi- 
cult. It  is  clearly  symbolic  of  the  passage  through 
life  of  some  distressed  soul,  but  the  significance  of 
the  woman  with  the  red  lamp  in  her  hand,  of  the 
two  selves  of  the  speaker,  and  of  the  woman's 
devotion  to  the  corpse-like  self  will  be  differently 
interpreted  by  different  students.  Perhaps  this 
poem  no  more  admits  of  a  definite  interpretation 
of  details  than  does  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark 
Tower  Came. 

WALTER  PATER 

Style 

Pp.  654  ff.  Pater's  essay  on  Style  is  exemplified 
in  Tlie  Child  in  the  House;  from  The  Child  in  the 
House  it  would  be  possible  to  deduce  his  principles 
of  style,  so  completely  in  his  case  are  critic  and 
creator  at  one.  He  and  Stevenson  are  the  two 
supremely  self-conscious  artists  of  the  nineteenth 
century ;  and  yet  in  neither  case  does  the  expendi- 
ture of  thought,  love,  and  care  upon  the  process 
itself  detract  from  the  beauty  of  the  result. 

Pater's  mind  worked  in  a  perpetual  probing, 
testing,  balancing,  for  the  purpose  of  finding  shades 
of  difference  among  resemblances,  shades  of  re- 
semblance where  differences  were  obvious,  ever 


NOTES 


779 


approaching  exactness  in  definition,  ever  Refining 
relationships  to  the  last  degree  of  nicety.  For  that 
reason,  his  sentences  often  seem  cumbersome; 
he  was  unwilling  to  relinquish  his  efi"ort  at  expres- 
sion until  he  had  reached  the  end  of  the  ramifica- 
tions 'of  his  thought.  Together  with  this  went 
a  love  of  words  as  words  and  a  wonderful  patience 
in  seeking  the  exact  word  and  the  right  combina- 
tion of  words  to  convey  his  meaning  with  such 
emotional  suggestiveness  as  he  himself  felt  in  con- 
nection with  it. 


The  Child  in  the  House 

Pp.  657  ff.  The  Child  in  the  House  is  to  some 
extent  autobiographical.  It  was  written  in  1878 
when  Pater  was  thirtj'-nine  years  old  and  had  been 
away  twenty-five  years  from  the  Enfield  home- 
(about  ten  miles  from  London).  In  the  house 
itself  the  Watteau  picture  probably  represents 
one  b)^  Jean-Baptiste  Pater,  Watteau's  contempo- 
rary, to  whose  stock  the  English  Paters  were  sup- 
posed to  belong.  For  a  study  of  Watteau  and 
Pater,  see  Pater's  essay,  ^  Prit^e  of  Court  Painters. 
Undoubtedly  Florian  Deleal  represents  Pater's 
own  attitude  as  evolved  by  home  influences,  just 
as  Emerald  U thwart  reflects  his  own  Hfe  at  Canter- 
bury School  and  its  effect  upon  him. 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 
Francois  Villon 

Pp.  662  ff.  Stevenson  was  exactly  the  man  to 
write  upon  Villon ;  he  was  enough  of  a  bohemian 
and  enough  of  a  poet  to  present  with  the  utmost 
charity  and  clarity  his  sordid  material.  His  in- 
terest in  Villon  appears  further  in  his  story,  A 
Lodging  for  the  Night,  of  which  Villon  is  the  hero. 

The  book  upon  which  Stevenson  bases  most  of 
his  information  is  Longnon's  Etude  biographique 
sur  Franqois  Villon,  Paris,  1877 ;  but  he  seems 
also  to  have  consulted  the  Bourgeois  de  Paris  (ed. 
Pantheon)  and  the  Chronique  Scandaleuse  (ed. 
Pantheon),  among  other  books.  Further  details 
and  illustrative  material  about  the  life  of  Villon 
may  be  foimd  in  Champion's  Franqois  Villon, 
Paris,  1913. 

Stevenson's  object  is  to  reconstruct,  out  of  the 
facts  brought  to  light  by  research,  the  living 
image  of  a  man.  In  this  he  succeeds  admirably, 
partly  by  his  sympathetic  realization  of  what 
Villon  must  have  meant  to  himself  and  to  others, 
and  partly  by  his  clearness  of  presentation.     An- 


other source  of  charm  is,  as  always,  his  racy  and 
delightful  English. 

P.  664  a.  with  specification  of  one  -work,  etc. 
Stevenson  here  misses  the  point.  The  book  in 
question,  The  RotmnaiU  du  Pet  an  Deable,  was 
Villon's  first  work,  now  lost,  a  mock  romance  re- 
lating the  pranks  of  students  at  the  University 
of  Paris  while  Villon  was  there.  The  Pet  an 
Deable  was  a  stone  which  lay  before  the  house  of 
a  pious  old  w'oman.  It  was  moved  by  the  stu- 
dents to  their  quarter,  and  a  great  deal  of  merry- 
making and  rioting  grew  out  of  the  whole  affair. 
Signs  were  abo  stolen  from  different  parts  of  the 
citj',  and  the  doings  finally  led  to  a  serious  dash 
between  the  University  and  the  city  authorities. 
Without  attempting  to  whitewash  Villon  or  his 
lost  poem,  we  may  believe  that  his  uncle  might 
have  received  such  a  legacy  without  being  insulted 
and  still  be  a  worthy  ecclesiastic,  but  with  a 
twinkle  for  the  vagaries  of  students. 

P.  668  a.  a  whole  improper  romance,  etc. 
Stevenson  omits  the  important  point  that  this 
romance  was  Villon's  lost  composition  referred  to 
above.  Tabary  was  a  clerk,  apparently  a  fellow- 
student  with  Villon,  who  describes  him,  in  this 
very  connection,  as  "a  real  man"  (horns  veritable) ; 
but  his  later  career  scarcely  bore  out  the  com.pli- 
ment. 

P.  672  a.  Charles  of  Orleans  .  .  .  in  the  pages 
of  the  present  volume,  that  is  Familiar  Studies  of 
Men  and  Books,  in  which  is  printed  also  Steven- 
son's essay  on  Charles  of  Orleans.  He  was 
nephew  and  cousin  to  kings  of  France,  was  cap- 
tured at  Agincourt  in  1415,  and  kept  prisoner  in 
England  for  twenty-five  years.  He  had  a  pretty 
skill  in  lyric  verse  and  was  a  great  patron  of  poets. 

P.  675  a.  The  date  of  the  "Large  Testament," 
etc.  Since  the  essay  was  written,  a  few  more  facts 
have  been  discovered ;  but  they  are  sordid  details 
of  two  more  arrests,  the  second  ending  in  a  sentence 
of  death  by  hanging,  which  was  afterward  light- 
ened to  banishment  from  Paris  for  ten  j^ears.  In 
this  case,  an  unprovoked  assault  on  a  notary  and 
his  scribes,  Villon  seems  to  have  been  entirely 
innocent;  but  he  was  punished  for  being  in  bad 
company,  and  because  his  career  was  notorious. 
In  1463,  then,  he  left  Paris,  and  no  more  is  known 
of  him.  He  was  broken  in  health,  and  mthout 
means  of  subsistence;  and  the  sentence  against 
him  must  have  kept  him  continually  exposed  to 
danger.  He  was  dead  in  1489  when,  his  works 
were  first  published. 


78o 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND   POETRY 


TRANSLATIONS  OF  CLASSICAL  AUTHORS 

Every  student  of  English  poetry  should  have 
access  to  the  chief  Greek  and  Latin  classics.  As 
few  can  nowadays  be  expected  to  read  the  original 
texts,  a  brief  list  of  cheap  translations  of  the  authors 
who  have  had  the  greatest  influence  upon  English 
literature  may  be  useful : 

Iliad,  translated  by  Pope  (Astor  ed.,  50  cents) ; 
tr.  Lang,  Leaf,  and  Myers  (prose),  80  cents. 

Odyssey,  tr.  Palmer,  75  cents ;  tr.  Butcher  and 
Lang  (prose) ,  80  cents. 

.(Eschylus  (Everyman's  Library,  35  cents). 

Sophocles  (Everyman's  Library,  35  cents). 

Euripides  (2  vols.,  Everyman's  Library,  35 
cents  each). 


Plato,  Five  Dialogues  on  Poetic  Inspiration 
(Everyman's  Library,  35  cents). 

Theocritus,  Bion,  and  Moschus,  tr.  Lang  (prose), 
80  cents. 

Vergil,  tr.  Conington  (Astor  ed.  50  cents) ;  tr. 
Lonsdale  and  Lee  (prose),  $1.25. 

Horace  (Everyman's  Library,  35  cents). 

Ovid,  the  only  accessible  translation  at  present  is 
that  in  Bohn's  Library  3  vols.,  $1.50  each  (of  which 
Vol.  II  is  the  most  valuable) ;  but  Mr.  Dent  prom- 
ises that  a  translation  will  soon  be  included  in 
Everyman's  Library. 

Editions  of  all  the  classical  texts  with  transla- 
tions are  planned  for  the  Loeb  Classical  Library 
(the  Macmillan  Company) ;  many  of  them  have 
already  been  published. 


INDEX    OF   AUTHORS 


Addison,  Joseph,  262 
Arnold,  Alatthew,  591 
Ascham,  Roger,  loi 

Bacon,  Francis,  150 
Beaumont,  Francis,  174 
Beddoes,  Thomas  Lovell,  495 
Blair,  Robert,  294 
Blake,  William,  359 
Boswell,  James,  341 
Breton,  Nicholas,  162 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  181 
Browne,  William,  176 
Browning,     Elizabeth     Barrett, 

545 
Browning,  Robert,  549 
Buckhurst,  Lord,  105 
Bunyan,  John,  239 
Burke,  Edmund,  331 
Burns,  Robert,  362 
Butler,  Samuel,  237 
Byron,  Lord,  443 

Campbell,  Thomas,  431 
Campion,  Thomas,  162 
Carew,  Thomas,  181 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  497 
Caxton,  William,  86 
Chapman,  George,  145 
Chatterton,  Thomas,  353 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  56 
Clough,  Arthur  Hugh,  578 
Coleridge,   Samuel  Taylor,   396 
Collins,  William,  319 
Cowley,  Abraham,  219 
Cowper,  William,  336 
Crabbe,  George,  358 
Crashaw,  Richard,  214 

Daniel,  Samuel,  146 
Defoe,  Daniel,  245 
Dekker,  Thomas,  166 
Denham,  Sir  John,  218 
De  Quincey,  Thomas,  434 
Dobell,  Sidney,  591 


Donne,  John,  171 
Drayton,  Michael,  148 
Drummond,  William,  174 
Dryden,  John,  222 
Dyer,  Sir  Edward,  160 
Dyer,  John,  300 

Elliot,  Jane,  362 

Fergusson,  Robert,  362 
Fitzgerald,  Edward,  621 
Fletcher,  John,  173 
Ford,  John,  175 
Foxe,  John,  103 
Fuller,  Thomas,  185 

Gay,  John,  291 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  322 
Gower,  John,  51 
Gray,  Thomas,  313 
Greene,  Robert,  131 
Guildford,  Nicholas  de,  14 

Hales,  Thomas  de,  19 
Hawes,  Stephen,  86 
Herbert,  George,  178 
Herrick,  Robert,  177 
Heywood,  Thomas,  176 
Hoccleve,  Thomas,  72 
Hood,  Thomas,  493 
Howard,  Henry,  Earl  of  Surrey, 

100 
Hunt,  Leigh,  434 

Jeffrey,  Francis,  416 
Johnson,  Samuel,  302 
Jonson,  Ben,  169 
Junius,  351 

Keats,  John,  474 

Lamb,  Charles,  422 
Landor,  Walter  Savage,  487 
Langland,  William,  24 
Layamon,  5 

781 


Locke,  John,  238 
Locker-Lampson,  Frederick,  59c 
Lodge,  Thomas,  129 
Lovelace,  Richard,  218 
Lydgate,  John,  73 
Lyly,  John,  127 

Macaulay,  Thomas  B.,  510 
Macpherson,  James,  340 
Mallet,  David,  301 
Malory,  Sir  Thomas,  84 
Mandeville,  Sir  John,  30 
Marlowe,  Christopher,  135 
Marvell,  Andrew,  219 
Meredith,  George,  644 
Mickle,  William  Julius,  361 
Milton,  John,  189 
Moore,  Thomas,  433 
More,  Sir  Thomas,  95 

Newman,  John  H.   (Cardinal), 
518 

Oldham,  John,  238 

Orrm,  4 

Otway,  Thomas,  244 

Pater,  Walter,  654 

Patmore,  Coventry,  623 

Peele,  George,  161 

Pepys,  Samuel,  234 

Pope,  Alexander,  273 

Praed,    Winthrop    Mackworth, 

494 
Prior,  Matthew,  272 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  160 
Rochester,  Earl  of,  244 
Rossetti,  Christina,  650 
Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel,  624 
Ruskin,  John,  582 

Sackville,  Thomas,  Lord  Buck- 
hurst, IDS 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  417 


78. 


ENGLISH    PROSE    AND    POETRY 


Sedlcy,  Sir  Charles,  243 
Shakespeare,  William,  137 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  458 
Shenstone,  William,  311 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  122 
Skelton,  John,  87 
Southey,  Robert,  416 
Southwell,  Robert,  162 
Spenser,  Edmund,  108 
Steele,  Sir  Richard,  254 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  662 
Suckling,  Sir  John,  214 
Surrey,  Earl  of,  100 


Swift,  Jonathan,  248 
Swinburne,    Algernon    Charles, 
640 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  216 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  523 
Thackeray,  William  M.,  573 
Thomson,  James,  296 
Thomson,  James,  652 
Trevisa,  John  de,  71 
Tyndale,  William,  96 

Vaughan,  Henry,  221 


Waller,  Edmund,  184 

Walton,  Izaak,  179 

Warton,  Thomas,  322 

Wiclif,  John,  34 

Wilmot,  John,  Earl  of  Rochester. 

244 
Winchilsea,  Lady,  294 
Wither,  George,  175 
Wolfe,  Charles,  458 
Wordsworth,  William,  376 
Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas,  97 

Young,  Edward,  292 


INDEX    OF   TITLES   AND    FIRST    LINES 


A  baby's  eyes,  ere  speech  begin 643 

A  baby's  feet,  like  sea-shells  pink 643 

A  baby's  hands,  like  rose  buds  furled 643 

Absalom  and  Achitophel •.  222 

Abt  V0GLE5. 567 

Academy  for  Women,  An 245 

AccouNTE  OF  W.  Canynge's  Feast,  The.  . .  358 

Acts  and  Monuments 103 

Address  to  the  Deil 363 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid 368 

Adonais 466 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever 373 

yESOP  AND  ELhODOPE 487 

A  face   that   should   content   me  wondrous 

well 98 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 395 

After  Sunset 644 

A  gentle  knight  was  pricking  on  the  plaine .  .  in 

Ah  for  pittie,  wil  rancke  Winters  rage 108 

Ah  me !  full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn 312 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race 492 

All,  what  is  love?     It  is  a  pretty  thing 132 

Alas,  'tis  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there. . . .  142 

Alastor 458 

Alex.ant?er's  Feast 224 

AUe  beon  he  blithe 9 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored 292 

All  my  past  life  is  mine  no  more 244 

All  that  I  know 554 

All  ye  that  lovely  lovers  be .  161 

Althea,  from  Prison,  To 218 

Alysoun 21 

A  man  must  ser\'e  his  time  to  every  trade .  .  .  443 

A  mayde  Cristes  me  bit  yorne 19 

America 591 

A  milk-white  Hind,  immortal  and  unchanged  223 

Amoretti 117 

Ancren  Riwle,  The. 8 

An  angel  thus  til  him  can  sai 17 

Angel  in  the  House,  The 623 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true 361 

And  now 'tis  time ;  for  their  officious  haste. .  222 

And  rise,  O  moon,  from  yonder  down 542 

And  so  bif el,  whan  comen  was  the  tyme 56 

And  the  first  grej-  of  morning  fill'd  the  east .  .  605 

An  evil  Spirit  (your  Beauty)  haunts  me  still .  148 

Angler,  The  Complete 179 

Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle i 

An  idle  poet  here  and  there 624 

A  passing  glance,  a  lightning  'long  the  skies .  .  174 


Apelles'  Song 128 

Apollo  great,  whose  beams  the  greater  world 

do  light 123 

.\pparitions 572 

Arcadia 124 

.\reopagitica 210 

-'^T 654 

Arthur  for  to  Cornwale "    5 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers  166 
As  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was. ...  652 
As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night  stood  shivering  in 

the  snow i6r 

A  simple  child 382 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 162 

Ask,  is  Love  divine 650 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows i8r 

A  slumber  did  mj'  spirit  seal 386 

A  sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument 630 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 578 

Astrolabe,  A  Treatise  on  the 70 

Astrophel  and  Stella 122 

As  two,  whose  love,  first  foolish,  widening 

scope 63 1 

At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast 329 

Atalanta  in  Calydon 640 

At  a  posterne  forth  they  gan  to  ryde 73 

At  first  a  dusky  wreath  they  seem  to  rise. . .  .   297 

Atheism,  Of 154 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever 479 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep- 
time 572 

Auguries  of  Innocence 360 

Aututin 297 

Autumn,  To 476 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints 198 

Awake,  ^olian  lyre,  awake 316 

Awake,  my  St.  John !  leave  all  meaner  things  286 

A  wanderer  is  man  from,  his  birth 604 

A  well  there  is  in  the  West  country 416 

A  wind  svTrays  the  pines 650 

B.ALADE  de  Bon  Conseyl 69 

Ballad  of  De.ad  Ladies,  The 629 

Bard's  Epitaph,  A 369 

Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth 477 

B.-^TTLE  OF  Otterburn,  The 77 

Battle  of  the  Baltic 432 

Beautiful  Evelj^n  Hope  is  dead 551 

Beauty  clear  and  fair 173 

BEHA\^ouR  OF  Ridley  and  Latimer 103 


783 


784 


ENGLISH    PROSE    AND    POETRY 


Behold  her  single  in  the  field 389 

Be  it  right  or  wrong,  these  men  among 88 

Belle  of  the  Ball-Room,  The 494 

Bellerophon 649 

Beloved,  my  Beloved,  when  I  think 546 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  dawn's  aerial  cope .  .  .  644 

BlOGRAPHIA  LiTERARIA 396 

Birthday,  A 651 

Birthday,  On  his  Seventy-fifth 493 

Black-Eyed  Susan 292 

Blessed  Damozel,  The 624 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 144 

BoNiE  DooN 372 

BoNiE  Lesley 373 

Book  of  Enydos,  Preface  to  the, 86 

Break,  break,  break 53S 

Bride-Song,  The 650 

Bright  Star  of  Beauty !  on  whose  eyelids  sit  148 
Bright  Star !  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou 

■  art " 479 

Bristowe  Tragedie,  The 353 

Britannia's  Pastorals 176 

Brut,  The 5 

Burning  Babe,  The 161 

But,  O  my  muse,  what  numbers  wilt  thou  find  262 
By  nature's  law,  what  may  be,  may  be  now.  293 
By  numbers  here  from  shame  or  censure  free  309 
By tuene  Mersh  and  Averil 21 

Calais,  On  the  Sea-Shore  near 395 

Caller  Water 362 

Calm  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling 

air 118 

Cambro-Britans  and  their  Harp,  To  the  149 

Campaign,  The 262 

Canterbury  Tales,  The 59 

Can  you  paint  a  thought?  or  number 175 

Captain  Car 81 

Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  arms 198 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night.  .  147 
Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes      173 

Castle  of  Indolence,  The 298 

Cavalier  Tunes 549 

Celia,  To 243 

Centre  of  Indifference  500 

Chapman's  Homer,  On  First  Looking  into  478 

Chapter  on  Ears,  A 428 

Cherry-Ripe 162 

Cherry-ripe,  ripe,  ripe,  I  cry 177 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage 445 

"Childe    Roland    to    the    Dark    Tower 

Came  " 556 

Child  in  the  House,  The 657 

Child  of  Quality,  To  a  272 

Chillon,  Prisoner  of 451 

Chillon,  Sonnet  on 451 

Chinese  Goes  to  See  a  Play,  The 322 

Choice,  The 632 

Chorus  from  Atalanta  in  Calydon 640 

Christabel 415 

Christmas  in  the  Olden  Time 418 

Christ's  Nativity,   On  the  Morning  of  189 


Citizen  of  the  World,  Letters  from  a.  .   322 

City  of  Dreadful  Night,  The 652 

Clod  and  the  Pebble,  The 359 

Cloud,  The 464 

Cold's  the  wind,  and  wet's  the  rain 166 

Collar,  The 179 

CoLYN  Cloute 88 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death 144 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away 602 

Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring  621 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud 539 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love 165 

Come,  Sleep !  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of 

peace 123 

Come  we  shepherds,  whose  blest  sight 214 

Coming  of  the  Rain,  The 297 

Complaint  of  a  Lover  Rebuked 100 

Complaint,  The,  or  Night  Thought!; 292 

Compleint    of    Chaucer    to    his    Empty 

Purse,  The 69 

Complete  Angler,  The 179 

Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge 395 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little 532 

Conclusion,  The 160 

CoNFESsio  Amantis 5  I 

Confessions  of  an  English  Opium-Eater  434 

Congreve  (Johnson) 302 

Constant  Lover,  The 214 

Content 166 

Cooper's  Hill 218 

Corinna's  Going  a-Maying 177 

Corydon,  arise,  my  Corydon 162 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  The 365 

Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke,  On  the  177 

Court  of  Fairy,  The 150 

Creep  into  thy  narrow  bed 620 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a 

cloud 198 

Crossing  the  Bar 545 

Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  The : . . .   584 

Cry  of  the  Children,  The 547 

Cuckoo,  To  the 388 

Culture  and  Anarchy 591 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 128 

Cursor  Mundi 17 

Cyriack,   this   three  years'   day   these   eyes, 

though  clear 199 

Cyriack  Skinner,  To 199 

Daffodils,  To 178 

Damelus'  Song  to  his  Diaphenia 164 

Dante,  To 543 

Dear!  why  should  you  command  me  to  my 

rest 148 

Death 172 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have  called 

thee 172 

Death's  Jest-Book 496 

Death  stands  above  me  whispering  low 493 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 481 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 537 

Defeating  oft  the  labours  of  the  year 297 


INDEX    OF    TITLES    AND    FIRST   LINES 


785 


De  Regimixe  PRiNCiPUii 72 

Description    ant)    Praise    of    ms    Love, 

Geraldine 100 

D  ESCRiPTiON  of  One  he  Would  Love,  A .  .  .     98 

Description  of  Spring ' 100 

Deserted  Lover  Consoleth  Himself,  The     97 

Deserted  Village,  The 324 

Dialogue  of  Syr  Thomas  More 95 

Diaphenia,  like  the  daffadowndilly 164 

Diary  of  Samuel  Pepys,  The 234 

Dirge 173 

Dirge  for  Phylllp  Sparowe,  A 87 

Dirge  from  The  Broken  Heart 175 

Dirge  in  Woods 650 

Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College,  On  a  313 
Divers  doth  use,  as  I  have  heard  and  know  .     97 

Doniinus 87 

Do   ye   hear   the   children   weeping,    O   my 

brothers 547 

Drake,  The  Life  of  Sir  Francis 185 

Dramatic  Poets,  On  Lamb's  Specimens  of  644 

Dream  of  F.air  Women,  A. . . . , 524 

Dream  Pedlary 495 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 169 

Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo 374 

Dunciad,  The 290 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair .  .  .   395 

Earthly  Paradise,  The 633 

Easter  Day,  1 579 

Easter  Day,  II 581 

Eat  thou  and  drink ;  to-morrow  thou  shalt  die  632 

Edom  o  Gordon 81 

Education,  Of 208 

Elegy  Written  in  a   Country    Church- 
yard    314 

Eloisa  to  Abelard 285 

Enchantment,  The 244 

Endymion 479 

England's  Helicon 162 

English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers.  . . .  443 

Enough,  I  am  by  promise  tied 419 

Epilogue  to  Asolando,  The 572 

Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot 288 

Epistle  to  the  Countess  of  Cumberland  147 

Epitaph 176 

Epitaph  on  Charles  II 244 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth,  L.  H 171 

Epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy,  An 171 

Epithalamion 115 

Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy,  An 226 

Essay  on  Criticism,  An 273 

Essay  on  Man,  An 286 

Essays,  Bacon's 150 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind 451 

Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky 394 

Eton  College,  On  a  Distant  Prospect  of  313 

Etude  Re'aliste 643 

Euganean  Hills,  Lines  among  the 460 

Euphues  and  His  England 127 

EuPHUEs'  Golden  Legacy 129 

Evelyn  Hope 551 


Even  such  is  time,  that  takes  in  trust. ......    160 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The 482 

E\-ERLASTING  No,  ThE 497 

E\^rlasting  Yea,  The 505 

Expostulation  and  Reply 383 

Extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic,  On 
the 394 

Fable  of  Belling  the  Cat,  The 28 

Faerie  Queene,  The iii 

Fair  and  fair,  and  t\\ace  so  fair 161 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 178 

Fairies'  Song 434 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 149 

Fair  Virtlt; 175 

F.AiRY  Rentals 128 

Farew'ell,  The 445 

Farewell  to  Arms .' 161 

Fat.al  Sisters,  The 318 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 145 

Februarie 108 

FiESOLAN  Idyl,  A 492 

Fight  with  Apollyon,  The 239 

Final  Chorus  from  Hellas 473 

First  Booke  for  the  Youth,  The loi 

First  Day,  The 651 

F1TZ-J.A.MES  AND  Roderick  Dhu 419 

Five  years  have  past ;   five  summers 384 

Flat  down  I  fell,  and  with  all  reverence 105 

Fie  fro  the  prees,  and  dwelle  with  sothfast- 

nesse 69 

Flight  into  Egypt,  The 17 

Flowers  of  the  Forest,  The 361 

Forget 172 

Forget  six  counties  overhung  with  smoke ....  634 

Forsaken  Merman,  The 602 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi 559 

Francesca  da  Rimint: 629 

Francois  Villon 662 

Friendship,  Of 156 

Friendship,  like  love,  is  but  a  name 291 

From  Tuscan  came  my  lady's  worthy  race. . .  100 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring.  .  141- 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies 145 

Funeral,  The 172 

Future,  The 604 

Fyll  the  cuppe,  Phylyppe 94 

Fytte,  The  First 37 

G.\NG  OF  Thie\tes,  a 667 

G.arden,  The 219 

Garden  of  Proserpine,  The 641 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may 178 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn   177 

Give  a  man  a  horse  he  can  ride 653 

Give  a  Rouse 55° 

Give  me  the  lowest  place  :  not  that  I  dare. . .  652 
Glories,  pleasures,  pomps,  delights,  and  ease  175 
Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song  538 

God  Lyaeus,  ever  3'oung 173 

Go,  for  they  call  you.  Shepherd,  from  the  hill  617 
Go,  lovely  Rose 185 


786 


ENGLISH    PROSE    AND    POETRY 


Go,  Pretty  Birds 176 

Gospel  of  Mathew 34 

GOSPELL  OF  MATHJSW 96 

Grafton,  Letters  to  the  Duke  of 351 

Grammarian's  Funeral,  A 555 

Grandmother,  To  my '  590 

Grasshopper,  The 218 

Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket,  The  ......  478 

Grave,  The ' 294 

Great  Place,  Of 152 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O 362 

Groat's  Worth  of  Wit,  A 133 

Grongar  Hill 300 

Grow  old  along  with  me 569 

Gull's  PIornbook,  The 166 

Had  we  but  world  enough,  and  time 2  20 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit 465 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  1 221 

Hare  with  Many  Friends,  The 291 

Hark  !  ah,  the  Nightingale 616 

Hark,  hark !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings. .   145 

Harvestmen  a-Singing 161 

Having  Arrived  at  the  Age  of  Twenty- 
three,  On  his 198 

Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my  lance  123 

Head-Dress,  The 265 

Heap  on  more  wood !  —  the  wind  is  chill ....   418 

He  meets,  by  heavenly  chance  express 623 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights 173 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy 192 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys 193 

Here  lies  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King 244 

Here,  where  precipitate  Spring  with  one  light 

bound 492 

Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet 641 

Her  chariot  ready  straight  is  made 150 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer 541 

Hero  and  Leander 135 

He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his  mind  147 

"  Hey,  down,  a  down !"  did  Dian  sing 164 

Higden's  Polychronicon ■. . . .     71 

Higher  Pantheism,  The 538 

Highland  Mary 373 

HiLPA  and  Shalum 269 

HiLPA  and  Shalum,  Sequel  of 271 

Hind  and  the  Panther,  The.  .  ._ 223 

Hind  Horn 83 

His  golden  locks  time  hath  to  silver  turned.  .    161 

EliSTORY  OF  England,  The 510 

Holy  Dying,  Rules  and  Exercises  of 216 

Holy  State,  The 185 

Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad 552 

Hope  and  Fear 644 

Hope,  The  One 633 

Hornbook,  The  Gull's 166 

How  a  Gallant  should  Behave  Himself 

IN  A  Play-House 166 

How  do  I  love  thee?  Let  me  count  the  ways  546 
How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been.  .  .  .  141 
How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august  292 
How  should  I  your  true  love  know 145 


How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 319 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth  198 
"How   they    Brought   the    Good    News 

from  Ghent  to  Aix" 550 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 219 

Hudibras 237 

Humorists,  The  English 573 

Hydriotaphia  :  Urn-Burial 181 

Hymn '. 262 

Hymn  in  Honoxir  of  Beauty,  An 120 

Hymn  of  Heavenly  Beauty,  An 121 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity 189 

Hymn  to  Apollo 123 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 459 

Hyperion 481 

I  am  nae  poet,  in  a  sense 364 

I  am  not  one  who  much  or  oft  delight 391 

I  am  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave 559 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 463 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers  464 

I  can  love  both  fair  and  brown 171 

Ich  a;m  elder  then  ich  wes  a  wintre  and  a  lore  2 

Ich  was  in  one  sumere  dale 14 

Idea 148 

Idea  of  a  University,  The 518 

Ideal,  The  Unrealized 590 

Ideas  of  Good  and  E\tl 360 

I  did  but  look  and  love  awhile 244 

Idyl,  A  Fiesolan 492 

I  en\y  not  in  any  moods 540 

If  all  the  flowers  of  all  the  fields  X)n  earth ....  644 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young 165 

If  childhood  were  not  in  the  world 643 

If  hght  of  life  outlive  the  set  of  sun 644 

If  ought  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song 319 

If  poisonous  minerals,  and  if  that  tree 172 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell 495 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought .  . .  545 

If  thou  survive  my  well-contented  day 140 

If  you  have  a  carrier-dove 654 

I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation 552 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions  431 

I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 540 

Iliad,  The 290 

I  long  to  talk  with  some  old  lover's  ghost 171 

II  Penseroso 193 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 460 

In  a  somer  sesun  whon  softe  was  the  sonne .  .  24 

Indian  Serenade,  The 463 

Indifferent,  The 171 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood 394 

In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side 298 

In  Memoriam 540 

In  Scotland  there  was  a  babie  bom 83 

In  sorrow's  cell  I  laid  me  down  to  sleep 129 

In  such  a  night,  when  every  louder  wind.  .  . .  294 

In  the  Holy  Nati\tty  of  Our  Lord  God  214 

In  the  merry  month  of  May 162 

In  these  deep  solitudes  and  awful  cells 285 

Intimations  of  Immortality 391 

In'\'ocation  to  Sleep i73 


INDEX    OF    TITLES    AKD    FIRST   LINES 


In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 3og 

I  read  before  my  e\'elids  dropt  their  shade. . .  524 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night 221 

I  sent  for  Ratcliffe ;   was  so  ill 272 

I  sprang  to  the  saddle,  and  Joris  and  he 550 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool 369 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 374 

Is  this  a  fast,  to  keep 178 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my 

strife 493 

I  struck  the  board  and  cried,  "No  more;    I 

will  abroad 1 79 

It  befell  at  Martynmas 81 

It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know. 579 

It  happened  once  some  men  of  Italy 634 

I    thought    of    thee,    my   partner    and    my 

guide 396 

I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung. .  .  .  545 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  ....  395 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner 400 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree i  70 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 478 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king 532 

It  was  the  winter  wild 1S9 

Itylus 642 

I've  heard  them  lilting,  at  our  ewe-milking. . .  361 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 390 

I  was  angry  with  my  friend 360 

I  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead 466 

I  wish  I  could  remember  that  first  day 651 

Jason,  which  sih  his  fader  old 51 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met 434 

Juggling  Jerry 648 

Keep  a  Trxje  Lent,  To 178 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  king 549 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now.  .  550 

King  Horn 9 

King,  that  hast  reign'd  six  hundred  years,  and 

grown 543 

Known  in  Vain 631 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and 

myrtle 457 

KxjBLA  Khan 399 

La  Belle  Dame  s.axs  Merci 477 

Lady  of  Shalott,  The 523 

L.ADY  OF  THE  LAND,  ThE 634 

Lake  Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face  448 

L'Allegro 192 

Lamb's  Specimens  of  Dramatic  Poets,  On  644 

Landmark,  The 631 

La§t  Word,  The 620 

Late  Massacre  in  Piedjiont,  On  the  ....  198 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse 173 

Lay  of  Rosabelle 417 

Le  ^Iorte  Darthur 84 

Lenten  ys  come  with  love  to  toune 22 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds. ...  142 

Let  observation,  with  extensive  view 310 

Let  others  sing  of  Knights  and  Paladins 147 


Letters  to  the  Duke  of  Grafton 351 

Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse 555 

Life  of  Life 623 

Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  The 341 

Life  of  Sir  Filancis  Drake,  The 185 

Like  as  a  ship,  that  through  the  ocean  wide  118 
Lines  Composed  near  Tintern  Abbey  ....  384 
Lines   Printed   lt^^der   the   Portrait   of 

Milton 226 

Lines  to  John  Lapraik 364 

Lines    Written    among    the    Euganean 

Hills 460 

LoCKSLEY  H.A.LL 532 

London 309 

Lont)on,  1802 395 

Look  in  my  face;  my  name  is  Might-have- 
been  633 

Lord  General  Cromwell,  To  the 198 

Lord  Randal 83 

Lords,  knights,  and  'squires,  the  numerous 

band 272 

Loss  of  the  Royal  George,  On  the 338 

Lost  Days 633 

Love 1 79 

Love 449 

Love  and  Life 244 

Love  bade  me  welcome;    yet  my  soul  drew 

back 179 

Love  ill  my  bosom  like  a  bee 164 

Love  in  the  Valley 644 

Lover,  The 623 

Lover  CouPLAiNtTH  the  Unkindness  of  his 

Lo\TE,  The 98 

Lover's  Jol-rn-ey,  The 358 

Love's  Deity 171 

Love  seeketh  not  itself  to  please 359 

Lo\t;-Sight 630 

Love's  Secret 360 

Love  still  has  something  of  the  sea 243 

Love-Sweetness 630 

Love,  that  liveth  and  reigneth  in  my  thought  100 
Loving  in  truth,  and  fain  in  verse  my  love  to 

show 122 

Lowest  Pl.a.ce,  The 652 

Lucasta,  Going  to  the  Wars,  To 218 

Lucifer  in  Starlight 650 

Lucy 386 

Lucy  Gray 386 

LuUy,  lulley,  lulley,  lulley 94 

LirvE  Ron,  A 19 

Ly'cidas 195 

Lyrical  B.all.ads,  Preface  to 376 

Madrigal  1 1 74 

Maimed,  beggared,  grey;    seeking  an  alms  649 

Make  rome,  syrs,  and  let  us  be  mery 94 

Make  we  mery,  bothe  more  and  lasse 93 

Man 292 

Man  and  Nature 448 

Man  and  Nature 450 

Man's  a  Man  for  A'  That,  A 374 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 460 


788 


ENGLISH    PROSE    AND    POETRY 


Marching  Along 549 

Marguerite,  To 603 

Mariage    betwene    Grande    Amour    and 

Labell  Pucell,  The 86 

Marmion 418 

Marriage  and  Single  Life,  Of 151 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 100 

Master  Francis   Beaumont's  Letter   to 

Ben  Jonson 174 

Maud 539 

May !  Be  thou  never  graced  with  birds  that 

sing 176 

Mean  and  Sure  Estate,  Of  the 98 

Means  to  Attain  a  Happy  Life,  The 100 

Memory  of  My  Beloved  Master,  William 

Shakespeare,  To  the 169 

Men  say,  Columbia,  we  shall  hear  thy  guns  591 

Merlin  and  the  Gleam 543 

Mermaid  Tavern,  Lines  on  the  .  . ; 477 

Merman,  The  Forsaken 602 

Mid  Rapture 631 

Milton !    thou   should'st    be   living   at    this 

hour 395 

Mirror  for  Magistrates,  A 105 

Mirza,  The  Vision  of 267 

Mistress,  To  His 244 

Mistress,  To  His  Coy 220 

Modest  Proposal,  A 253 

Morality 604 

Moral  Ode 2 

More  than  most  fair,  full  of  the  living  fire ...  117 

Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity,  On  the.  .  .  189 

MoRTE  d'Arthur 528 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplif ted  eyes 396 

Mountain  Daisy,  To  a 369 

Mouse,  To  a 364 

Mrs.  Battle's  Opinions  on  Whist 425 

Much    have   I    travell'd  in    the   realms   of 

gold 478 

Musical  Instrument,  A 549 

My  eye,  descending  from  the  hill,  surveys.  .  .  218 

My  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every  word  556 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men.  .  .  537 

My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  from  years 451 

My  heart   aches,   and  a   drowsy   numbness 

pains 474 

My  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird 651 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 389 

My  Last  Duchess 554 

My  letters  all  dead  paper,  mute  and  white. . .  546 
My  little  Son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful 

eyes 624 

My    lov'd,    my    honour'd,    much    respected 

friend 365 

My  lute,  awake,  perform  the  last 98 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is 160 

My  mother's  maids,  when  they  did  sew  and 

spin 98 

My  name  is  Colyn  Cloute 88 

My  only  Love  is  always  near 590 

My  poet,  thou  canst  touch  on  all  the  notes .  .  545 

My  Star 554 


Nations,  On  Refusal  of  Aid  between.  .  . .  630 

Naval  Ode,  A 431 

Nay  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her 551 

Never  seek  to  tell  thy  love 360 

Never  the  time  and  the  place 572 

Night,  To 474 

Nightingale,  The 123 

Night  Thoughts 292 

Nocturnal  Reverie,  A 294 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead. . . .  141 

Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby 391 

Nor  force  nor  fraud  shall  sunder  us 591 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note .  . .  458 

Not,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am 243 

Not  here !  the  white  North  has  thy  bones ....  543 

Not  in  the  crises  of  events 624 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 140 

Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul.  .  142 

Not  that  the  earth  is  changing,  O  my  God . . .  630 
Nought  is  there  under  heav'n's  wide  hollow- 

nesse 114 

Now  the  storm  begins  to  lower 318 

Now  was  the  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May. ...  176 

Now  welcom,  somer,  with  thy  sonne  softe ...  69 

Nu,  brol'err  Wallterr,  brol'err  min 4 

Nuns  may  Keep  no  Beast  but  a  Cat 8 

NuTBROWNE  Maide,  The 88 

Nymphidia 150 

Nymph's  Disdain  of  Love,  A 164 

Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Shepherd,  The  ....  165 

O  blithe  New-comer !  I  have  heard 388 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  Col- 
lege   313 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 475 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 474 

Ode  to  Duty 390 

Ode  to  Evening 319 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 462 

Ode  Written  in  the  Beginning  of  the 

Year  1746 319 

O  Earth,  lie  heavily  upon  her  eyes 652 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing .  .   633 
Of  Man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit.  .  . .   199 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 432 

O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide. . .    142 

Of  the  Mean  and  Sure  Estate 98 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first 222 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray 386 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 433 

Oh  !  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place.   450 

Oh  that  those  lips  had  language ! 338 

Oh,    thou !    in    Hellas    deem'd   of   heavenly 

birth 445 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 552 

Oh  Venice  !  Venice  !  when  thy  marble  walls.  .   455 

Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 541 

Old  Adam,  the  carrion  crow 496 

Old  Familiar  Faces,  The 431 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay 4^7 

O  Love !  no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art 449 

O  maister  deere  and  fadir  reverent 72 


INDEX    OF    TITLES    AND    FIRST   LINES 


789 


O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming.  .  .  .  144 

O  Muse !  relate  (for  you  can  tell  alone) 290 

On  a  Girdle 184 

On  a  starred  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose ....  650 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  f ee . . .  394 

On  Death 493 

One  Hope,  The 633 

On  either  side 358 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 523 

O,  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart 142 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 474 

One  Word  More 564 

On  Hellespont,  guilty  of  true  love's  blood. . . .  135 

On  his  Blindness 199 

On  his  having  Arrived  at  the  Age  of 

Twenty-three 198 

On  Man,  on  Nature,  and  on  Human  Life .  .  .  387 

O  Rome  !  my  country !  city  of  the  soul 449 

O  Rose,  thou  art  sick 360 

Orrmulum,  The 4 

Or  rushing  thence,  in  one  diffusive  band 296 

O  saw  ye  bonie  Lesley 373 

O  soft  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight 478 

OssiAN,  The  Poems  of 340 

Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free. . .  602 

O  Thou  that  swing'st  upon  the  waving  hair.  .  218 

O  thou !  whatever  title  suit  thee 363 

Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved 214 

Over  hill,  over  dale 143 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms 477 

O  where  hae  ye  been,  Lord  Randal,  my  son. .  83 
O,  wild  West  W'ind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's 

being 462 

Owl  and  the  Nightingale,  The 14 

O  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel 368 

O  young  Mariner 543 

ozymandias 460 

Pantheism,  The  Higher 538 

Paradise  Lost 199 

Passions,  The 320 

Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love,  The.  .  .  165 

Passions  are  liken'd  best  to  floods  and  streams  160 

Pastime  of  Pleasure,  The 86 

P.^tient  Grissill 166 

Peace ;  come  away  :   the  song  of  woe 541 

Pearl 46 

Pembroke,  On  the  Countess  Dowager  of  177 

"  Perche  Pensa  " 581 

Perle,  plesaunte  to  prynces  paye 46 

Personal  Talk 391 

Philomela 616 

Philomela's  Ode 131 

PhYLLIDA  ANT)  CoRYDON 162 

PhYLLIDA's  LoV-E-C.'iLL  TO  HER  CoRYDON 162 

Picture,     On     the      Receipt     of      My 

Mother's 338 

Piedmont,  On  the  Late  Massacre  in...  198 

Piers  the  Plowman 24 

Pinch  him,  pinch  him  black  and  blue 128 

Pindaric  Ode,  A 170 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild 359 

AE 


Pitch  here  the  tent,  while  the  old  horse  grazes  648 

Poema  Morale,  The 2 

Poems  of  Ossian,  The 340 

Poison  Tree,  A 360 

Poor  httle,  pretty,  fluttering  thing 272 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth 143 

Preface  to  the  Book  of  Enydos 86 

Preface  to  "Lyrical  Ballads" 376 

Prince's  Progress,  The 650 

Procrastination 293 

Progress  of  Poesy,  The 316 

Prothalamion 118 

Qua  Cursu:m  Ventus 578 

Quid  petis,  O  iily 93 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 569 

Rambler,  The 308 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  The 275 

Receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture,  On  the  338 

Recluse,  The 387 

Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France  335 
Refus.al  of  Aid  between  Nations,  On  ....  630 
Remedy  Worse  than  the  Disease,  The.  .  .   272 

Remember 652 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away 652 

Rest 652 

Restore  thy  tresses  to  the  golden  ore 146 

Retaliation 329 

Retreat,  The 221 

Revelation,  The 624 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  The 400 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky 542 

River  Duddon,  The 396 

Robert  Browning,  To 492 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne 74 

Rome 449 

rontjeau 434 

Roltstdel,  a 69 

Rosader's  Second  Sonetto 131 

Rosader's  Sonnet 129 

Rosalind's  Madrigal 164 

Rosaly'nde  :    Exjphxjes'  Golden  Legacy  . .   1 29 

Rose  Aylmer 492 

Royal  George,  On  the  Loss  of  the 338 

Rubaiy.at  of  Omar  Khayy'am,  The 621 

Rule  .and  Exercises  of  Holy  Dying,  The  216 

Rule,  Britannta 300 

Ruth 494 

Salathiel  Pa\^,  An  Epitaph  on 171 

Salt  of  the  Earth,  The 643 

Sartor  Res.artus 497 

Satire  Dissuading  from  Poetry,  A 238 

Saul 552 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth 581 

Say  over  again  and  yet  once  over  again 546 

Scholar  Gipsy,  The 617 

Scholem.a.ster,  The loi 

School-Mistress,  The 312 

Scorn   not    the    Sonnet;    Critic,    you    have 

frowned 396 


790 


ENGLISH    PROSE   AND    POETRY 


Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled 374 

Sea,  On  the 478 

Sea-Dirge,  A 145 

Sea-Shore  Near  Calais,  On  the 395 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness .  .  .  .  476 

Second  Three  Men's  Song,  the 166 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love 169 

Sephestia's  Song  to  her  Child 132 

September,  1802,  Near  Dover 394 

Seynt  Stevene  was  a  clerk  in  Kyng  Herowdes 

halle 84 

Shakespeare 602 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair 175 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 386 

Sheep-Washing,  The 296 

Shepheards  Calender,  The 108 

Shepherd's  Description  of  Love,  The  ....  163 

Shepherd's  Wife's  Song 132 

Shepherd,  what's  love,  I  pray  thee  tell 163 

She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn 494 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 457 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 389 

Shoemaker's  Holiday,  The 166 

Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John !  fatigued,  I 

said 288 

Sick  Rose,  The 360 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more 144 

Silent  Lover,  The 160 

Silent  Nymph,  with  curious  eye 300 

Silent  Voices,  The • 543 

Since  all  the  riches  of  all  this  world 360 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  bound- 
less sea 140 

Since  there's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and  part  148 

Sir  Galahad 537 

Sir  John  Franklin 543 

Sir  John  Moore,  Burial  of 458 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 80 

Sister  Helen 626 

Sitting  by  a  river's  side 131 

Sky-Lark,  To  a 394 

Sky-Lark,  To  a 465 

Sleep,  To 395 

Sleep,  To 478 

Snow-Scene,  A 296 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 528 

SOHRAB  and  RuSTUM 605 

So,  in  the  sinful  streets,  abstracted  and  alone  581 

Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er 419 

Sole  listener,   Duddon !   to   the  breeze   that 

played 396 

Solitary  Reaper,  The 389 

Song  from  Old  Fortunatus 166 

Song  from  Shakespeare's  Cymbelyne,  A 

(Collins) 319 

Song  from  The  Broken  Heart 175 

Song  fko.m  The  Shoemaker's  Holiday 166 

Song  of  the  Shirt,  The 493 

Song  of  Paris  and  (Enone 161 

Song  of  the  Songless 650 

So.ngs  from  Shakespeare's  Plays 143 

Songs  of  Experience 359 


Songs  of  Innocence 359 

Song  to  Bacchus 173 

Song  to  Celia 169 

Sonnet,  The 630 

Sonnet  :  Written  at  Stonehenge 322 

Sonnets  (Shakespeare) 139 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese 545 

Sonnets  to  Delia 146 

Soul,  To  his 272 

Soul-Light 631 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone 477 

So,  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving 457 

Spectator,  The  (Addison) 262 

Spectator,  The  (Steele) 260 

Speech  on  the  Nabob  of  Argot's  Debts.  . .  331 

Spirit's  Epochs,  The 624 

Spring 297 

Spring's  Welcome j?R 

Springtime 'f : 

St.  Agnes'  Eve 53", 

St.  Agnes'  Eve — -  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was 482 

Stanzas  on  Oliver  Cromwell 222 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God 390 

Sterne 573 

St.  Mark's 582 

Stones  of  Venice,  The 582 

Storm  in  Harvest 297 

Story  of  Phcebus  and  Daphne,  Applied, 

The 184 

Story  of  Thebes,  The 73 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love 540 

St.  Stephen  and  Herod 84 

Style 654 

Such  a  starved  bank  of  moss 572 

Summer 296 

Sunday  up  the  River 653 

Sunset  and  evening  star 545 

Superscription,  A 633 

Sure   thou   didst  flourish  once;    and   many 

springs 221 

Swallow,  my  sister,  O  sister  swallow 642 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  content  131 
Sweet  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the  plain  324 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright 178 

Sweet  dimness  of  her  loosened  hair's  downfall  630 

Sweetest  Melancholy 173 

Sweetness  and  Light 591 

Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave 474 

Syr  Gawayn  AND  the  Grene  Knyght 37 

Tables  Turned,  The 384 

Take,  O,  take  those  lips  away 145 

Tale  of  a  Tub,  A 248 

Tam  O'Shanter 370 

Task,  The 33^ 

Tattler,  The  (95,  167,  264) 254,  257,  258 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 218 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 629 

Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred I43 

'J'hat's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall  554 
That  time  of  year  Ihou  mayest  in  me  behold  141 
1'bat  which  her  slender  waist  confined 184 


INDEX   OF   TITLES    AND    FIRST   LINES 


791 


The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power. . . .  459 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 624 

The  chief  replied:   "That  post  shall  be  my 

care 290 

The  Curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day.  ...  314 

The  face  of  all  the  world* is  changed,  I  think  545 

The  feathered  songster  chaunticleer 353 

The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide 141 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 433 

The  keener  tempests  come  :   and  fuming  dun  296 

The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  toune 80 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day 633 

The  ly tyll,  prety  nyghtyngale 94 

The  means,  therefore,  which  unto  us  is  lent. .  121 

The  nightingale,  as  soon  as  April  bringeth.  . .  123 

Then  Perceveraunce  in  all  goodly  haste 86 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead 478 

^  'lere  is  a  garden  in  her  face 162 

iiere  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none  hear  492 

There  often  wanders  one  whom  better  days . .  336 

There's  Nae  Luck  about  the  PIouse 361 

There  they  are,  my  iifty  men  and  women 564 

There  was  a  poet  whose  untimely  tomb 458 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night 447 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and 

stream 391 

Ther  wacz  lokyng  on  lenthe,  the  lude  to  be- 

holde 37 

The  soote  season  that  bud  and  bloom  forth 

brings   100 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high 262 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the 

hills,  and  the  plains 538 

The  sun   (which  doth  the  greatest  comfort 

bring 174 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing 433 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  :  late  and  soon  395 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew 473 

They  have  no  song,  the  sedges  dry 650 

They  whisted  all,  with  fixed  face  attent 100 

Think  thou  and  act;  to-morrow  thou  shalt  die  632 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn  189 

This  life,  which  seems  so  fair 174 

This  Relative  of  mine 590 

Thorowe  the  halle  the  belle  han  sounde 358 

Thought  of  a  Briton  on  the  Subjugation 

OF  Switzerland 394 

Thoughts  in  Westminster  Abbey 264 

Thou  lovely  and  beloved,  thou  my  love 631 

Thou  noblest  monument  of  Albion's  isle 322 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness 475 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born 226 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower 386 

Through  the  great  sinful  streets  of  Naples  as 

I  past 579 

Thus  hoping  that  Adonis  is  alive 137 

Thyrsis,  a  youth  of  the  inspired  train 184 

Thys  ender  night 92 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air 542 

Tiger,  The 360 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 360 

Timber,  The 221 


TiNTERN  Abbey,  Lines  Composed  above.  . .  384 
Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry .  .    140 

'Tis  hard  to  say,  if  greater  want  of  skill 273 

'Tis  said,  the  golden-throned  Aurora  rose 145 

'Tis  so,  'twas  ever  so,  since  heretofore 238 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer 433 

'Tis  the  middle  of  the  night  by  the  castle  clock  415 
To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name  169 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 319 

Toll  for  the  brave 338 

Too  late  for  love,  too  late  for  joy 650 

To  see  the  world  in  a  grain  of  sand 360 

To  spend  uncounted  years  of  pain 581 

To  thee,  fair  freedom  !  I  retire 311 

To  THE  Virgins,  to  Make  Much  of  Time  178 

To  ToussAiNT  L'Ouv'erture 394 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men .  . .   394 
To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  non  other  wight ...     69 

Toys,  The 624 

Triumph  of  Charis,  The 169 

Troilus  and  Criseyde 56 

Truth,  Of 150 

Turn  I  my  looks  unto  the  skies 131 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 224 

'Twas  at  the  silent  solemn  hour 301 

Twelfth  Book  of  Homer's  Odysseys,  The  145 

Two  Kinds  of  Riches 360 

Two  Races  of  Men,  The. 422 

Two  voices  are  there ;   one  is  of  the  sea 394 

Ubi  sunt  Qui  ante  Nos  Fuerxint 23 

Ulysses 532 

Underneath  this  sable  herse 177 

Untjerstanding,  Of  the  Conduct  of  the  .  .   238 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 144 

Under  yonder  beech-tree  single  on  the  green- 
sward     644 

University,  The  Idea  of  a 518 

Unknown  Eros,  The 624 

Unlicensed  Printing,  For  the  Liberty  of  210 

Upon  Julia's  Clothes 178 

Up  !  up !  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books ....   384 
Unrealized  Ideal,  The 590 

Vain  Virtues 632 

Vanity  of  Human  Wishes v 310 

Vanity  Fair  (Bunyan) 241 

Venetian  Republic,  On  the  Extinction 

OF  THE 394 

Venus  and  Adonis 137 

Villon  ant)  the  Gallows 670 

Virgil's  ^neid 100 

Virtue 178 

Virtue  smiles  :  cry  holiday 166 

Voiage  and  Tr.aVails  of  Sir  John  Maun- 

DE\aLE,  Kt.,  The 30 

Voices,  The  Silent 543 

Wages 538 

Wanting  is  —  what 572 

Was  that  the  landmark?     What,  —  the  fool- 
ish well 631 


792 


ENGLISH    PROSE    AND    POETRY 


Watch  thou  and  fear;   to-morrow  thou  shalt 

die 632 

Waterloo 447 

We  are  Seven 382 

We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 604 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r 369 

Weep  no  more,  nor  sigh,  nor  groan 173 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee  132 

Weep  with  me,  all  you  that  read 171 

Wee,  slcekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie 364 

We  grant,  altho'  he  had  much  wit 237 

Well  of  St.  Keyne,  The 416 

Well  then !  I  now  do  plainly  see 219 

Were  beth  they  that  biforen  us  weren 23 

Westminster  Abbey,  Thoughts  in 264 

We  the  fairies  blithe  and  antic 434 

Whan  father  Adie  first  pat  spade  in 362 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  hise  shoures  soote. . .  59 

What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail 128 

What  cher?     Gud  cher !  gud  cher,  gud  cher  94 
What    dire    offence    from    amorous    causes 

springs...  . 275 

What  is  the  sorriest  thing  that  enters  Hell. . .  632 

What  other  woman  could  be  loved  like  you  631 

W^hat's  that,  which,  ere  I  spake,  was  gone.  .  623 
What  time  this  world's  great  W'orkmaster  did 

cast 1 20 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan 549 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes 178 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command .  .  .  300 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street 370 

When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one 630 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest 651 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 143 

When  I  consider  every  thing  that  grows 139 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 199 

When  I  do  count  the  clock  that   tells  the 

time 139 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be.  .  .  479 
When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  de- 
faced    140 

When  I  made  answer  I  began  :   "Alas 629 

When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's 

eyes 139 

W'hen  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 142 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave 541 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 218 

When  Music,  heav'nly  maid,  was  young 320 

When  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong  546 
When  shawes  beene  sheene,  and  shradds  full 

fayre 74 

When  the  Assault  was  Intended  to  the 

City iq8 

When  the  dumb  Hour,  clothed  in  black 543 


When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's 

traces 640 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought  140 

When  vain  desire  at  last  and  vain  regret ...  633 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  sutk  1 145 

While   some   affect   the'  sun,   and   some   the 

shade 294 

W'hist,  Mrs.  Battle's  Opinions  on 425 

"White  Doe  of  Rylstone,"  The 416 

Whoever  comes  to  shroud  me,  do  not  harm  172 

Who  is  Silvia?  what  is  she 143 

Who  shall  have  my  fayr  lady 93 

Who  will  believe  my  verse  in  time  to  come.  .  139 

Why 403 

W'hy  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man 626 

Why  do  our  joys  depart 493 

Why  dost  thou  shade  thy  lovely  face?  O  why  244 

W'hy  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover 214 

"Why,  William,  on  that  old  grey  stone 383 

W'iLD  Olive,  The  Crown  of 58 

W'iLD  Youth,  A 6^ 

William  and  Margaret 30 . 

Wrings  have  we,  and  as  far  as  we  can  go 391 

W^iNTER 296 

Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self,  Of 155 

Wish,  The 219 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn 493 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st 

the  skies 122 

With  that  ran  there  a  route  of  ratones  at  ones     28 

With  Whom  is  no  Variableness 579 

W^ORD,  The  Last 620 

W^orld,  The 221 

W'ritten  at  an  Inn  at  Henley 311 

Would'st  thou  hear  what  man  can  say 171 

W^ould  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold 

music  I  build 567 

Would  30U  know  what's  soft?     I  dare 181 

Wrong  not,  sweet  empress  of  my  heart 160 

Years  —  j-ears  ago,  —  ere  )'et  my  dreams .  .  .  494 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around .  .  .  373 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers 31; 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon 37. 

Ye  learned  sisters,  which  have  oftentimes  .  .  11 

Ye  little  birds,  that  sit  and  sing 17 

Ye  mariners  of  England 431 

Yes :  in  the  sea  of  life  enisl'd 603 

"Yet  hfe,"  you  say,  "is  hfe 30 1 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more  r^ 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn 54 1 

Youth  and  Age,  Of 159 

You  that  do  search  for  even,'  purling  spring.  122 

Yt  felle  abowght  the  Lamasse  tyde 7 ; 


>i 


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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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PR1109  .M31e   1916 


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L  009  561    490  5 


MM  t 


